mmmmmmmmmmmm

i wish i could drop out of reality into a world of gumdrop houses, and cotton candy puppies.

Semi Charmed Life

Hahaa.

ALONE!

Good god I hate where I'm at. I think I'm incapable of working human relationships. How long will I need to play catch up? Pity pity pity.


crycrycryboohoohoo

etc

Everclear

They said you called me maybe yesterday
I dont even have the strength to pick up the phone
Wouldnt even know me since you went away
The prozac doesnt do it for me anymore

You ought to take your medication everyday
Be a good dog, live life in a wonderful way

Tell me why you want to be blind
I dont want to be normal like you
I know now, everyday
I get closer
To the place inside where I can be normal too

I heard those stupid people talk about you again
I just have to laugh to keep from hurting bad
Their simple minds just cannot seem to understand
You are neurotic and depressed
It doesnt mean that youre sad

You walk around oblivious to everything
You wear that party dress and black mascara
Like youre queen for the day

Tell me why you want to be blind
I dont want to be normal like you
I know now, everyday
I get closer
To the place inside where I can be normal too

I will never be normal like you
You walk around oblivious to everyone
I see you walking slow and simple
Underneath the big black sun

Tell me why you want to be blind
I dont want to be normal like you
I know now, everyday
I get closer
To the place inside where I can be complacent

Yes, I get closer
To the place inside where I can be sedated

Yes, I get closer
To the place inside where I can be normal too
Where I can be normal like you
Maybe normal like you
I can be normal like you

Death

My grandfather died a few weeks ago; alone in a home. They called my aunt from the home he'd been put in to say they'd lost him, couldn't find him anywhere. He died alone and unaccounted for. There was a time when this would have sent me reeling, but now it just seems one more fact, one more testament to the coldness of this world, to the utter meaninglessness. A good man died alone, completely alone, while his daughter and son lived their busy lives in their homes elsewhere, and he died conveniently- for them, at least. I don't know what to feel, and I'm not going to act.

The night my grandfather died neither my father or my aunt talked to me, but rather had my mother tell me. Neither one called later. Neither one wants a funeral. Neither one wants a memorial. Neither one seems to want anything to do with it, and a Merry Christmas, all. Here's to one more year of stale obligatory familial prison. What bullshit it all is. My poor grandfather. I'm so sorry about any and all of it. What a shitty way for people to be and live life. I wish I wasn't a part of it.

A week or so ago a girl I went to school with for five years was brutally murdered by her ex boyfriend. She was shot and stabbed by someone who claimed to love her. I never knew the girl very well. I'm not sure we ever had more than one class together, and yet one night before we both graduated, at a party a friend of mine was having, she took me aside and surprised me with her depth of caring and just unexpected genuine regard. She told me she thought I was a really smart girl and how she knew I'd do well, and I honestly felt enormous respect for her. She had a sort of spirit I envied, brave and bold and fiercely feminine. And she's dead at 21. I'm sure she could have done a lot with herself, and I don't mean fame and fortune and all of that bullshit we mistake for a well lived life.

And there it is. An old man, and a young woman. One died alone and in relative peace, one brutally, both with much more to live and to give than they had time or opportunity for.

writing

i've strayed from writing. instead of writing about the straying i could write. i have ideas. i have time. i just need to do it. so. soon.


welcome to my mundane inner thoughts.


what in hell is a blog for again?

whatever i'm called

I've done nothing but cry and think and cry and think and live the last few days. I feel like there isn't enough room in the world for me to be able to be. Too many conflicting visions and realities, and I'm gone. My own presence invalidates me. Even I don't believe in me. I don't know why I feel I'm not allowed to exist, but it seems to prove true. I don't know if I can go a lifetime in two dimensions. And once again I am exhausted.

Mania

We use a variety of different terms to describe one thing. At least when it has to do with common discourse we all know what it means. I'm manic, bipolar, schizophrenic in thought. I'm scattered. That's what that means. Nothing more or less.

I'm scattered, stuck between planes yet in both places at once, and I am tired of neat packages, tired phrases and meaningless crutches along the road. I guess this means I embrace this mania. Because the only antidote is delusion, and that's the disease. Insane! Insane! Lol. Excuse me, I've lost my mind for a minute.

I'm tired of quick answers to questions that serve to soothe and never turn out, and I'm tired of formulaic relationships. I'm tired of cycles and I'm tired of paths, and I'm tired of a future that seems overwhelmingly lack lustre. I'm tired of living in a world that requires me to act constantly and I'm tired of living in a mind that allows compliance. I am tired tired tired of everything being so shitty and somehow always being broke with nothing to show for it.Lol.

But I guess I'm thrilled to be here. It's the only place to be.

I wonder if I have any peers. What groups can I belong to, to make this empty space sparkle?

What answers can I mine from these reserves?

Pray and think positive.
Get out and vote.
Love yourself.
Eat Healthy.
Experiment.

Whatever.

I'm tired of thinking in these manic circles, but I'd find comfort in them if I had a happy peer. Meh.

Off to apply myself to studies and seem less crazy.

Sometimes I wonder if everything isn't delusion.

Ideal Political Candidate

Kucinich!

2008 Election

Who is Your
Perfect Candidate?

Black Friday

It's Black Friday, one of the most superficial and empty days of the year- at a glance. But then, what really makes it different from the rest of the year? The sales. That's it. The rest is the same. American culture obsessed with mostly useless meaningless shit, because there's nothing else. And there really isn't. Entire communities, vast stretches of the American landscape are littered with malls and shops, built around them, in fact.

They say everyone gets depressed around the holidays. Is it that we all realize we can't afford all of this shit we buy to fill the void, or is it the really depressing part the realization that that's what we're doing- buying to fill an empty space? The holidays bring to light both the richness and the lack. It's enough to make one sick to be so rich with material crap in one of the richest countries in the world, and yet utterly vacant- spiritually, psychologically, whatever you want to say.

I try and keep positive about the holidays. No money and the realization that that doesn't even touch real poverty, another year in pathetic, fearful solitude, etc etc...well, it makes some parts of it hard. All one can do is close one's eyes and jump into the current. This holiday beast is bigger than I am. I'm along for the ride, and it isn't so bad with your eyes closed- over in a jiff, and leaving you wondering what the big deal was at all. I'll be coughing up tinsel til May, picking things up off the dresser wondering who in hell buys things like that when it was probably me in the first place, wondering when the last time was that I talked to family, wondering who even cares anyway.

I'm swimming dangerously near the shores of apathy. Shit, I'm probably there and don't even know. I don't care enough to look closely. My thoughts are dim gray and thinly spread over everything, dilluted, essentially nothing. I'm thinking I've got life set up alright at the moment, but right now I don't care much for it. I'm doing what I am doing because it's what there is in front of me to do. There doesn't even seem to be much choice involved. I look at that long stretch of life in front of me and wonder how in hell I'll even manage to fill it up.

Technically I like it though. I mean. It's working ok, so no complaints. No major ones. Nothing to get one off one's ass.

I've been thinking a lot about death lately, or maybe just non existence. I get so tired of nothing I wonder what it would be like to sleep THAT deep. Just vague wonder. It's obvious that those sorts of things don't cure the desire to escape nothing. Deepest sleep, death. That's nothing, and that's what I'm tired of.

Oh,my, the circles.

Lol.

Anyway.

Off to think of something plastic I'll be needing this December.

Tool

I went to the Tool concert in Denver yesterday, and it was amazing. the best show I have ever been to, and I came out with a completely new perspective. I am now a fast fan. I'll be greatly disappointed if I miss one of their shows if they are in my general area.



They didn't play this song yesterday. They did play Stinkfist which has a similar idea behind it.

The finale was Vicarious.

Cardigans

Best known here int he states for their too popular pop songs in every tween movie imaginable, I wasn't so fond of The Cardigans in the beginning. Their videos make the songs more easily absorbed, and listenable. They are a very fun band. Digging on this song...

The Taming of the Shrew

I wonder if I am slowly becoming an old bitch who yells at children and sneers at passersby, holding so much hate in her heart she can't bear to be around people, so much cowardice she wouldn't just off herself.

