there's that poem, the one i wrote inside of ana's birthday present... it's like, "there will be no more inception than there is now..." blah blah blah...
and what am i trying to say except for that things can only get better, things can only get worse.
i'm so tired, have forgotten to eat for days. i want to curl up under a blanket with myself and have that be enough and not be lonely.

the kids are alright

ana and i watched this movie today and it was painful in its perfectly rendered awkwardness, in its display of what adult life holds, the difficultly of love. we both got a little bit teary. what is it to love someone when all you want is to not feel so alone? what is it to care for someone when all you want is laughter? what is it to trust someone when all you have is faith? what is it to go forward when all you have is the past? what is it to believe in god when all you have is earthly? how can we make our way forward?

instead of messaging you

senior year. full ib. applying to ten colleges. multivaribale calculus/linear algebra at ub. snowy cold weather. learning to be a person. it's a hell of a lot to do. that's how i do.

look,
i've actually applied to college, sent a line with shinny promises of the past into my future. the line is out there, slack still, but just fresh, just new, and the sky is huge and there are only hopes of a day fishing. there isn't any dealing with the fish, little preference to what fish is caught, to what will be done, and idea of the fish is still an abstraction, hidden under the murky water of lake erie or the pudget sound.
look,
there i am, being the fisher man, looking at the sky, no nerves, not yet, about what i'll catch or what it will taste like or if i'll catch anything at all...
but look,
here i am will weary eyes and more lines to cast into what may or may not become my future in this more or less certain world with all these things that i don't know, with all these things that i might not want to know, and all these emotional blog postings

find

between the backs of my ears and my head, in little fold, right there, dead and peeling skin, and not much else.

what else is that, what poetry can be made from the forever peeling skin behind my ears, except that it is a little bit like dandruff and dandruff sometimes like snow and none of this is what i want to be saying at all.

don't stop belevin'

i'm sitting in the bathroom avoiding my parents and listening to journey's "don't stop believin'" on repeat. this song reminds me of being in iowa this summer. it reminds me of all the boys (all twenty of them) getting onto the stage and belting it out, they couldn't remember the words and so the consulars were prompting them from the back. it was maybe the best part of the entire talent show, but not because they were particularly good at singing, rather it was the feeling of exuberance that was radiated off of the stage.

(this is nonsense. i am stuck writing in semi-formal college essay style prose, watch, i won't drop the f-bomb once this entire post.)

some days have been really good. today was a good day. we got take out and ate in bed and watched nick and norah's infinite playlist and played monopoly. also it snowed.

(there, that was a run on sentence, i am returning to my normal "voice.")

what else is there to say. i've been having bad days too, doing shoulder stands (yoga thing) as a way to break out of yucky thought behavior patterns, not writing enough, pushing thoughts of what i want to do off to the side as i struggle to attempt to finish college stuff, and declaring that i hate holidays.

(and that will be all, because i'm not sure that i have the energy to pull in the lyrics of "don't stop believin'" so that they apply to my life. so that i can talk about how scary it is, and how days feel really very long, and how my future, seems somehow out of my control, and how all of this with the winter nights starting is enough to make me feel very sad, and how here sitting in the cold i can only remember that today was a good day, and that other days were good days, and only remember all those kids on the stage singing, telling me, telling us, with help from the back, "don't stop believin.'")

if/when

walk in the dark
return home to a room with a big rug
and find a fridge full of greek yogurt
a bed with a soft comforter
and a cat that doesn't leave fur everywhere
also a piano for you
a nice screen to type onto
a printer
lots of time and motivation to write.
big windows.
radiators.
wood floors.
clean cloths.
ect.

how does one make their life int0 what they want it to be? how does one draw out the path to walk on, how do they stick to it? how do they get out of bed when it's snowing? how does one find their mittens? how does one keep all the pieces together, so it is a home and not a house filled with stuff? a family and not people they live with?

or the real question is, how do i do those things? when will i learn?

can't find

the quote in the book or on the internet, the pair of tights without the holes, or any of the million other things i needed to make a day run smoothly, like a good attitude.

"Hot and dangerous
If you’re one of us, then roll with us
‘Cause we make the hipsters fall in love
And we’ve got hot-pants on enough
And yes of course because we’re running this town just like a club
And no, you don’t wanna mess with us
Got Jesus on my necklace

I’ve got that glitter on my eyes
Stockings ripped all up the side
Looking sick and sexy-fied
So let’s go-o-o (Let’s go!)

