I wept in fear for things

I want to write a letter to my imaginary baby. You know, it'd start out saying something like "Dear Baby (if you ever exist)" and I'd follow it up with poignant pieces of life that I've gathered to be helpful. For example, "Life is fucking hard, lightening splitting the earth, and there's no two ways around it" - something like that. I might paraphrase. But, maybe not. My imaginary baby knows I have a mouth on me. I would then continue with apology after apology. For instance, "I'm sorry that you will always have dirt under your fingernails.", "I'm sorry I will be drunk, like garden parties and paper lanterns, more than I should be.", "I'm sorry that I will for sure lose my temper, a firecracker in closed hands." The best thing? Imaginary babies forgive. Real ones internalize. But, that's besides the letter I want to write.

I'd write about my dad. A workin' man with hands like dried sponges. And also, my mom, ol' knives for tongue. I'd write about me. And how, secretly, I always wanted the (imaginary) baby to look like an Anderson (aren't we glad he does!!). I'd write about writing. And how, the moment, right above the creek near Maxville on highway 32, when I saw a Belted Kingfisher for the first time, how that moment I knew that life was different than what was given me. Whatever that means.

I'm sure I'd write about love. But, probably in a way that's not appropriate for babies. Even really rough and tumble babies like my imaginary one. I might even tell that child about the times I snuck out of my house to meet older boys with magic hands. I'd use the word "magic" and make a footnote* (*ask me about this when you are older - babies can't read anyway.) I'd be pithy about love, because let's face it, does anyone ever listen anyway? (The answer is no. But you fucking knew that)

I would probably say it's okay to fight. Even with fists sometimes. Not always*. (*footnote: consult with me first. Please.)

I'd probably end with something like "Dear (imaginary) baby - just know that mostly, I'm gonna try real hard to be what you need, but probably, I'll let you down. Aint that the way?".

These things, they go away

Some nights I have a quiet kitchen. On those nights, it's easy to chop lettuce and stack dirty dishes and think about the cat that's sleeping on the green blanket in front of my computer screen. It's easy to move on from lettuce to strawberries and daydream about the short bread you're going to make this week. You know, in honor of spring.
It's easy, on these nights, to remember your downfalls, but even easier to move past the ones of immediate concern. Even if just for a moment.

Also, we're almost out of dish soap.

Far more aware than I have been

Today it was mostly eating the small moments with a delicate fork and well poised knife. "The sun really showed up and is doing it's job" was a good salutation to a really weird morning - but it's true what he said. The sun had armies. They blew my face off.

With unsteady steps I walked up my stairs in someone else's purple sweatpants and fancy blue shoes, nearly my burial shroud, or so it felt. The only longing was for my empty bed- dried wine in the cuts on my lips. A bruise on my chin. Arms that smelled like vomit.

Let's get one thing straight, I don't ever mean to binge drink. I don't ever mean to nearly die in my friends' new home. I don't ever mean to make other people's husbands carry me to their homes. Last night, I fucked up. And I'm embarrassed. And I'm sorry. But, in a very serious way, I'm grateful.

And way scared.

I'm blood and carbon and magic. And these ribs and this heart - I've only been given this. And I'm sorry I'm not a better steward. And I'm sorry that I'm falling into a stereotype. And I'm so goddamned sorry that I have to keep saying sorry.

But like I said before, the sun showed up. Thank goodness. And the moments today, even the ones where I felt heavy with a coat of guilt, were welcomed. If I would have felt better, I would have thrown each minute today a fucking party. Hugged them like I'm picking them up at the airport.

I'll show you my scars

My horoscope yesterday said "you're longing for the new, the different, the unique." That doesn't mean anything to you - and if we're honest, it doesn't mean anything to me, either. But for a moment, I stood up straight on this little mountain I've constructed mostly from cardboard and thought, "I do need anything but this" and the entire day I jotted down notes about my escape to the ocean.