Formality

Let us begin by addressing the complete dissonance with reality overly formal speech creates in life, in writing, in fiction.

If the end is to be taken seriously, I think we may have missed the mark.

You and I.

The vacant us of literature.

Me, I guess.

Ha.

Trite

Me. Right now.

Apology

Begging excuse from one's words or actions, or a defense speech.

Resignation

Is it a coincidence that resignation means both to leave something behind and to live with more of the same?

Submission

Is it a coincidence the word submission means both to bow down to another's will, and to give something to another? Either way it isn't in your hands anymore.

one of my favorite monologues

points out how ironic and twisted and empty life tends to be.

Recurring Realizations

I've been having a manic week. I've been having a manic life. Up and down and up and down and up. At least there's hope the end will be up. That'd be a nice surprise.

The recurring theme and realization of my life has been brought forth once again this past week- that I'm almost hopelessly fucking strange, and that the problems I face will undoubtedly become more- more in volume and more complex. OR. I will simply stay in this place I am now, and the problems I face won't be more but life will be empty and rarely worth living.

This past week has been strange in that while it was pretty fucking depressing, I sat there in contemplation of the whole thing- detached and slightly amused. I would wonder how I came to be this person, but I hate that mental trip into the twisted space of my memory- it's too vague and distorted. My life's sort of a joke, but it's not a funny joke.

So this week I have been having fun with a bit of self hatred, and a bit of plain old illness, and a bit of who gives a shit.

Things do get old, huh? Old and reused and recycled and recurring, and blah. Who cares?

Still becoming...

Wondering what to take seriously in my own widespread enthusiasms and depressions.

I feel passionately that I would like to focus my energies into art: writing and music. There is a part of me loud, protesting- who do I think I am to devote myself to anything? You're no writer, you're no musician. Just a sometimes loveable fuck up.

It's still hard for me to figure what when where why I want to write. I look at my unimpressive collection of work for the past year and wonder if I have what it takes. You need a level of discipline, unforgiving scrutiny of the self and motivation. You need to actually put pen to paper, and looking back on this year, I have much less than I thought I did, much less than I would like to have accomplished- to point at and validate my own search and craving- but is this just an ego game? Maybe. Writing massive piles of stuff, or a half notebook full- I feel writing must be a part of my identity, a part of my humanity, a part of my sanity. All in one. With this in front of me I have only one choice, whether to nurture this or not. Either way it is there. I have been writing since I knew how, collecting little scraps and notebooks- developing plots. It seems useless and self defeating to fight, so my answer is to really think about this and to dive in. Don't hold anything back. Write about the most mundane moment. Write about the most abstract and intangible. Just write. Daily. And I have been failing myself here, but I can't allow that to continue.

Music is beginning to enter this realm. Not a day goes by where I do not sing. I crave it as a part of my daily life, feel fractured and stunted without music in my day. I would one day like to take a stab at song writing.


This is just musing, maybe re-prioritizing.

I'm fucking hungry now, so maybe I'll eat! :) Food should also be included with these other essentials!

Fieri

to become, Latin

Fieri

Proud, Italian

Fie

Dark of peace, Scottish

Eri

My guardian, my awake one, my city, Hebrew

Eri

Blessed with reason, blessed prize, Japanese

Ri

Logic, reason, justice, truth, Japanese

IN FIERI. In the course of execution; a thing commenced but not completed. A
 record is said to be in fieri during the term of the court, and, during that
 time, it may be amended or altered at the sound discretion of the court. See
 2 B. & Adol. 971. 

Names

What is in a name? Nothing but a lot of implications about who you are and where you came from. I've always disliked my name, not in itself really, but in the fact that I do not feel like my name- sometimes on particularly heady days I even forget what the hell it is- it takes me a minute to recall. I am not attached to it. I don't feel it represents me. Along with the name comes a sort of ownership. It is the name that was given me. It is the identity that was given me, I didn't make it, I can't be it, I don't like it, and I think I may finally change my name after a life time of ill fit.

Doing that thing again...

Where I'm analyzing myself and life through other's eyes- or what I perceive that to be. Reminding myself to STOP THAT.


I had a nice long walk by the lake in Boulder today. The colors are beautiful. It rained a little. It was bliss, really.

Quiet

I realize the times when my singing gets bad or tight are when I'm holding back- trying to be quiet. I'm so used to being quiet. But I like what I sound like when I'm loud. I think I might actually have some soul. Mhmm.

Worn out!!!

I just did my yoga, but was interrupted. May have to do some again. I am worn out! Normal living ain't easy- I'm still getting so filled up with everyone's energy that by the end of the day I am exhausted whether I've done much technically or not.

I went to class, went to work, did my yoga routine twice, and called everyone to invite them to the baby shower. A piece of me is worried about that. I am not the party throwing type. I'm going to go ahead and look for party ideas, and hope everything's turning out.

Letting go of what isn't mine to control, and doing my best with the rest.

*yawn*

The edge of crying and joy

I received two packages from Pennsylvania, my Irish family all lives out there. Anyway. Inside is a ton of pictures, and it's seriously - wow. I don't know. I just feel much more whole right now, and it's almost scary. So much you can learn from a few candid snapshots. I miss these people I've never known.

Below is gramma, grampa, papa and me.

all my eggs in one basket

i've just put all my eggs in one basket. no, i mean literally. i have a small novelty basket, and i've just placed all of my large painted eggs in it. then i realized, "hey, i've put all my eggs in one basket." and i'm neurotic. this means this is some big sign from the universe to me. or maybe my dead grandmother showing me her sense of humor. these all belonged to my grandfather and her. i've just opened a package with three eggs and a basket in it, all loose, and i proceeded to act out an age old saying.

Family Drama.

NEVER ends.

We have all been worked up for the past few months. A lot has gone on. A lot is always going on. Lately it's been talk of divorces, violence, and the impending death of my grandfather-so we thought.

It turns out my uncle was using my grandfather's cancer as a manipulation tool, or at best was simply mistaken about the extent of the illness- I , for one, don't really buy that version. Due to my grandfather's cancer, my uncle has had free room and board, free phone, and free liquor. He has not had to work because he has had trouble with the law, was finding it difficult to find a job, and so the family decided that we'd have him care for my grandfather full time and that would be the way in which he earns his keep. He has been taking my grandfather to his appointments and acting as translator- my grandfather speaks very spotty English, and has been relaying all of the information to us- so we thought. Turns out the cancer my uncle was telling everyone would have grandpa six feet under by January is highly treatable, and my grandfather likely has years and years left in his life. These two sentiments aren't really things you can mistake. I mean. Immediate death versus highly treatable contained cancer with low proabability of fatality.......hmmmmm...Fucking Jimmy. I love him. I really do, but seriously...'Fucking Jimmy' followed by a head shake is beginning to be his full name.

Distractions

Work is weighing down on me. I'm doing well. My boss is good to me, and some of the people in the office are really glad to have me, one is really pushing that I get a raise. I am lucky to have this job. It's the best I have ever had, and yet I feel like I have to play these games to keep moving on, and all I really want to do is my job. I am a good worker. I want to just do that.

My boss is constantly trying to talk me into dating a man from upstairs. He's a nice enough guy, but I don't date and I certainly don't date now when I am trying to focus on finding my identity. I know I am not the typical twenty something, and I know people don't really understand me and why I do what I do. This really bogs down on me. I don't need to explain my choices to other people. I have reasons for why I choose to do what I do, but how can I reconcile this with a work atmosphere, and all of these roles that I am supposed to wear to go along with it?

I want to be able to be me. I don't want to have to fend off romantic advances and set ups at work. I don't want things to be expected of me because of the way I look and act, and I don't want to have to pretend I am something I am not.

I just want to be. I want to be left to be.

I am embarking on something important. I refuse to get caught up in things.

A restatement of purpose is in order, and a reorganizing of the WHY- so that I may be confident in my commitments to myself.

WHY

1. I will never be a realized human being while I am in dissonance with the reality i live.
2. I will never be happy if I am not a realized human being.
3. I am strong and I am smart and I have goals to accomplish- this is most important to me- not other people's perceptions.



