So there were, like, 10 people there tonight. Nice.
The manuscript is gone. I’m really scared about it, but a child is supposed to change and grow, right? Um, yeah.
Tomorrow is Friday. Already again. I’m usually busy, even though I’m hoping not.
Thinking about you.
I want to work on this.
you ask me questions
that you already know the answers to
and it’s always the people around you
who are a reflection of you
and you tell me that I am love
so be love
be the best love your Self has ever felt
’cause the world is going crazy right now
trying to tell us to stop hating
each other, our neighbor,
the random starlet on TV,
our selves
she’s ready to crack
and I’m trying to tell you
that you are a wisdom
written on the sleeves of a jacket
for other people to wear
’cause your heart is there
and the artistry of faith
is inherent even in heresy
’cause even what you can’t see
is part of all the beauty
so be love
be the most surprising love
that anyone has ever seen
’cause there are people like me
who can’t get the slump
from her shoulders
or the sadness
from her eyes
so be love
for the people who can’t
you already have the answers
just as god is within
so be god from within
the best way to predict the future
is to create it within yourself
so be love
be the kind of love
walking down the street
pulling music from your pockets
and throwing it like candy to strangers
the kind
that makes evil wilt
that makes frowns sing
that changes you
into the person
most likely to be contagious
so be love
be the biggest love you could ever be
like trying to hug all the poems
you ever felt inspired by
and changing the world
into a single beating heart
a piece of art so big
even aliens would land
just to thaw out
so be love
I am trying to tell you
not to end
so be love
be the answer inside yourself
be love
—
I’m doing okay. And I mean okay in the fact that my outlets for my inner thoughts are still working healthy. It’s you that I worry about. More than I think you realize.
But it’s not a contest. Then again, I want my hunches to be wrong. Bad psychic, no cookie.
Tomorrow’s the last day of the first month. And I get the feeling I may have to do some spelling on Wednesday for Imbolc. And I don’t mean words. If you want me to do something, let me know by then so I can gather the necessary materials.
I really don’t feel like saying much else.
he tells me
that every time I speak
truth comes out of my mouth
and the only thing I can think of
is how the mice
used to scratch the walls
inside my childhood home
how I now associate primary colors
with my family:
blue for my brother
green for me
yellow for my parents
brown for family dinners
and the truth is
I used to build forts in my room
tacked up sheets to make tents
to hide behind closed doors
and have the best conversations
with myself
I was a bad b-girl
standing almost triumphant
on a flattened cardboard box
it was like my brother’s pop-and-locks
were the top notch role models
and the truth is
I probably would have had better lyrics at 5 years old
than the explanations
I try to make these days in rhyme
or something like rhyme
or something like the intertia
of inserted memories
that never really existed
I don’t want to make something up
just to prove something
I want to be
just to be
to do
just to do
no thoughts
just action
in this moment right now
no more thinking
no more thinking that reality has to be fixed
that the only reason
I hate myself now
is knowing
that my fear
broke somebody’s heart
that that pulse is out there
and he’ll forgive me
but the truth is
I have to forgive myself
’cause I’ve done wrong
even if it didn’t seem that wrong
at the time
but I know what I did
and memory
is there to teach us better
and the sun’s never set on my anger
but it has set
on my silence
letting his voice fade in phone cackle
shackled to a vision
I know will never come true
and my 5 year old self
would say go write a story
’cause the characters won’t leave you lonely
but the truth is
yellow is the color of death
green is the color of my changes
brown is the color
of the spot on the carpet
where mom didn’t wake
and blue will always be the color
of my father’s eyes
pleading to me when he couldn’t speak
’cause the truth is
I only give myself away
’cause nobody else is gonna do it
I only speak truth
’cause that’s what they taught me
’cause I got nothing to lose
when I say I love you
and that is truth
that is a yellow post-it note
stuck to my chest
saying
note to self:
I love you
—
I create my own soap operas in my head. I’m really good at that. Though, seriously, I am wondering why people are popping up around me again. There’s something I’m supposed to be paying attention to right now. I mean, I don’t really feel like I did at 17. Though I feel bored enough to put myself in a dumb depressed stupor.
I’m not depressed. Not really. I’m just restless. But something’s moving.
I really think I want some random boy to sing The Postal Service to me, particularly “Brand New Colony.”
A laugh is always good at 6:30 in the morning.
So I’m spending my Friday night at home, working on a couple of poems, downloading some Cure, Police, and Depeche Mode. Yeah, that kind of night.
I’m still pondering running into somebody over the weekend. I don’t think he follows into the realm of ex, since we didn’t really date. There was only one encounter at his apartment when I was 17, my first experience in anything at all. I guess you could’ve called it losing my mental virginity, but that’s a real crap thing to say. Anyway, he’s almost fully gray-haired now, which is making me feel like I really am younger than I am. Not that that’s anything new. How old is he now? He’ll be 34 this year, that’s right, he was 24 when it happened. And I wondered when I was 24 how anyone could have any interest in 17 year olds. Then again, when you’re a guy, it’s a different story, I suppose.
I’ve been sleeping a lot. I don’t ever feel caught up, though.
And I’ve been looking through the old archives. It’s funny how a year changes things around.
I have a wish for next month. I’ve been getting dangerous with my wishes lately. The old power’s back again. And of course I’m not gonna tell, then they won’t happen. Yeesh.
But I might be able to do something for you, if you ask nicely.
Astrid is a georgeous baby. It’s too bad his mother’s an idiot.
Yes. Bed.
I have all these lines for poems but no poem. What the fuck, mate.
There are so many stories I want to hear.
I have become adept at waiting for the moments to ask questions.
My coworker Angela gave me a jar full of homemade green chunky salsa. The kind of salsa full of garlic that bites, not full of chilies that melt shit. To say that it’s good is understating things just a bit.
I’m finding that I’m able to explain behaviour lately that’s not mine. Not justifying, necessarily, but at least clarifying what I see as a girl on a social level, and as an intuitive human on a different level altogether. I’ve done that more times than I care to count.
Then again, I am friends with so many people that it makes it difficult to actually flirt with guys that I find attractive. In my case, I’ll probably never seem him again, but such is life for this Irish girl.
Even if the song’s depressing, Damien Rice songs make me smile.
I printed the manuscript. And I realized there’s so much that could be changed with it. But I feel like I really need someone else’s notes on it. I feel like, even though I’ve had time away from it to stop thinking, looking at the actual manuscript I’m thinking of changes. But I feel like I need another voice. We’ll see.
Right now, I like having a schedule, like feeling important in some way, but I’d rather have deadlines.
There’ve been things going on, but nothing I feel so pushed into writing about. At least, not in public.
I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Er, today. In 9 hours.