CHORUS:
Tonight we’re going hard
Just like the world is ours
We’re tearin’ it apart
You know we’re superstars
We are who we are!

We’re dancing like we’re dumb
Our bodies go numb
We’ll be forever young
You know we’re superstars
We are who we are!"

it's true that i am writing a story inspired by ke$ha and thus neglecting this blog.

i can't even think of what to write about. my brain is too full up with pointless thoughts that need to be thought, and with love that is too sweet to be written down, to be posted on the internet. so what is left, if there is no talking about the possible interviews, the deadlines, the choices, and no over sharing, not today, anyway.

what is left is the bike ride, the glory of the trees, my mother's constant annoyance at me, the song they played today at school, over the constant music system that sounded really good, the boredom or excitement of this year.

gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw

me and you and time

i said that i want this year to be over. actually, i want this year to last forever. for sitting in the sunny hallway listening to jazz to last forever. i want that view of the city forever.

maybe i'm not being clear enough. the issue is that there is too much to do, that i feel torn by having to choose between homework and friends and clubs and writing and reading and biking and family and church and my own sanity is at stake here. won't you listen to me? earth slow down. give me time to make that essay as perfect as a million years could make it. a stone rounded by water and sand and sun.

not really, there will be new views, new sunny hallways, new days full of love and work and magic.

i saw the bottle of wine on the table and wanted to drink it, read the problem three times through and couldn’t understand, wonder if i’ll ever be able to know, if i will be able to create the life that i want when i’m not sure what that means. i didn’t like all the drinking, camping, i would have been scared that the forest would burn down if it hadn’t been raining so hard. i like the sound of the rain, reminds me of where ever home is, being in my grandparents house with the wood stove and tv on. that doesn’t feel like home anymore. or i haven’t been there forever. that’s part of what makes me sad the not knowing where home is, the thinking that you are my home and that your family is my family before realizing that that is probably not true, that we will probably not get married. think that home should be forever, that something should be forever, and then realizing that there is nothing forever except my life will be my forever, that the only thing i will be able to compare myself to is myself, but who am i, and what am i good for, and how does one know one’s self without a context?

i freaked out at math tonight. worse than before, with tears, so that everyone noticed, not really, i cried in the bathroom, but people noticed.

i don't want to work anymore, i just want to lay in bed, to go outside and walk around and write poetry and eat in the rain. i want to be more alive, i want to dance in the dark, i want to write on the walls and jump into dumpsters.

whatever. when i feel so sad, what is there to do? the only thing to do is to help other people. that seems to be the thing that helps, getting out of my own head, stop being so self centered and greedy crying in the bathroom, wasting my scholarship.

i'd been updating my blog with astounding frequency. posts of passion and poetry, and then school started. and now my soul is being drained out into a petri dish, examined closely for all the wrong things.

what my body is trying to do in a day, in a week, is not what i want to do in a day or a week. school is not agreeing with me.

but actually, school is agreeing with me. being busy fills me up with fluff, fills me up so the moody moods can't come around, so that i don't get stuck in my head worrying about all of this all the time.

and so i have not been updating this blog with astounding frequency, but i'm still here, i swear.

really good and powerful

school started, see. and i'm a senior, see. which i would like to pretend isn't a big deal, like i'm not impressed with myself, but i'm totally impressed with myself, see. totally scared, see. because this is the last year that i know anything about. this is the last year where my life depends on my parents, the last year where school is obligatory. and so it's exciting. exciting to get to have this last year, exciting to have a future ahead of me. but it's also really scary, really weird.

and then we went to see this movie my aunt produced. it was in a big theater with a red carpet outside. like, it was like, legit. it was like a movie, a documentary about finance, about the economic blow up. about all the things that happened, all the people. all the choices that put us here. that put us here with the high unemployment rate, with the people who lost their homes. the movie was sick. it showed how systematic the crisis was. how choices exist within world that supports those choices, that system of thinking.

and then there i was, sitting there, and it's all bad, it's like really bad news. about how obama's not really our savior, about how we got fucked over. we being most of us, those of us who are not them. and i'm sitting there thinking about how much that stuff sucks, about how i have to be the other half, thinking about how i have to work hard so i can be really good and powerful, while those men are being really bad and powerful. about how i have to be intentional, about how i can't just have fun, about how i can have fun, but how i have to be good, about how i have to be moral, about how i might never get the second home i joke about.