I need to refocus on what my perspective is, not other's. I am tired. I am going to close my eyes for a few minutes and refocus. God can I get cluttered if I don't maintain purpose constantly.

Morning

It's beautiful out. I sat in the garden this morning thinking. I sense dissonance in all three of my best friends- sisters.

I am going to reach out, and show gestures of love and kindness which I can sometimes neglect.

I have also decided I will edit and submit some of my writing, and see what happens. Writing is an important part of realizing myself as a person. I'm also going to buy a journal which will hold only my finished drafts. I've wanted to do this for a while, and gather all of my scattered bits into one place where I can have a good physical example, and marked progress.

today

Today was a positive day. I succeeded in finishing a poem- not completely sure I'm DONE done with it, but I'm satisfied for now. I did some light yoga, fiddled with the guitar and kept good balance. Work will be a tough place to keep balance, even while I am really lucky to have that environment- it is the least stressful work environment I have ever had- it is easy for me to get too inside my head, and too filled with everyone else's energies. Today I listened to music a lot and that helped. I kept quiet and in my office for most of the day, ate a healthy lunch, and took my time with things. I felt good by the end of the day. I am now pretty tired.

*Adding learning how to sleep when I want and need to to my list*

dream

i had a dream heavy and real and cold
as steel. masses of us moved as a whole
and yet each step was taken in complete
isolation. on and on toward a steep
coal hillside we teemed , quite emotionless

it rained. in the air clung feather whitewash
as the ground grew thick with soot which hushed
our soundless stepping. up and up we emptied
onto a bridge of lead.here a human mimed,
sexless and mute, from a still white pillar

a writhing sea of minds regarded it,
bodies still as stone in the deafening thick.
pillars stretched for miles and years,
the bridge went on for centuries.

and then, at the peak of the nearest pillar
the one who mimed reached out wide,
its message lost even to itself
and here a man tumbled over as smoke ascends- silently,
hat and scarf billowing after him.

dark thoughts

part of my self discovery process has to be with dealing with this, and successfully processing through it or incorporating it into a valid part of myself. i will not succumb to denial and band aiding these through refusal to confront. i am, however, still being born in a sense- and therefore i can not carry everything at once. it's important to me to maintain my sense of self here, so it's a very narrow line i walk.

today things that were challenging- thinking about relationships with men, financial aspects growing heavy on me and making me feel slowed down, relationships with friends, romantic life,and confronting my alcohol use.

i will not take these all at once, as it is important to maintain a sense of self- and not a sense of extraneous information that i carry with me.

i have found it useful to focus not on what i can't do, or have been unable to do- but instead on goals i have and developing myself.

things i have accomplished-

beginning a routine- yoga, guitar
processing and letting things pass through me
maintaining a sense of self while also maintaining empathy
making decisions- to save up, slowly buy furnishings for new home- save in storage unit, find a place where i may live alone and build myself as a person
separating fear from actuality
explaining myself only to myself, maintaining focus and sense of importance in goals
letting go of some guilt
no alcohol use

i am tired, a bit worn, and i am sure of myself, and i find it important to say so, as i do struggle a lot with self belief, and guilt.

i know that balancing my physical self with my mental self is crucial to this process, and when i get too wound up in my mind i am going to make it a habit to do some yoga and regain balance.

i am going to do that, put on a comedy, and sleep.






night, world.

:)

i have just finished a yoga session. i feel incredible. i am so relaxed and in my body.

this, guitar, reading and writing will all be nightly or bi nightly rituals in my process. :)

perplexing!

how strange is it that the only way to address oneself is as if one is another person altogether? is this beneficial? makes you take one personal side and one objective side? is this how we can evolve as individuals?

if i write to myself "i" this and "i" that, then i am first speaking about myself, then gathering the information as if it was from a separate party, then having to re- internalize it as mine.

test

this is sort of symbolic. like introducing myself to myself, since this is basically my journal.

when i think of myself i do not see the likeness in this picture in my minds' eye.

i am rarely aware of myself as a physical being, and i have been like this since i was small. i think this greatly affects how i live life. it isn't an obvious way, it is subtle, but powerful, because i begin to feel detached from myself. if i took this to a conclusion, and maybe a far fetched one, who knows and who cares- because this is me talking. to me... i could say this dissonance could be a source of my anxiety. a source. not the source. since my anxiety manifested itself in a very physical way- panic attacks, heart palpitations, trouble breathing, light headedness, i think that could hold some validity.

what i see is a young woman with brown skin and long brown hair and brown eyes and a seeming sense of peace.

as a kid a lot of dissonance was created in me as my parent insisted i was not a person of color. i was white. almost as if i had to earn my own identity. i couldn't develop it, but simply had to live without until i could prove it was me. i am half white. i was not raised by my white father, and i felt no connection to white culture. i was raised a colored girl who didn't deserve her color, and as a white girl who couldn't have much idea what that meant.

so here i see a girl who's identity can't be denied because it's staring her in the face. and i like it.

singing

i think i have finally felt what it should feel like to really sing from the gut (with the diaphragm) and i like it

also

i began the video guitar lessons a certain beautiful friend sent me and it was awesome. total therapy session on a bad day too

i'm writing here to have a visual reference to my progress. hehe.

where i'm at

i am not a realized human being. i used to confuse this with being an unreal human being. i assume i was mistaken. only god would know, and only he knows if he exists.


i sat in my room days ago on the edge of panic and quiet, and i could do only one thing besides feel misplaced, and this was write a list. and so i did.

learn piano
learn guitar
good books: one every two months
improve world knowledge:sci, world events, law, human rights
improve singing
write:poems, stories,a novel
travel: alone, with others
live in several cities
learn at least two languages
visual art
learn true humility
learn true peace
learn true love
learn true empathy
learn strength
become acquainted with myself:male and female
swim in oceans
maintain a healthy physical weight and general state
(try to stop eating dairy and animal products)
sit in quiet for at least an hour a day, and really feel my own and everything's presence

and this is what i feel i can and should be, and what i want to be, and what isn't realized. i'm in such opposition to actual reality i feel like i've got to get out immediately, but it takes time. i know.

i have this sense of home in my mind that i've never felt anywhere in waking life. and it is small and modest and soft on the edges, and it's real. somewhere. or maybe it will be. hopefully.

i'm very emotional today. i've felt very joyful and close to despairing all at once. outside my house there is a tree that looks like a painting. and just to see it is proof enough that life is beautiful.

i hate to seem trite. some things are inexpressible.

this seems to be close to center(ed).

untitled

Sirens’ sound pierces air, cuts this peace
into a thousand parts, condradictions.
In this space earth meets sky, both turn their backs
and cloud is borne in emptiness between.

As if a fly,trapped, ‘tween panes of glass
in murderous sanctuary, maddened
by the free fall and flight of crows catching
wind, bragging blindly aimless liberty.

Two clouds appeared in such hollow space, one
eastward bound one west; one forked breath set
in opposition to itself. I stood
witness from a deep hillside stone cradle.

And on the ground sun cast dark arcs through cloud
managing to shine, weakly, a small path;
met at both ends by large pools of gold light:
an hourglass, born from the obstructed rays.

A reflection of the plight of cloud cast
down on the city of man, faint visible
lines of restriction in time and in space
reminding that nothing on earth is free.

Work

I have got piles of crap to do,and I've taken a very generous lunch. But all I want to do is sleep. Sleeeeeeeeeeeep. SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!!!

Haha. Reconciling the millions of bills is the last thing I want to do right now. Dammit.



I like my job, though. Surprisingly enough. Enough to sit here and type and look busy.


LOL.

Fall :)

Days are getting colder, and more damp. Fall is setting in, and with it will (hopefully) come a fresh breath. I love fall for this very reason. It's like a reset button on life for me. A time to switch gears a bit. I have a lot to look forward to this fall, the highlight being the birth of my new godson (I'm almost sure that it will be a boy, although there is no evidence), and a possible move into an apartment with a very close friend.

Last fall I was packing up and getting ready for my move to California. It is evident how that turned out. Haha. But that, too, was a time of much learning and it was a definite switch in gears, for better or worse, I couldn't tell you. I did, however, form a better bond with my father and learn a lot about myself, mainly that I am almost exactly like him (this is a big argument for the nature side of the genetics argument! lol)

Late night musings.

