(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