And everything was affirmed about a trillion times before bedtime - yes, yes! the echoes bouncing off the church walls, crawling up the bricks on the outside of my house, coming in with the wind through the cracks in my floorboards. Yes! Move away, lady. Be something else. Pick up each grain of sand, tell them the secrets you have hidden in your sinews. Braid your hair until your fingers fall the fuck off your hands.

Go.

Because let's face it, sometimes a girl is alone. But not really alone - just lonely. And let down.

my heart feels unprotected

I do the things I need to do, you know, to function. Brush my hair, wear clean underwear, pet my cat, blow out the candles at the end of the night, drink wine, occasionally dust, wash out my cuts, eat some fruit, smile at strangers, text, sit criss cross applesauce, and work on my posture.

I wear a bra mostly, I cry alone mostly (except for Fat Tuesdays. On Fat Tuesdays, I cry to boys who let me), I shave my legs (sometimes) and listen to sad songs on lonely nights. I breathe heavy as I fall asleep. I remember nice things and feel nice. I try not to remember bad things, but, like everything, that's hard to do.

I fall in love. And out of love. But mostly, in, at least 3 times a day.

I participate in normal human activities. Sometimes, I even enjoy it.

Sometimes.

i've grown weary on my own.

I blame myself for not listening to my psychic.

She was probably spot on, but shame on me, I didn't take notes and I didn't take heed. I do remember it being something like, "now is the time to DO", but WHO doesn't she say that to, you know? Anyway, I was in my Saturn Return and I swear to god, I wish my Saturn Return would last forever, but it doesn't. The threshold isn't very wide. And I'll be goddamned if I took advantage of Saturn and her orbit. I didn't.

I stayed stagnant, and as a result, here I am.

What no one tells you is, being a grown up is hard and it takes courage. I don't have that.

She could hear the highway breathing

Can you even believe all the opportunities available to us to just fall right the fuck in love? Make no mistake in these words, I'm mostly talking about non-humans and poignant moments in time that just look you in the eye and give you the what-for. They are, mainly, set apart by heart beats.

And I can't begin to explain the interrelation of the things and the moments, but I don't have to. If you know about the heart beats, you know about the union.

These little baby companions are there, you know, always.

I can be in a car, and the minute I tell someone about what vacant lots do for me, specifically about the loneliness and the beauty and the desire to stand for days (and maybe decompose), I become aware. There they are. Right there, making my blood move, my skin pulse and my nose a little ruddy button. Falling in love with vacant lots or blue mittens or being called a heifer, those are the moments - being intentional about these moments, that's the love.

It's all very circular. But I suppose, life is like that.

Aint that the way.

will someone please call a surgeon?

Don't let me alone with my own devices. And if I had any authority at all, I'd make it an order. (But I don't. So I won't.) But I suppose the only thing I can really say is, "don't let me hang out with a box of wine alone."

Also, today was a furniture shopping kind of day. Full of rain and carpet and salesmen who wanted to sleep with me.. It was just a tiny bit terrible and would have been worse if I didn't have some nice smooth Brandy (and an aunt who really gets it) to hang out with.

Life is sometimes one recliner after another. And honestly, that's just par for the course.

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.

let's talk over mai-tais. waitress, top it off

Life shifts often. My skin comes off everyday and my hair falls out and my finger nails grow, get dirty and I bite them off, but here I am, the same human. Kind of.

The shifting. The death. The life. It's all too much at times. The standing up tall and watching everything change, that's something else, too. I barely can stand it.

All of this to say: I'm getting old. I can see it around my eyes and in my blood. And with the friendships I've cultivated for so long. The shifting. The slow transfer and melting away and putting our hands into the cold river that never stops - these things tell me, you know, nothing fucking stays the same.

And I mean it: nothing.

Come away with me on a bus

How can I tell you about a day off that is so perfect it doesn't have words? Not sure I can. It's impossible, because as I've already said, no. words. None. A rest. A day like oatmeal, but with sugar. Oatmeal with laundry. Does that make sense to you? Because I've had 3 whiskeys and one wine. But that doesn't take away from a good day off and a good evening with friends who are good at laughing and making me laugh.