It is night time, and I love the night time and very early morning best. The world is alive and yet serene. Daytime can feel so intrusive sometimes, mainly due to people's activity. Fall will be a nice time to get away from it, and maybe take a few visits to the hills and mountains for the changing of the leaves.

Train

I wonder where the train winds in the distance,
for I hear its soulful mourning, lead cadence
pounding o’er the hum of crickets in the dark,
but I have never seen.

Sight is muted in a liquid night, hands’ touch
aimless. One can grope for sight, endless,such
that hours, weeks, a lifetime pass all for naught but
futile clutchings, life’s mean.

And the train goes on, and there is no wisdom
in its cry but true beauty in its kingdom
of static impermanence. Steel grinds on steel,
tracing great paths in soil.

Indifferent, all of it. Earth and metal,
flaxen stalk of wheat, flourishing weed and nettle.
These do not seek meaning in a train’s loud wail,
these do not seek to see.

These follow their natures as do we, blindly
groping for meaning in sky and ground, wildly
hoping we are not left to our own lost minds
to seek meaning from voids.

Backyard

the backyard
You move around wide space
like a caged animal,
smoke licking out of your
mouth to kiss the heavens,
six foot planks enclosing
this patch of grass. You walk
in circles and smile at
air,mumbling, reminded
of decades old ironies.
Which is the real life?

final drafty.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I feel like most people in this world are worried about number one. One being themselves. Is there any TRUE regard for the other, or is life simply a barter system where people have value only inasmuch as they can provide one what he/she wants or values? The more I begin to look at the actions of most it seems that there is nothing worse than self importance, and yet it is required to survive. I don't know what I believe. Ugh. One of those days.

Just want to know where the respect is. Respect for another's reality and importance...respect for one's individual mind. Always I see judgment and disdain and disregard, and lack of any restraint in terms of one one wants for himself. Take take take. Who cares? He'll do it too.

Pills

Five pills. Five pills and I'm what's left. Paint left from a brush in water. Floating for an instant. Shadows on the surface, then spinning and sinking, vibrant before gone.Gray grit mass on the bottom of the glass.
I briefly wonder if my life is vomit, a mess you can't hold back. I want it clean and gone. It's offensive even at the feet.
But that's over and my body is melting and I want to live here but I need more pills because it's already gone.

Lost

As a kid in the grocery store with my mother, I would wait until she turned and run off. I have always found freedom in being lost. My deepest instinct is to wander, and to cut loose of all ties but ones to the earth. Even ties to people mean you can never be lost, and therefore never truely be free. Someone will always be looking, just like mom did in the white aisles when I was young. When someone is looking for you, your instinct is muddied by their own desires to have you return to them and fall back in step with the day to day. Maybe we are all trapped here somewhere between lost and found. Somewhere between the world created and the world still ours to create. And maybe this is why so many of us are broken, injured trying to break free, no longer able to hear what's inside, having to buy glimpses of it in a bottle or pill. We don't want to be found, but we've forgotten how to get lost, how to fall out.

I've never understood the way people say, "she's a lost soul" as if it's a bad thing. Lost is better than found, it is undefinable, it is natural. Souls should be lost. That's how they're meant to be. Souls should not be boxed and labelled and found neatly in the corner. Souls should be messy like life. They should be scattered. They should follow the beat of the individual heart, and the sway of the wind. If someone were to tell me I was a lost soul, I'd likely take it as a compliment.

Dreams

Eternal sadness courses muddy through my veins like an ancient African flood raging, yet soundless, for there is no one there to hear. In this skin it lives and rushes and churns and aches. Even fantasy is infected. I imagine her coming to me, showering me in warm sugar kisses, my cold skin heated only by her touch. But I am dead and soulless and filled only with the flood.I have nothing to offer back, for what she gives lasts only as long as she gives it. There is no room to resonate, and I won't be filled.

Pity for the Virgin Mary (unedited)

