Everyday is Like Survival

Decomposing is the easy part.

Watching things decompose, though, that's the challenge.
I don't really know why - surely we've gotten used to it, right?

Everything changes and all of that -
everything is temporary.

Sometimes I'll call my Nena and I'll sob and sob and sob into my little phone and she'll listen. She always does. Afterwards, she says: "I didn't understand a thing you said" or: "Life's about change, nothing never stays the same". (It's usually a toss up between the two.) Now, I know that's not original to her -- but every time I hear her say it, it resonates.

Everything is temporary.

Anyway - right?

a change is gonna come

A year is a long time.

One year ago, my Nena went blind. One year ago.

I counted out her pills once a week. I became familiar with over-reactions, under-reactions and depression from the only strength I've ever known. I learned words that no one should ever know. I laughed at inappropriate times and also cried. I fought with medical professionals. (Fought). Took pills that weren't prescribed to me. Stayed up late to do dishes and laundry that wasn't mine and prepared the Mr Coffee.

One year ago, I was one year younger.

Less wrinkles around these eyes. More elasticity. Less poems written, less life lived, less heartache, more rabies. Since then, I've nearly died 4x. Once for real, the other three times, just emotionally. I've been accepted into a MFA poetry program. I've had more wine than I can really understand, I've gained and lost 5 lbs pretty consistently and I've been through approximately 12 menstrual cycles.

What can ya' say, though, you know? Shit keeps on moving. Blind or not, sad or not, old or not.

I'll Keep This World From Dragging Me Down

I keep making deals with myself.

"Pay this bill then clean the house, ok? Run to the library then clean the house. Listen: if you clean 2 rooms, you can watch a Star Gate. Write a blog post THEN clean the house. Clean the house then you can go on a bike ride. Clean a few rooms and read your library books. Start at 12n. Well, just start and be done by 3. Do this and get FroYo later." And so on.

Listen, I know I'm lazy. Also, irresponsible. And, while I'm at it, I'm messy.

But, I'm happy right now, so it's hard to wash the dishes and scrub the toilet when I just want to marinate in this feeling. It's familiar. It's waking up at my nena's house. It's excitedly anticipating. It's *just* buying Season 5 of The X-Files. It's Architecture In Helsinki with the windows down. It's right after my first rock and roll show. It's seeing a Common Loon dive for the first time. And so on. And so on.

So, I'll start cleaning the house after I have a tiny dance party in honor of how things are going. Okay? Deal?

Deal.

it's too late to say you're sorry

Some things will never change, though. In my grandpa's top left-hand-drawer, there will always be containers of floss, super sharp finger nail clippers and hearing aid batteries. When I'm here, I will fill the coffee maker with appropriate amounts of finely ground coffee and water and hit the "delay brew" button. The dishwasher will depend on me. I will drink wine after everyone goes to bed and I will pine away under the orange glow of Main Street.

They haven't changed yet. Not here. This sanctuary, despite the shit storm this winter, has yet to be tainted by you fucks out there.

I don't know how to describe the calm that comes along with this place. A certain structure in knowing that no matter what the goddamn circumstances are, I'll have two insanely gorgeous people who love me like no other. And despite the thawing river and the inevitable, beautiful end - we have the moments we have.

i hope we hold on til the last exit

The swing on my grandparent's porch is moving with the wind. Their dishwasher just gave up on dinner plates and me? I'm up past midnight writing and drinking. There are a handful of things I want to describe in detail, I have nearly 7 poems started (fragments and broken sentences floating around, dying to escape and live and breathe) but alas, words fail the occasion.

Today, I woke up $800 poorer. Someone somewhere landed my identity and paid lots of money for make up and pajamas and shoes. If that bitch only knew what it was like in my identity, she'd apologize. She'd probably say, "oh, you poor, sad girl. Your grandma is broken? And you're deathly alone? And you feel panic everywhere? I'm sorry," she'd say. She might hug me and say that she's had a rough year, too.

But, it's just another thing in this world.

This world.

sweeter than a grape on a vine

Waking up with a tiny bit of hope changes a girl. It makes waiting for tea not so burdensome. And putting off chores not such a chore. It makes drinking tea with honey AND milk like a New Year's Eve Party. It makes "Unchained Melody" even sweeter, like the first love story. Hope does crazy things. And that's okay.

I may even just sit here, press these little buttons, make words and sip this tea like nothing is wrong... at least, just for this small moment, this brief sliver of time.

We all know, though, after the tea is finished, I'll stand up. I'll disturb the sleepy, black kitten and life will come back. My grandma is still (mostly) blind, I still have dishes to do and covers to fold, and the songs have moved on from love to betrayal.

Just like life. Never stops.

half of what i say is meaningless

There are perfect seasons in my life. Friends are friends and my job is just a job and neighbors across our quaint street are not dying alone in their homes. The music has the best beat and good lyrics, the tea tastes like the first cup of tea, fever blisters exist but never on me and my goddamned apartment isn't as confining as I remembered from, I don't know, let's say, 2 months ago.
You know what I'm talking about, right? Like, perfect. Of course you do. Those seasons when time moves exactly as it should (whatever that means for you). And then, like any bi-polar person will tell you, there are those other times.


In ninth grade I cut my hair super, duper short. Pixie. The boy I liked called me a "lesbian" every single day in 7th period. But that's okay, wanna know why? I was cooler than where I was. I'm serious. Nirvana, The Beatles, Violent Femmes and Tom Petty cds frequented my little boom box, I made beaded necklaces and wore mismatched earrings. I survived my best friend's death and the death of my parent's marriage and 2 school moves within 2 years. I bailed hay and maintained a cool composure when faced with social conundrums. And I was smart.
Still am.

Third and Fourth grade were weird years for me. I was becoming aware of my caste, so to speak. I mean, "caste" is probably too harsh for the social stratification that occurs in rural towns, but I was realizing how poor I was, how uneasy it was to have an alcoholic dad and a desperate mom. It's fine, though. I had a bird book given to me by my great grandmother who taught me how to play cards, Scrabble and forced me to only have one iced oatmeal cookie every time I visited. She didn't play Old Maid the sissy way, either. She was straight streets - none of this "letting the kids win" bullshit. She had the flattest chest due to a mastectomy and a raw, but ladylike attitude (due to the depression). And because of her, now and then, I can point out a Belted Kingfisher, Red-Winged Blackbird, Great Blue Heron - tell you what they eat, where they live, how they sound. I can also remember where I was when I become cognizant of the existence of these beautiful creatures individually.

Okay?

This kind of bullshit is a mix, huh? Bad and good. So, perfection can visit; I'll allow it, even welcome it. But, let me always be aware of proportions.