Whenever I want you, all I have to do...

Generally, I remember most of my dreams. Or at least I remember that I had them. Over the past year I noticed that I was dreaming a lot less, and the best I can figure is that it had to do with not getting enough sleep and not sleep-cycling enough, or something. (Obviously I am a scientist.) And when I did dream, it was my subconscious trying to trick me into thinking I wanted to snuggle with one of my coworkers. (Mission accomplished, brain. Mission. Accomplished.) Anyway, I've been enjoying watching brain movies at night again. Even the scary ones. (Does anyone else find a part of themselves enjoying their nightmares? In middle school my friend and I would purposely try to have them. One time she heard that if you ate chocolate right before you went to sleep it would give you nightmares, and so we ate like six mini Milky Ways before bed that night. I only got a stomachache. Note to self: Perhaps middle school would have been slightly easier for you if you had been conditioning your hair instead of stuffing your face with candy bars at night. Just a thought.)

EXCEPT LAST NIGHT. Last night I had the worst nightmare I have ever had in my whole history of nightmaring. I went to sleep. ONLY NOT REALLY. It was horrible. I was dreaming that I was lying in the exact same position in my bed, trying to go to sleep, and I couldn't. And I was really worried that I would be too tired to wake up in the morning. So I worried myself awake and realized that I HAD been sleeping after all. And then I'd eventually fall back to sleep, and have THE SAME DREAM. Did I say how horrible it was? Are you getting that? That went on until about midnight, and finally I had some normal dreams about chubby babies and a child that was mine but not really and having to go to see a movie at two in the morning. I hope it wasn't a disturbance when I walked into class this morning dragging an IV of coffee.

 

(I know, I know. I am obsessed. What's more fun than parachutes though?)

 

(Okay, yeah, forcing your friends to let you braid their hair because it's hard to practice on your own head is pretty fun too.)

 

(Also taking pictures of yourself because you are vain. FUN AS WELL.)

(And oh yeah, snacks are the MOST fun. Sorry parachutes.)

I'm in my late twenties, little girl; don't flirt with me -

I've got the capabilities to program your circuitry. SLUG

 

(This is the face that makes me so desirable. This exact face.)

They're like mosquitoes. But cuter, I'll give it to 'em. 

If I could go back in time, then maybe. But I cannot, and you have frontal lobes to develop. 

We can still hang out though. I'll help you get ladies your own age. 

And you can set me up with your dad!

 

I was at the grocery store examining some kind of pre-cooked meat shred in sauce and trying to decide if I hated myself enough to purchase it when I overheard what I believe to be one of the most shining moments in parenthood history (or maybe not but it made me laugh a lot): 

Little girl: [babble babble] MOM CAN WE GET THESE MARSHMALLOWS?

Mom: No honey, you have to get them when they're fresh.

Yes, and also some kinds of yes.

 

celebrate crooked staircases
doors that hang uncertain roses
in twilight, smooth thick 

legs no breasts to speak of

I am trying

to live more intentionally.
to not go to the cashier's office 9878235 more times to ask them if they sent my dollars yet.
to write about the things I don't want to write about.
to look at clouds more. Really look at them.
to let myself believe that yes, I am in a good place.
to let myself believe that I earned this.
to give myself permission to enjoy this.
to stop touching wood every time I think a thought I am uncomfortable with.
to decide how I can delicately distance myself from a "friend" and still show her love.
to wear all of the dresses in my closet at least one more time before buying any new ones.
to get used to the idea of working with middle school students.
to think of non-creepy ways to show my appreciation for the people in my life.
to finish knitting the blue scarf before it gets cold enough to wear it.
to accept people's compliments at face value.
to accept people's love.
to accept people.
 
And I am doing AWESOME. Seriously. Except for the finishing-the-scarf part; I haven't really been trying to do that so much. Also the writing about things I don't want to write about; but I am thinking about maybe starting to. Mostly I am trying to consciously turn inward at least a few times each day, and make a point to acknowledge whatever I find and deal with it. Here is where if I keep talking I will start making inaccurate blanket statements about myself so, nope. Instead, here is a picture to break up this text:

And here is something to read that is nice:

The Invitation | Oriah

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

And here is another treat for your eyes:

Candles = FANCY.
xoxo

Is summer over already? Wasn't it just this morning I was assaulting the racks of the Franklin Ave Goodwill, probably foaming at the mouth more than a little because something in the sunshine that day told me that this was MY day, the day I would prevail over National Grid and Target and my bank account, the day I would buy my entire summer wardrobe for twenty-eight dollars? (I discovered the precious gem that is Bed Stuy when I briefly dated this boy who lived by the Tiny Cup; cigarettes are eight dollars there. EIGHT DOLLARS. 'The Perks of Being a Hood Rat' hits shelves next month.)