Outside in the cold stone schoolyard we were to stand facing the flag for the morning pledge. Warm spring mornings I would stand obediently in my jumper, one more speck in a sea of green, grey and yellow checkered print dress. A forest of stockinged legs, shiny black shoes holding ruffly socked feet, all stood at attention. Hand firmly placed on the chest, I pledged my beating heart to a piece of land and an abstract concept just as easily as I’d brush my teeth or tie my shoes. On cold days, jumper stiff and cold against my skin, legs wind whipped pink and raw, my black shoes danced impatiently and my pledge was stolen from me in distracted mumblings.
Inside the wide arches and dark corridors of St. Catherine’s, the truth was asserted, released from dry white chalk and ancient primers. A before B before C. 1 before 2 before 3. The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. When teacher coughed it was time, we walked single file over dreary grey tile. In the gym we ran circles. Thursdays it was silent couplings, partners in prayer. In the church we learned quiet reverence,stained glass light extending from an angel’s wing, or the robe of a saint and hanging in the dust and air above us like a blessing. This was life. Pews, dress shoes, and sacred readings.
To my infant eye, all that was was small and tame, neat and ordered and to be expected. Things simply moved and turned like the gears of a clock. Life, I, everything moved along accordingly. Everything had a place. Everything had a function, and purpose was something never sought for it seemed always to be mysterious, and more times than not beside the point. Things simply were, the reasons held in one mind, the mind of God- the Man in the sky.
After the day’s lined paper had been soiled, pencils worked to a nub, and chalk from crumbling erasers beaten into the air in thick clouds, the bell would sound. I would return to the schoolyard and continue my education in the order of things. Leaning against the wall under the exposed steel stairway, I watched. First to leave where the kids who walked, migrating from the school in a mob of pressed ivory shirts and lunch time stains. Next were kids running to the lot behind the school to meet parents and babysitters for the drive home. Then came unfortunate ones kept behind for detention or tutoring, trickling out into the late afternoon sun. I stood in my spot under the stairs, waited and watched as shadows grew longer and cast themselves like long fingers across the side of the building, the children held for detention long gone. And finally there it would come, the busted old buick, whining in anguish as it pulled up in the lot.
I would pass in front of the car, run my hand over the dry bubble of paint where the sun baked the hood, and hop in. Some days I was invited to recount the day’s events, and things learned. Other days the car was stuffy, tight and tense. These days I kept to myself and stared out the window, waiting, letting my hand ride waves of wind. Sometimes it was better to watch things slide by. This I learned early on. It seemed to me that lots of days were like this.
At home I did a lot of watching, but never in silence. There was always the clanging of pots and pans, the rushing of water, the wailing of my baby brother, the roar of the television, outdoor sounds, neighbors fighting or laughing, and mother singing or scolding from the kitchen. At home Mom broke her nails scraping food from plates. She twisted her spine with a baby on her hip. At work she made enough for us to live and we took it, every paycheck. She weaved a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, clothes on our backs, and candy for children’s weekend tongues. Bending, scrubbing, singing, dancing, and praying, she held things up while the rest of us watched. After dinner, the family full from taking all they could, Mama would find an empty corner, sit down and sigh when she thought nobody looked Sometimes it seemed as though life had consumed her. Some days, early in the morning, before the rest of us woke ready with our many needs and demands, she would pick up a pen and notebook and steal time for her hidden worlds. She was worn down, giving herself down to the essence, only half waiting for the life she earned, as if even the waiting was a luxury.
And so pain and sacrifice became woman. Women were alive not to live, but to create the possibility of it for others. Women were tools, facilitators, vessels. This was the order of things. As a child who knew her fate, I began to mourn a life yet lived, a life that would never be mine, for I was, am, always woman. I knew where my place lay. I felt it in my very bones.
In the church basement, standing in the bathroom with the other girls after Thursday mass, secrets and truths were whispered like sins. Older girls spoke of older boys, schoolyard crushes. Youger girls foraged for scraps of information that fell from the tongues of those older, things they could bring back to the others in exchange for wide eyed awe or glee. One particular Thursday, a few of us gathered around an older girl as she shared the story of her pregnant sister who found out, she said, when she went to the bathroom one day and her pee turned blue. And that was it.Her sister was now a mother. The simplicity of it didn’t make it less horrific.
I had overheard the women in my family at dinners or cousins birthdays, gathered on porches or in kitchen, discussing the trials of childbirth. They told matter of fact accounts of excruciating pain, the greatest pain imaginable or endured by any of the women in the family. They told of flesh literally being torn apart to make way for another. They told of streched skin, earlobes torn open by the curious hands of a baby going after a dangling earring, scars that would never fade, skin that would never quite regain it’s shape.
I would have asked why it had to be that way, but I knew the answer. That was woman. Woman. Pain and sacrifice. Still, I spent time wondering, yearning for a purpose for the pain, a reason for all of it. Purpose remained mysterious and beside the point. Whether or not there was reason for it made no difference. Everything is everything. Things simply were and you went along with them. It was here that I learned dread and resentment, thin and dark, on the edges of my existence. If I could I would have rejected my intended role. I wanted nothing of it. I dreaded living to find my end as woman- collector of agonies, vessel of life, living not herself. Woman- the walking dead. I hated my femininity. I cursed it for cursing me.
In the days and months to come, I gathered more and more about the order of things. In school we read of the Virgin Mary. I remembered her from the church. To the left of the pulpit, hands softly touching, fingers pointed toward the heavens. Her head was bowed gracefully , her blue robes flowing yet reserved. She who we prayed to with wooden bead rosaries in hand, she who we prayed to for forgiveness after confession. She who still answered to motherly duties in death. She was the figure of beauty and grace, the model for all worshipping women;someone to be revered.
Chosen by God to fulfill His almighty purpose, Mary was impregnated with His seed. Her body was taken from above, used to create man, our savior. She lived meagerly and rough, a baby she had not made with any will or purpose growing inside of her, nourishing itself from her body. She traveled to Bethlehem and gave birth like an animal on the scratchy earth and hay of a manger. She raised Him, cared for Him, and had Him stripped from her in his death, something for which He was always intended. She- put on this earth to feel loss.
What I felt for the Virgin Mary was not reverence. Not purely. For while I had respect for a person so strong in the face of the life she had lived, I could not help but pity her for a life made, taken, used, and intended for one other than herself. I had pity for a life unowned, pity for the horror of what that meant. Pity and fear. Fear that I was as she was. Fear that I would be taken and used just the same, and not only be taken and used, but be meant for it and made for it in my entire essence. Fear that it could strike at any moment.
Sometime during that second grade year in school, all of the kids were gathered on the carpet of the classroom to watch a certain film. It was common for us to watch cartoons approved by some distant Catholic society designed to make God and religion more palatable to us. This day it was to be the story of Adam and Eve. It began with Adam, naked, all of humanity in one man. He had all of earth for himself, to share only with the beasts which he was to rule over. And yet Adam was not satisfied. He grew loney. God then created Eve, an afterthought, a tool to satiate man.
When Adam cried to the heavens from the screen in front of us, we all watched in awe as a voice boomed in answer, and Eve was wrought from his flesh. The wonder, however, lasted only moments before giving way to giggles, points and whispers at the screen in front of us for Eve was naked. Naked, and while nothing but a bellybutton could actually be seen past Eve’s flowing brown hair, and well placed leaves and flora, just as nothing of consequence had been seen on Adam’s naked body, Adam’s nakedness had been ignored while Eve’s had been acutely noticed and ridiculed, answered with childish indications of disgust, even shock.
I began to avoid restrooms and locker rooms, anywhere I had to be alone with my femininity, anything that made me recall what I was. I hated my body, watching it grow into something I knew was the cause for disgust. I imagined leaving class to use the restroom only to find I had grown big with child and would have to give birth in the hallway before lunch. I was still unsure of exactly how babies were made, but had the understanding that God gave them to us when He deemed us ready. I didn’t think I was ready, but then I couldn’t imagine ever being ready. I wondered if Mary of Nazareth ever considered her future as a woman. I wondered if anyone did. I wondered, but didn’t dare discuss it, for I knew I was somehow guilty, secretly detesting God’s will. Always questioning, always wanting answers. I knew that was sinful. I had heard the scolds of my parents, and I had heard the story of Eve.
Weekends were my salvation. Saturdays meant freedom from bunchy jumpers and tight shoes, freedom from headbands that poked and pinched. Freedom from frilly socks and biblical tales. I threw on overalls and a hat and ran outside to forget all about my future. I was a child. Saturdays meant days at Junior’s place two doors down, making club houses from boxes and paint or riding bikes 'til our calves hurt. Together we wandered the neighborhood, ran to the bodega with our beggar’s change for pieces of candy or small toys and balloons. There was no girl or boy. Kids were kids.
Until they weren’t anymore. It was the next year and I was watching Saturday morning cartoons when my mother came in from the laundry room, with a pair of my panties in hand, the one’s I had shoved to the bottom of the hamper, embarrassed of the blood stains, wanting to forget they existed. She held that dirty, disgusting piece of cloth and demanded to know who had touched me. Nobody. Was it Junior? His brother? Who had touched me? Nobody. She didn’t believe me. She looked like she wanted to cry. I wasn’t allowed to Junior’s for months. This was my introduction to womanhood, the violation.

Freedom

Sometimes it reaches me in flashes. I'll take a breath or jump a stair and there it is like a coldness in my stomach. It's freedom. It's daring. Sometimes I smile and feel like I'm six again waking up to go play in the neighborhood, building worlds from stray boxes and spray paint. I remember waking up with this passion and apprehension for living. That was freedom. I've got to find a way to bring it to the present, catch it and contain it, make it mine. But then it wouldn't be freedom anymore would it? Ha.

Life's funny.

The Empowered Don't Whisper II

The empowered do not fucking whisper. Whispers are for secrets and sins. And, anyway, the empowered are not afraid to exclaim either. So what was that I witnessed yesterday? I would call it walking on eggsells. Somehow it doesn’t fit.
I have always hated silence. Silence in schools, and in church, silence in tense and troubled conversations, silence in early day when even the sun screams mute it's ice blue tones, silence in regret. I always hated silence, but I hate whispers more.
Yesterday I sat with you on the stoop at midnight. The words were mostly the same, they’ve been the same all my life, but misery loves company and I’m vacant enough to be it’s vessel. We sat in that same old dead conversation, but this time something changed.
This time, you said, it was real. This time the words weren’t empty. This time you felt it and meant it, you said, because this time you had finally spoken it aloud, finally told him what you thought; that you couldn’t grow old like that. You couldn’t live to die.
I sat with you on the cold concrete and your hands were nervous and you filled your beer again, and whispered to me in a heavy lipped mess that you were finally happy. But people do not whisper when they are free, and tomorrow you will lay with him again.
I’m sorry I grew angry with you. I shouldn’t have yelled. You’re not ready for loudness. Maybe some day you’ll realize you’ve built your own cage. Maybe some day I’ll be able to forgive you, and realize I’ve built mine.