i am the bridge builder who never forgets that you said we would talk

it's all thundery. i was in the bath and it was flash!boom! and so i jumped up and grabbed a towel.

this is totally beside the point, that sentence, it is written in a happy voice and i am not quite in a happy mood. i'm in a moody mood. i've been in a moody mood. i'd like to blame it on school being about to start but it's not really that.

i'm really sleepy. i haven't been sleeping. going to bed late and then waking up early. maybe i need curtains, may i need to chill out.

i get so scared. where i can see the future lined up in front of me. each moment and choice slipping into the next. there can't possibly be free will. what happens in my brain determines how i am typing before i am totally aware. i read that somewhere. that brain scans show choices are made before we know that we've made them. and so, if we still believe we are choosing, once our choice is made, then are we deciding at all? did we just decide before? does it even work like that?

i'm waiting for a phone call, i'll probably end up calling first. saying "goodnight" for forty five minutes. maybe two hours. that's what always happens. i'm the bridge builder who never forgets that you said we would talk.

it's a pattern of behavior more than a choice. like, i get all stuck. stuck in the mood, or stuck on the idea, and then, even if i want to i can't get out. sometimes i might think, "if you don't call, i wouldn't call first..." but then i will, i will always call first.

that seems beside the point. there is thunder and lighting, and so i lay in my bed and hang on to the computer. there is school tomorrow and so i think softly about needing to choose cloths, i think softly about how it will be alright.

not to you

all the last secrets. the things i say only because i am scared, only because i suddenly have courage, only because i want to believe that i can create magic. that i can rub my hands together hard enough, soft enough and magic will happen. will fall down on us like promises. that this year, will not be like last year, that next year, will be something different again. that moving, this constant moving into the future will bring us somewhere excellent and not just to our deaths.

i want to love you, and again not just you, because i want to love you in the most complete and the most pure way. like i want to tell you something, something that i can't even say to myself. something about being alive, or being about to die. we are all going to die, and where do we feel like we belong, and how do we live lifes that we can feel okay about. excellent about?

this is not to you. this is not to the other you, all the other yous, that i like to pretend don't exist. all the half loves, the times that never happened. all those phone calls, those expectant hearts being broken. there is nothing left. the time i had a crush on a boy i'd never met because he was a boy. the pure love of moments. i am not in love with you, i am in love with those times when i feel like i know you, when i feel like you know me. when i feel like we are all wrapped up together, and that we are flying, again.

what does it mean to be a person? what does it mean to be a friend? to be a poet? to be a neighbor? to walk on the wild side? what does it mean to be a good person? what does it mean to be a bad person? what does it mean to try? what does it mean to work? what does it mean to have fun? what does it mean to dance?

this one time i went to a dance and danced. got so sweaty that my glasses fogged up. later, a boy told my date that we hadn't been dancing, that we'd been convulsing. convulsing had been really fun.

what does it mean to be cool? to be smart? to be good at making art? what does it mean to be funny? to remember all the words to a song? what does it mean to be hated? to be loved? to not care anymore? what does it mean to care too much? to care too little? to belittle? what does it mean to be short? to be a girl?

i'm jealous of the boys i know. jealous that they are able to leave at night and walk around. that they, in their tall boy bodies are allowed out at night, are deemed safe. that i am locked up, kept safe, going crazy in my head.

what does it mean to be crazy? what does it mean to be sane? what does it mean that i got through another day? another month? another year?

the honey blossom, it's blooming again.

it finally rained today, and i had a rain jacket but you got all wet. we cuddled in my bed and read the borrowers. it's a good a book, or a weird book. i like being read to. i like being sung to. i could sleep forever, but i don't want to die. not yet. not now.

it was hot, yesterday, and i was walking through the suburbs, walking through a golf course. anyway, it was hot and i was moving my arms from my elbows, feeling blood in the tips of my fingers, feeling blood from the tips of my fingers rushing away, rushing towards the rest of me. over and over.

i am tired, in that way where you feel almost dead, in that way where if i had things i had to do i could keep going for hours, but i don't so i won't. so i lay here. i want to find something completely consuming. i want to be eaten up and disappear. eaten by school or by a life. disappear into the mass of humanity or into some great cause.

we think about standing out, about being visable and huge. about being a writer, and being excellent for that. that was what i was raised to admire, or what we are all raised to admire. but all the other people too, all the little bits that are pieces.