I suppose I'm ready for fall, though. It is my favorite, and stuff. At any rate I'm ready to get past this awkward part of the year where I freeze my ladyparts off the entire time I shower and get ready at four in the morning because it's too early to fire up the ol' woodstove and I spend far too many minutes deciding whether or not I have too many clothes on, because what if it gets hot later? And school is never an appropriate temperature (this is true for every school building I have been inside of, ever) so my notes wind up either undecipherable due to violent shivering OR drenched in a pool of my sweat. YUM. Also everyone is always sick. PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: If you don't cover your mouth when you cough, I picture myself having to comb phlegm out of my hair later on. That is an unkind place for you to send my brain to.

the horizon will appear through bird-filled light. climb the highest tree until you spot the farthest ocean. go there. on the shore build a castle, and when the sea witch comes she'll show you the way to draw violet from a driftwood altar. with the tip of the first finger on your favored hand trace poems on her skin, but remember not to leave your name on her lips (she'll swallow it.) waves will bring you froth. take it into the universe between your palms and press your eyes. blink salt. (does your hair spill down your back like rain? or curl around your shoulders as roots curl into earth?) now dig a hole. get in. stay there for one hundred years, or until reluctant sunrise commits to dawn and the water moves above your head. then shift your bones; at this point you ought to have achieved flight. gather some cloud in your feathers, and come find

me.

sweet Wind dragged her fingers
across the tops of the trees, shaking
green slipped down her perfume around us

Let's you and I play Catch the Light

Just by existing, just exactly as you are, and by thinking of me the way you did, you changed the way I thought about myself. Thank you, for stirring up in me things I'd forgotten about.

Becoming us was like the coming-true of a wish I didn't quite remember making. 

And then the night before last, that dream - the feeling I woke up with clung to me through half the day, through numbers class and talking class and through flirting in the library and through the movie I saw.

That not-unpleasant tightening of the stomach.
Maybe I'll kiss you again next time I see you. Maybe I won't. Either way, either way.
I have a feeling.

It's been a whole YEAR since this? What the what!

 I am in the process of getting all of my important documents (ie, music that took me years to "accumulate" in the not entirely legal sense, random pictures from the few times I remembered I had a camera, and nonsensical half-written drafts of things) off of my old, sickly laptop. My nerdier more technologically-inclined  friends are all like, oh you can just do this this and this and it'll take like two seconds and you'll have all your stuff. But kind of, I don't know how/don't feel like it. And kind of, I like the process of going through years of shit and picking and choosing what I think is most important to keep. If I just move it all somewhere else all the less important stuff will still be all mixed in with the good things and then I'd become this like, file hoarder, knowing it's all there but never actually going through it. Every few days I give it about ten minutes and then either a) it shuts down on me and I give up, or b) I have something actually productive to do. So by the time my next piece of technology (boop boOp bing Boop) fails I will have salvaged everything from this one. SUCCESS. In any case I didn't mean to say this much about that, as INCREDIBLY FASCINATING as it is, but my first class got out half an hour early (I paid good money to space out while you talk for TWO hours, lady, quit ripping me off) and because I am still getting used to this whole "having downtime" thing I get confused about what to do and start rambling. Aren't you so glad. Anyway, wanna see some more pictures from a year ago? OKAY LOOK:

No one is sure how that couch was brought into the apartment (it is obviously physically impossible, so my theory is that it was built there; probably, it has structural significance to the house.) I'm not sure how many tenants' butts it has seen. What is sure is that it is the ugliest couch in the history of ever.

 

 

And guess who chopped all her hair off again! This girl. Don't worry, it's back now.

Oh, Akin. You legitimately made my jaw drop.

Rape is not funny. (I especially dislike when folks use it as slang. Just, no.) Here is a joke about it anyway:

How about, let's teach our sons to respect women. And other men. And it might be a good idea to teach our daughters the same thing. And how about we teach them all to respect themselves. And then maybe the Kelly Kapoors* of the world will stop crying wolf.

I am in no way saying that any woman "asks" to be raped, ever. I am saying that we need to teach our daughters (and sons) to make smart choices and take responsibility for their actions. Not in any way shape or form to defend or support any such thing as a magical rape-detecting uterus, but there are indeed females who claim to have been raped when truthfully they have not. Years ago, when a lady bagged some gentleman and then was like OH WHOOPS THAT WAS DUMB she probably wouldn't have said anything at all. She would've kept it a secret and hoped nobody found out. Today some of the ladies who find themselves in that situation choose to be all loud and OH HEY YOU RAPED ME instead of accepting and dealing with the fact that they made a decision they are unhappy with. Of course, rape existed years ago as well. And women were keeping that secret, too. So to me the obvious solution is to open up a dialogue. Just talk about it. A lot. And be honest. And maybe when we're all talking, the stigmas or whatever it is keeping people afraid and ashamed will start to fall away. And maybe "real" rape won't stop happening (because it isn't about sex, after all) but at least there will be less fuel for idiot politicians without a firm grasp on human biology.





*Kelly, you know I love you girl. But seriously don't keep doing that.