Learning to Walk

When Daddy slammed the door, the floor and windows shaked, so I ran into the bathroom. I didn’t want to roof to fall down on me. In school, Ms. Armstrong said that during a tornado you are to run into the bathroom in case the roof falls in or the windows break. That’s the safest place, she said, so that’s where I was, waiting for the roof to cave in. I waited, but it was stuck real high and tight. Not even a piece came down.
I was glad. If the roof fell down I didn’t know what me and Momma would do. I didn’t want to go back to Grandma Clara’s. She smelled funny and her rice always burned to the pot. Her bathroom was too small for us to hide in if the roof came in. Momma told me to hush up and get out of the bathroom and into bed.
I hated my room. There were faces in the walls and they looked at me. They stared while I was trying to sleep, with big, scary eyes. They pretended they were part of the wood, but I could always see them, ugly,twisting mouths and mean eyes. I wished I couldn’t. I stared straight at the ceiling and thought of angels, like Momma said. Nothing can get you if you pray good enough, but sometimes I would think of a fairy godmother on her way to me, flying under the moon; flying in her sparkling dress. When she came I would get three wishes. I would wish for no more stupid faces on my wall. That, and no more rumbling roof or windows.
When Momma was done wiping the wetness from her eyes, she came to my door and looked in. She whispered goodnight and she closed my door just the way I liked it, with a little crack for the light from the kitchen. I pulled the blanket over my head, and heard the scrape of Momma sliding the chain on the door. I peeked my head out to see if the faces moved. They were smart and always knew when I would look. I pulled the covers back over my head and listened real hard. Momma was watching TV and I could hear all those big laughs coming from the set. Maybe Momma was laughing too. Maybe those small quiet laughs where you barely even have to smile, ‘cause I didn’t hear anything. I fell asleep.
I went to sleep until Daddy came back with his heavy hands and feet making noise on the door, making the windows shake again. This time I just layed still and silent, like at nap time in school. Daddy screamed and kicked and stomped and pushed at the chain and slid his fingers inside the door and then his screams were nothing and he stopped pushing the door and everything was very quiet. It still felt like the windows would crack.I pushed off my covers and got out of bed. I went to the slit in my door and squinted in the light. Momma was still standing at the door, still and small, naked feet on the linoleum. This time Momma didn’t slide the chain back.The door didn’t open and let the cold air in. She walked away.
When she saw me she picked up my doll by its little foot and the eyes looked at me sideways. Its hair hung down to the floor. She gave it to me and said to hush and get back to bed. I hugged her to my chest. It was my doll, my baby, my turn to say no to mean faces. I didn’t have to look straight at the ceiling, or pull the covers over my head. The chain was locked and I was big for my dolly just like Momma was for me.

The Path the Mind Takes at 2:19am

Thirteen and sitting on the couch eating chinese food from the carton she looked at me with the eyes of a priestess or prophet and told me that one day I'd be beautiful. I believed her desperately. I've waited for that day. I've waited, but believe it now only out of habit. I am ashamed of the child I am, the child I remain. An atrocity, refusing to take life and make something of it. I wake up in the middle of the night hoping I am a nightmare I dreamed up.

It will pass. Yes it will pass. Everything does. The question is will it pass and take my life with it? Will I wake up one day at seventy- three and still be waiting? Does life happen to you or do you happen to life? Who can I blame for my own unhappiness in the end but myself?

Maybe it doesn't matter. Not everyone has the courage to be. Maybe that is the simple nature of things. Tomorrow I will wake up and meet the morning, and I will go out in it and maybe this is all the life I have to look forward to, and maybe it is not so bad.

The Morning News

Unable to sleep I sit up and open eyes, turn on the morning news. The traffic is thin, the weather is fair, and two children have died drowning. The older girl in jeans and shirt, her younger brother in trunks, they died together, one jumping in after the other who was struggling near the bottom of the community pool. Panning over the scene, the water is shown, as is the house where children once lived, bickering and laughing and running about. Mother's sobs pierce through the scene. Breathing isn't enough for her, her wind's been stolen too. The announcer frowns a bit and it's on to the war, more children drowning in a raging sea.

Adia

Sitting here listening to Adia and I'm back in that summer with you, when we were kids and everything was less complicated.We met and it was like we had found ourselves. You were the beauty I wished I had. Maybe I was the mundane and the stable that you wished you had. You were always on fire inside. Always a storm growing, even while those blue eyes smiled.

I remember days never apart, talking with eyes. You moved beautifully like one of those songs you used to play, swaying hips while I stood shyly in the corner. Outside trees swayed along with you. Wind danced. We were kids then, we still are. Young and lost, and still carrying that sadness. It isn't so hidden anymore.

Now we've seen more, felt more, we ache for more than we've allowed ourselves, but those little girls aren't all gone are they? I thought I saw you skip on the street as we walked last week. The wind still stirred in the trees. I spied you smiling despite yourself.

Adia I do believe I failed you
Adia I know I let you down
Don’t you know I tried so hard
To love you in my way
It’s easy let it go...
Adia I’m empty since you left me
Trying to find a way to carry on
I search myself and everyone
To see where we went wrong
’cause there’s no one left to finger
There’s no one here to blame
There’s no one left to talk to, honey
And there ain’t no one to buy our innocence
’cause we are born innocent
Believe me adia, we are still innocent
It’s easy, we all falter
Does it matter?
Adia I thought that we could make it
But I know I can’t change the way you feel
I leave you with your misery
A friend who won’t betray
I pull you from your tower
I take away your pain
And show you all the beauty you possess
If you’d only let yourself believe that
We are born innocent
Believe me adia, we are still innocent
It’s easy, we all falter, does it matter?
Believe me adia, we are still innocent
’cause we are born innocent
Adia we are still innocent
It’s easy, we all falter ... but does it matter?

...

I got up reluctantly, put on shoes and stepped into the night air.

I was immediately disappointed.

Instead of that crisp night air, the kind that reminds you what being alive feels like, it was warm and didn't even whisper to the skin.

I walked slowly, staring at the ground, being mesmirized by the rhythmic flow of my feet...

tap.

tap.

tap.

tap.

and listening to a melancholy song, watching cracks in the sidewalk creep in and out of my vision, tracing the little imperfections in the cement, and the whole time feeling misplaced.

I abandoned the sidewalk in favor of the street. Darker, wider, a little more free. No houses with all of their stories and complications looming over my shoulder.

I thought how useless it was to feel trapped in such a big world and began tracing the cracks in the pavement with my steps.

I felt like a silly little kid, walking to the edge of the street and back to center, following the loops and twirls created by nature.

I laughed.

Little Black Notebook

I recently received a little black notebook for my birthday. The notebook is empty. It's still all white pages...a few scribbled notes: shopping lists and driving directions.

I awoke this morning to find somebody flipping through its pages and I was filled with such intense annoyance at that. I felt violated and disregarded. How dare you peek at my blank pages?

innocence

Rain was falling in sheets and inside the car the small girl had made a tent from her favorite coat, the one with the colored patches all sewn together that made her feel magic. Now it was dark and all of the patches were too. She lay underneath the coat, sprawled out on the floor of the vehicle unnaturally. Face down, her head rested on a carpeted bump in the floor. The carpet was wet,damp from the child’s tears and saliva, marks of despair at things having to end once more.
Years later, sitting near the same spot, she looked back at that moment with disdain. Maybe it was humiliation. How could she have been so raw, despairing for a stranger who had managed to buy her smiles with sweets and a few trips to the beach? A few days baking in sunscreen, kicking at sand, marveling at exotic flowers, and suddenly she couldn’t live without him? She winced at her own youth and ignorance.
Those years ago when she had cried desperately and gasped for air, when she had practically choked on tears and memories, and cursed every rain drop which had spat onto the car, erasing the sand, messages written in her baby handwriting, he winced and drove faster. He watched the plane take off with her inside, and the tension he felt flew away with it.
On the phone he assured her, in his most cartoon and sanguine voice, that there was always next year. And next year and next year. And at eleven she returned, and everything was faded.
Now she put her feet up on the dashboard as they drove the sun drenched roads. She watched him mouth the words to songs he almost lived in. She watched as he shot uneasy sideways glances, rubbed his tired eyes.The trip ended at that same old apartment she remembered as a small girl. She unpacked her clothes and he disappeared. When she was done and he emerged, he regarded her with glass eyes, and a half smile. She hated him then. She hated him for that.
She had found the stuff in his glove box, smelled it. He was never without that small box. He stood in the shadows and deeply inhaled his version of sanity. And now its stench was on his clothes and in his eyes. The air was heavy with cologne, salt water, and escape.
She felt trapped.They sat down on the sofa and played a movie the clerk said kids would like. Bright colors and goofy grins danced across the screen. He laughed big and turned to her and she looked back with malice. He headed for the beer.
She would not cry again. She refused. It didn’t matter that she was there now. It was meaningless. She was tired of being fled. She didn’t want to feel hated anymore. She didn't want to be someone's burden.
The next few days she forced little kid laughs. She played her part well, just as he played his. Seeing them, anyone would have thought each of them was the only place they wanted to be. She frowned when she saw herself in the mirror. When the time came for her to go, there were no tears. Father and daughter hugged and parted ways. Now it was she who fled.

...