I don't know. My blog is sometimes so pretentious, don't you think? It's all "feelings" and "sadness" and sometimes I feel like I segregate people.. and honestly, if we are serious, I'm so sorry that I do that. I just don't know how to separate myself from how I feel. But honestly, isn't that okay? Who fucking knows.

I don't know what I'm saying. I've had too much alcohol, I feel like it's a summer's night. But, let me assure you, it's not. I'm like, super cold. It's still winter, with a seriousness.

Life is a little bit nuts.

Life is like a never ending thing, except, if we are honest, it's the most temporary thing ever. And how beautiful. And how devastating. Do you get that art is so like that? and if we are all philosophical, if a+b=c and b+c=d then a=d, temporary is beautiful. That means life is. And if life is temporary, shouldn't I just quit the shit that makes me miserable? Who fucking cares? All this shit is so short term.

Which brings me to my next point... and be prepared. It's fucking serious:

YOLO.

Just: YOLO.

where will we go? what will we do?

I wrote a poem today, but it wasn't the poem that I wanted to write. I sometimes walk around with an idea in my blood for sometime before it finds it's way to paper. And, for once, I think that's normal. And please, if it isn't, mind your manners and keep it to yourself.

I like the things I said in On Showing Our Baby The Dead Cat, though I know with my whole heart that these things have been said already. But, it's fine to say some things again.
The story isn't mine, as you well guessed. But an amazing woman's who I call H.

H and I went on some kind of renewing retreat recently to Minnesota, some tiny town on the Root River with eagles and Oriole nests hanging like brown uvulas and snow and love. We were sitting around the fire talking about death, as you often do on Renewal Retreats and this story came up. I swear to you, I didn't do it justice - maybe I'll revisit it once my other poem surfaces.

But honestly, this temporary life we're given is fast. It's the thawing Root River. It's a passing sentiment. It's beautiful and so goddamned full of pain that I'm not sure I can decipher the difference.

And mostly, we all need to walk in the dark past a Post Office in a town with 63 people and hope to see owls. And hope to avoid death for a just a little while longer.

every body likes to cha-cha-cha

This weekend was ridiculous. Somehow I was invited to perform twice. IN ONE WEEKEND. Holy god, guys. What a wonderful honor to be esteemed enough, and trusted enough, to entertain a varied group of strangers at an event that has been a working part of the coordinator's soul.

It's magic, really. Magic.

The first event was for a young, community centered church. (yep, you heard me right: church). But guys, they're doing things right. They turned a parking lot into a GARDEN. Where they grow veggies to share with the community. SHARE, COMMUNITY, FREE ORGANIC FOOD. In order to do this, they need a tad bit more money, a tad bit more awareness, so they threw a benefit. And asked local bands and local poets to perform. Local talent, local food, local love that could (depending on how you feel) transcend time and space. I agreed immediately. I agreed and I was honored. Deeply.

Next, we had The Bomb Shelter. Standup comedy for very very amateur comedians. Pye,Brown is the creative force behind many swanky events in Fort Wayne and this one (as well as the first Shelter), I was invited to participate. They landed a beautiful space, a legit filmmaker and 10 amazingly brave (and funny) people to tell jokes like we really knew what we were doing. Let me just tell you... the entire night was full of wine, laughter and lots of anxious embarrassment. The perfect combination. Pye,Brown is genuinely interested in Fort Wayne, inspired individuals and how the two can make each other better by being celebrated together. Locally and creatively togethering. And me. I got to be a part of the A-list line up. And, how can a girl complain?

like the pine trees lining the winding road

There are serene moments in life that don't make sense. Laying flat on my back watching the stars fall right the fuck out of the sky, like love, while the cicadas sing until their membranes are raw with vulnerability.

Covered in soot, the fireman telling me that my dad's ate up corpse was found near the kitchen door, leading to the mudroom. Calmness like fog, calmness like fucking fog.

Once, I stood on the lip of a canyon and brought iron into my lungs.

Things, some things anyhow, make my skull break apart, make my blood a mudslide.