You Want to Be Free

Goodness is everywhere: under my pillow, in the far corner of my 'fridge, under the mixing bowl I haven't used since I baked that last batch of cookies, down the hall, under my fingernails, at the bottom of that bottle of wine. It's in that blues riff that always makes you want to die. Exchanging coupons at the Bed, Bath and Beyond, inside peanut shells, quietly typing in the morning all alone - these are places, too. What about the dust on your bookcase? And your split ends? Hardware stores, between aisles 3 and 6, and with country boys named Mark.

Remember that one time we were at that one bar and you played Willie Nelson? It was there, too. Walking near churches late at night in the rain. Crying until your young lungs are tender. Standing up with a sore back. Burdens tucked deep in the muscles somewhere between the scapula and spine. All of those places. There and everywhere.

Don't kid yourself, though, you know? Other things live there, too.

What Sunshine Do You Bring?

I'm writing this for you. Not actually, because knowing would be something completely different. But I think I'm writing this for you. You eat the day, tenderly, with just a tad bit of salt. And the way you brush your hair? I love it. That's why I'm writing this for you. Also, you walk like pop rocks, and I dig that. You talk to me, sunset colors in your voice. Oh, and the hushed sound of wings ripping through air.

Don't be confused. This isn't a love poem. I don't write those.

I just wanted you to know, that a few times a day, I write for you. In a way that's not actually writing, but in a way where I notice things (because that's what I do, I notice things) and think, I want to write that. I want to write that for you - always.

Here's what I want to say: mortal sins are sins but so are venial sins, but not in the same way.

Love is like that, too.

Love is like that, too. (but this isn't a love poem). It just isn't.

You're Kind and You're Beautiful, Too

A stranger told me today that I have beautiful skin. I wish I could tell you about how deep this is. I can't, but if I could, you'd understand that when she said "beautiful" I broke apart in an ancient way. Beautiful? Here I am. Beautiful.

She said something about "no makeup" and "no wrinkles" and "glowing" - she looked right in my eyes. I loved her endlessly for a few pure moments. I felt bare-footed on the firstday. I felt like nothing had ever been over. I felt a little closer to whole. And, don't get me wrong, it's not because she thinks I'm pretty. Don't mistake what I'm saying for "pretty". Please. She wasn't seeing that.

She was seeing contentment. And a human who was brave enough to shed the anxieties that clouded a pink heart. She was seeing cotton candy. And deep breaths. She was seeing New Mexico, braided hair and dirty fingernails. She knew me for a moment.

She knew it all without even knowing.
I thanked her, and tried to express with skinny words how she made gravity a little less, but she didn't get it.

She didn't get it. But I get it, guys. I do.

I broke free on a Saturday morning

Do you remember how in a few days I am leaving my job at the library? Do you also remember that I'm so happy, but also so sad? It's this weird juxtaposition I don't know how to handle - I'm doing a lot of crying, but it's self-inflicted, so, please, don't feel bad. (Except, I'm sure you wouldn't anyway.)

Unlike everything in my life thus far, I'm going to allow this transition the grieving it deserves. It's a change. It's allowed to tear my heart into tiny bits of paper. It's also allowed to make me climb on my roof and scream the Hallelujah chorus. But, as I'm typing this non-linear thought-blog, let me just say: Can you even fucking believe life? I mean it. Can you?

Because I can't.

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.

where i see a lot of stars

I drink beer now. And Merlot. I don't know what's happening.

I actually do, but anyway...

I am assigning phases in life, familiar situations, to alcohol. Okay, you ready?

Sweet reds - flings.
A good, and true Moscato - one night stand or a serious 2 day stint of sexting with a (kind of) stranger. Merlot - A complicated relationship, complete with comfort and conflicting feelings.

Shot of tequila followed by sangrita - a seriously good masturbation.
PBR (or Hamm's) - maybe one kiss on the cheek, or can be subbed out for a fun night with friends.
Drambuie - sitting in the evening sun.

Whiskey and coke - Writing when you're lonely.
Mojito - Wearing a tank top that shows a little too much of your (hot) side boob.
Lemon Drop Martini - well, this one needs no explanation.

So, you see what I'm doing? I'm becoming an alcoholic. But, I don't care. Life is hard - and love is hard - and separating the darks from the lights is hard. Everything is sore, so I drink and become familiar with fake scenarios that give me comfort.

Is that so wrong?

Chemist On Campus

I don't know, really. Somedays, it's just like, I can reach my little hands right up to space and grab any random object (like, an asteroid or a little piece of ice cold metal), pop it in my mouth, eat it up and be awesomely strong and unstoppable. Get Usher on my iPod, give me a stretch of road, let me run... nay, let me conquer. Go ahead.

I dare you.

I come up with good jokes on days like this. I can't get over my atoms being forged in the sun on days like this. I can't stop making love to life on days like this. I can't stop thinking about dinosaurs and fossils and kittens and Extraterrestrial Life Forms and dream-catchers and dolphins and bridges and tiny babies sharing my air and also the air of a drunk Moses.

I don't know. Just, put your hands up, right? I need to dance.

And it's a shame this day has to end.