He awoke. There was the familiar pain. Tightness behind his eyes, hot needles shooting as he blinked. He wiped something wet from his face and his stiff hands cracked and groaned. They were thinner now than before. His skin was leather tightly pulled over cold bones. Groaning he reached for his glass, which stood on the small stand next to him.
It was dark. The only light came from the kitchen, pooled in the hall, trapped in the deep carpet, and refracted against the faceted glass, distorted through the cracks. There was a clink and a sigh and the man stood unevenly. The little earthquakes began. First the head, then down the spine. Each hair on his body writhed and stood on end, his head spun.
"Ugh," he managed.The act of standing had aided his shirt and pants back into position. At his waist were dozens of tiny welts where the metal brads of his jeans had dug into his flesh as he lay motionless and barely conscious. His feet slid across the pale linoleum and he slumped over the sink, shoulder blades piercing through the thread bare shirt which hung off of him. His palms found their place on the sharp edge of the counter. He cradled his head in his arm, his cheek falling through to the chilled plastic of the counter. His other hand turned the knob and the water ran.
His skin crawled. He detested that rushing. That rushing. It echoed through his brain as if he would never hear another thing again. He was deafened. He put his hand into the cold stream and wiped cool water onto his face. He brushed back his matted black hair. Below his stomache churned and he fought it, swallowing back the taste in his mouth.
His face glistened blue green in the artificial light. The bottle reflected it back.Trembling fingers wrapped around it and brought it towards him. The tiny ridges in its base rang a high pitch as they scraped across the rough counter top. The cap whistled off with a similar tone. Clear and smooth as water, he breathed in the liquid as the bottle gulped for air, collecting it at it's base.

untitled

Two days and counting on a bus, you learn a few things. One is that thinking is a surplus; an absolute overabundance. Another is that even your dreams collect dust and ache. For Sam, the first lesson was the most troublesome. Fatigued dreams beat a fatigued reality any day. She bit her lip reluctantly and cast her eyes once again toward the landscape.

Plastered before her eyes was the same, unchanging scene. Yellow grass and red earth. Dry bushes and rasping sand.Heat stacked itself around her in clumsy piles; extra luggage for the journey. She could feel it baring down on her, getting under her skin, weighing her down, pressing her into her seat. She could feel her surroundings start to compact under the pressure, the wheels of the bus seeping into the ground. She could see the road become molten tar, the wheels fusing with the asphault. It was an artificial river, black as motor oil, oozing toward New York.

"This is freedom, " she thought. But as those massive old tires groaned around the bend, she heard the familiar creak of that old gate; breathed in the thin desert air once more. She was still fenced in. The walls had just been stretched thin.


Brushing her hair to the side, she sank into the sun faded cushions and welcomed sleep. She dreamed of nothingness. A few hours later she awoke with a cough.Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, the sunset pierced it's way through her eyelids in flutter of deep blood red and the vibrant orange resting on the horizon. She spent a few minutes soaking it in, floating into reality, and then narrowed her gaze to the glass in front of her. It was littered with fingerprints, adorned with tiny superficial nicks in it's surface. The sunset wore a veil patched together with the debris of living.

She stretched and looked around her for the nearest passenger. She wasn't sure how long she'd slept and feared the bus had stopped off with her still curled up in the back. Sleep was somewhat of a risk on these things when one travelled alone. When eating, breathing, and pissing all become a luxury one is wise to have someone along to remind them that they're dreaming them away.

About three rows up she noticed a crumpled old gray hat looming over the seat back. She briefly wondered why someone would wear a hat in this nearly unbearable heat that had no sign of waning until long after the sun had fallen, but disregarded it and walked over. As the girl drew nearer, she noticed the man beneath the hat. His head was cocked to the side in a completely unnatural position, his lips slightly parted, stubbled chin resting on his chest, his eyes half closed. He looked as if he were trapped somewhere between death and living.

She lingered a second, unsure he was even breathing.Suddenly the bus pitched and jolted forward, sending Sam crashing between the occupied seat beside her and the one behind it as it pummeled through a deep pot hole. She grasped at the seat back, trying to catch herself, her hip smashed into the armrest.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, wincing and holding her hip.

The sleeping man awoke with a start, his eyes darting manically, trying to find the source of the chaos,finally settling on Samantha. His brow furrowed. He leaned around the seat back.

"What in God's name are you doing?" he accused, catching his breath. "You scared me."

"I scared you?" she asked, scowling, still holding her side. He frowned back.

"Uh. I just came over to ask if the bus had stopped yet," she said flatly.

"And you thought it wise to ask a sleeping man that question?" The man replied as he straightened his old hat.

"I- whatever. Nevermind," she said, turning back toward her seat, wondering how big the bruise would be. "Sorry for bumping into you," she said, half sincerely.

"Wait," he said. "It's six fifteen. We should be stopping soon."

"Ok, thanks," she replied.

"And try to be more careful."

She pretended she didn't hear him.

A little while later she noticed people start trickling toward the front of the bus. The smokers had begun their anxious queue, cigarettes and lighter in hand waiting for fresh air in which to light up. They reminded her of fish in a tank;catching a glimpse of humanity outside the glass and making their move toward the little door, their whole lives leading up to it's opening, the meager sprinkling of brightly colored, lightly flavored flakes of cardboard. She supposed she was no different. She desperately needed to get up and stretch her legs;feel solid ground beneath her and find something to eat.

As the bus pulled into the station, the faint smell of asbestos seeped into the atmosphere. Outside, the ground crept past at a snail's pace. One could see black patches of chewing gum and cigarette butts speckling the concrete. The yellow safety line at the edge of the platform glowed with the subdued orange of the lights evenly lining the station, working in vain under a sky still half lit by the light of dusk, and the peeking white-blue of the moon.The girl felt under her seat for her bag. Finding it, she tugged out from under the seat and waited impatiently. The bus finally whined to a stop and with one last exhausted breath, opened it's doors.
Those with cigarettes in hand stumbled anxiously out onto the platform and lit up. Some of the crowd set off immediately, as if they knew exactly what life had planned for them at that moment. Others of the crowd gazed around through the smoke in a sort of disoriented haze, almost as if they had just been born into that world. And in a way, they had been.
The girl made her way to the front of the bus and awkwardly down the to-narrow steps.As her feet hit the platform, she was at once hit with her own weight and reality. The world was vast and she was alone. It had sunk in all at once. There was nobody to follow but herself and her own inclinations. She hesitated near the door as other passengers pushed past her and went on their way.
At the far end of the building, there was a large and rather plain door with two benches on either side of it. Drawing near, one could see the chipping green paint, the dull rose colored flowers carved into it's surface, the traces of rust at it's feet. To see it when it was new would have reminded one of the simple beauty of nature, now it only reminded one of it's powers of destruction and the fleeting nature of time, a reminder that everything in life is delicate.
Inside the massive old doors, one would think they had walked into a church. Long rows of plain benches stood in filed lines all facing the platform, like pews to the altar. Light shone in from the lofty, slightly tinted panes above the doors. From the mouths of travelers one could make out prayers for escape.
Underneath the meandering feet and piles of baggage were old tiles in white and brown, some with little diamond designs on their faces. Following the brown tiles, one would come across the restroom which was where Sam found herself staring back in the mirror. The dim orange lights above each mirror were miniature versions of those outside the building and the effect was a dullness of features reflected back at her. She strained to see herself more clearly, but all she could make out were more shadows.
The girl slipped out of the heavy wooden door and into the red stain of the lobby. She continued following the path of brown tiles. Surrounding the unyeilding dark stained benches that made up the bulk of the space stood the ticket booth, luggage check, and a small stand. Laid out in one of the small glass counters were a collection of food items; palm sized cakes on tissue paper doilies, thin sandwiches in plastic wrap skins, donuts with meager coats of chocolate or powdered sugar mess. Looking past the case one could see a variety of knick knacks. She noticed a shelf of little toy buses in neat form, too-small grey blankets with too-high price tags, and a list of other things one could imagine buying only to find buried in a corner of one's cellar collecting dust as seemed to be their function judging by the state of the shelves on which they rested.

She bought two sandwiches, one to eat the next day when she took breakfast. Since she tended to stay awake late into the night and dark hours of the early morning, she found herself eating in the early morning hours and having an aversion to food when the rest of those travelling were host to growling breakfast-time stomaches. Typically she would sleep until lunch time, but the early morning sun was impossible to evade on the bus and would wake her after only a few hours sleep leaving her nauseous and in opposition to physical reality for a good time afterwards. She stashed the extra food in her bag and headed toward the small bench on the platform.

Sam plopped down on the heavy green bench and watched people move about in the quickly fleeting sunshine. Some of the travellers had reached the end of the line. She watched as hugs and hand shakes were exchanged. One woman she recognized from the ride peered shyly out of the corner of her eye and smiled at a tall black haired man as he wrestled her luggage from its place near the belly of the bus. Brothers embraced quickly and immediately began to laugh with each other as they made their way to the doors and out of the station. A mother hugged her child, mussed her hair, and placed a tender kiss on her cheek. A lone traveller or two found his bag and walked off uneventfully.People found home, and Sam watched from a distance.
"Anyone here for you?", asked a dry voice to her left. She blinked and turned to find the sillhouette of a slouched over figure in a crumpled hat. She raised her hand to sheild her eyes from the sunset glare behind the figure and found the old man from the bus.
"No," she replied. "You?"
"You were staring so intently you seemed about ready to burn a hole through the crowd."
She paid him silent attention, unsure how to respond.
"Well?"
She furrowed her brow.
"What are you looking for, then?"
"Nothing."
The man smiled wryly at the girl and stepped back into the station.
Sam ate her sandwich and tried to shake the feeling that the conversation she had just had was anything more than meaningless.
Back on the bus it felt like she had spent an eternity staring blankly out of the window at the darkness. She was a bit chilly now and had wrapped herself tightly in her blanket, removed her shoes, and tried to settle into the seat and sleep through the most empty part of the journey. Just like every other night, she tried in vain. She heard the faint rustling of fabric as people travelled through vast worlds in their dreams.
The girl's mind began to wander and her thoughts eventually stumbled clumbsily through her past. She hadn't left much behind. There wasn't much there to leave behind. And yet it was everything. She briefly wondered why she had left, but she knew. She knew it better than anything she had ever known. Life in Lorraine was nothing but a long and uneventful road leading to death. Life in Lorraine was not so much life as simply not death. People were born, raised, married and buried there, and never gave a thought to the fact that their lives were contained and finite. The lived birdcage lives and either simply didn't notice or didn't care.
Since the day she was born she had been slowly gathering her malaise in a tangled knot, turning it over in the pit of her somtache.She had grown accustomed to the dull commingling of contempt and contentment that seemed to define her very nature. She was at once violently opposed and silently resigned to her fate to be tied to the soil of Lorraine just as fast as the old oaks lining the cracked streets.
Walking through town on warm, fragrant spring days she regarded the signature brown façades of the shops on Main and wondered if there was anyone else in the world that felt so detached. Did anyone else feel helpless as they stood idly by and watched as the cool late afternoon rains grew tepid, as lilacs bleached and faded in the sun? She scratched her feet across the gravel casting pebbles to the side, sending them tumbling into the gutter. "Maybe", she considered, "this is just it." Maybe there was nothing to think about.But maybes are almost never reassuring.
Either way it seemed not to matter much. Acceptance or not, the end would be the same. Samantha knew this to be the case, and yet something in her knew that it was the only thing that did matter. She conceived of the purpose life being the simple acceptance that one would inevitably be consumed by it. She might be consumed, but she couldn't be (docile). All spring she moved with a sense of immediacy. Friends and neighbors remarked on how Samantha seemed to be living a million miles away. She went about her day paying all of the necessary attention while leaving the rest of it for the evenings when she could curl up in her room or on the old porch swing and write with a fervor she had never experienced before. She wrote as if her life depended on it. She wrote as if it was life itself.
When she wasn't writing she was working in town, cashiering down on Hover St. She came in and out as a shadow, counting the hours one by one as the minute hand floated past the twelve time and time again. Each dollar was collected and saved in a small tin box under her bed. The future was a nebulous mass lining her every move.
Months had passed her by and the people in town would have let her pass out of their minds if it weren't for the vague compulsion to gossip lazily as they passed by the tired porch on which they had watched Sam pass through childhood. Rumor slowly trickled through small groups of neighbors and passersby. The girl's presence had been missing at church for months and her eyes were far away. It had become evident that Sam had inherited the ways of her elders, and had given up God in favor of aimlessness and sin. "I am not," asserted Faye, a fixture in town, and an expert in speculation, " a bit surprised. If family's any indication that girl's no doubt taking her whiskey with breakfast." If family was any indication,Faye may have had something, and probably a lot more than she had ever bothered to consider.
Disregarded as tragically typical,Sam had become a living ghost to most. To her friends she seemed in such a boring mood. She refused calls only to be seen in the window absorbed in one of her composition books. She was gone, alive in a reality far away from the one in which she walked and breathed. It seemed her mind had taken off on a late summer breeze. After a while she succumbed to the inevitable. She hastily packed her bags and followed it where it would go. She had already left the town long before she watched waving hands wilt and mute lips command her to write through the dense glass.She felt a tug in her stomache; glanced down at an empty notebook. And so the wheels began to turn and the waiting began.
She was still waiting in that spot days later as her attention was turned back to the dark near-silence of the bus. She felt a twinge of regret for the way she had left things. The very far edges of the earth were beginning to catch fire, and the girl, still stuck in her memories, propped her head against the cool window and fell into a deep sleep. With time the sky boasted a pallet of soft pastel hues. The girl slept as life went on around her. Restless minds began to whir,bellies churned, hands tapped at the plastic armrests impatiently, voices rose. Total strangers engaged in the tradition of sampling their lives to one another, sharing bits of candy with one another and creating sacred bonds of travelling friendship which almost never survived the distracted smile and wave when one or the other had reached their destination. The vehicle writhed with activity.
The hours waned and with them the content of each individual. Polite gabbing became cranky grumbling. Demands disguised as requests to stop were tossed at the driver. He reluctantly complied, growling to his fellow driver about quotas as he pulled into the next rest station.He stopped in a huff, opened the doors and bellowed. "Ten minutes! If your not here, you're left behind!" He then exited and made his way to a nearby payphone still wearing a vague scowl.
A middle aged woman who had taken a seat near the back of the bus during the last stop made her way toward Sam. She shook her gently. The girl opened her eyes and found a kind face looking back. Sam regarded her inquisitively. "We've stopped," she said softly, " if you needed anything...seems we won't be stopping again til about eleven."
Sam smiled thankfully, but remembered the sandwich she had stashed in her bag. "Thanks for letting me know, but I'll be fine."
"Alright, then," the woman replied before rushing off. Sam turned in her seat, trying to bring back sleep but it was of no use.She groped around for her notebook, slid her fingers between its sheets and frowned as she read their contents. Painted in small black letters was an abundance of idle scrawling and nonsense. In small nests of ink lay snapshots of her past, presumptions and conjectures on the lives of those she encountered, sensory imprints. Nothing connected. Time had not proven magical. She was quickly approaching her destination.
She turned the pages until the ink faded to white. She searched. Outside the city grew more dense. One could feel its energy, its fabric writhed with life. Sam could focus on nothing but those white pages, the steady sound of her own breathing, a lead heartbeat. Released onto the platform, she floated through the crowd of quickly moving men in hats, strangers with thick armed hugs. She opened the door to the body of the station and slipped through, careful not to get caught by the strap of her backpack as the door closed behind her.
Upstairs the world erupted with light, and she was almost blinded by living static. Everything ran together recklessly. She made her way to the vast archway across from where she stood. Somehow she could hear each individual step echo through the space as she crossed. Nearer to the doors, her steps began to melt into the atmosphere, combining with the beat of an invisible drum. Outside a man furiously smacked his palms against an overturned bucket, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline and above his lip. Another sold scarves and key chains to anyone who would stop. Cement and steel stretched toward heaven like idols to be worshipped. The girl walked on.

(I think it’s done.)