i don't want to care about the way the blood feels in my hands. i don't want to think about how much i am worrying and then proceed to worry about that. i don't want to have a body or a self. does being self-less help? or is being self-less in that way end up being selfish? will there ever be enough stimulus to allow me to ignore the way the blood feels in my hands? should i be able to ignore the way the blood feels in my hands and the way thoughts feel in my chest or should i somehow be able to feel them and be okay with them?

i babysat all afternoon, a girl i've been watching since she couldn't talk and today she said, "for instance," and i couldn't believe it. she used to think that i was cool, but now i am a pain, now she won't laugh with me. which is sad, right? which i can't take personally, right?

but anyway. i have money now. i could buy a dress! i could go out to sushi! i could buy homeopathic anxiety medicine! i could save it too. for some grand trip someday. for some grandness around the next bend. around the next afternoon trying to get six year olds to drink water and put on sunscreen. i am a really mean babysitter. i try to explain that my job is to keep her safe, try to explain the concept of inertia as a justification of why it is a good idea to ride the scooter a little bit slower but it doesn't really work.

once when she was still little i was there and there was a thunder storm. a scary one, and i explained that the clouds were friends, bumping into each other. saying "hi." i demonstrated with pillows and she believed it completely. it was basically true, and then she laughed and i put her to bed.

totally lame

i went to a show with my dad and wrote all over my hands....

"dear me,
you've been seeing a lot of bald girls today. she is looping the guitar and the keyboard. you like the way that sounds..."

and then on and on about how that sounds cool but looping in your head is not cool, how you would rather be playing the drums, be making the beat.

also about having gotten sick in iowa city.

and then you thought about how awesome "iowa" "city" would be for a knuckles tattoo.

and about that guy in iowa who sounded like garrison keillor.

and about how sometimes you want to get a freckle as a tattoo even though that is totally lame.

rode thirty miles today.

was with him when he got called a faggot, feel bad even repeating it here, like saying it is giving it more power. i laughed. like. what the fuck. like that's funny, that they think that's mean. like, that's really the worse thing they can say about you? like you like boys? like I LIKE BOYS TOO.

always convinced that people who say faggot are hating themselves more than they are hating you. convinced that those boys wearing beaters driving around in their car on this hot day they want each other. they want to be parked and laying together, not driving in the heat, keeping their bodies far apart, shouting out windows.

i am feeling on top of the world. in love and everything. this vampire weekend song came on and it sounds so sweet. let's lay here, let me read this book, the air feels nice tonight.

i feel like i'm awesome tonight, like i'm awesome and like the world is awesome, and like i and the world are going to have this great future together.

tonight the air feels good, the wind through the trees, you whispered in my ear about the wind through the trees, the wind all around the world, just for me, just for cypress.

when i say "you," i am not talking about you.

holding on like i'm a life raft, like we're drowning on the ocean and not laying on the couch.
listening to sad songs because being sad feels good.
feeling my head inside my head because i'm sleepy.
loving the grayness of today, because it is permission to do nothing, because you hate doing so many somethings.
typing this, is not typing up notes for school, is maybe a million times more important.
smelling something, smelling nothing anymore.
missing you even though you just left, since i've know you forever, since i'll call you in minute anyway.

bus ride ride

this is a blog entrie written in a word document, which seems almost wrong. can i even do it? can i even make the tone sound right? is it a mindset?

i am on the bus, i have been on the bus too long, like, i almost became convinced that i was going to the wrong place, like i'm not going where i am suppose to be going, like who am i without someone to confirm who i think i am? where am i going without you reminding me what is important, without you caring, or without us caring together.

yesterday i was on a roof, and i started thinking about jumping, about how if i jumped i would die, about how it would only be there in a moment, how if i was alone that moment might come quickly, too quickly, and then i employed the life saving technique.

remembering before it happens, something really great, a moment where the light is bright and perfect, a moment where i am happy to be alive. so that even when...

it wasn't even sadness, it was more like appathy, like a tiredness, a not wanting to have to ride the bus, a not wanting to keep trying, a "life has been good let's quit while we are ahead" sort of thing.

i don't want to apply for college.

visiting schools with my dad was the most exhasting thing i have ever done. maybe a hyperbole, but still, do you see what i'm saying? i haven't even said anything yet, what i meant was that i was imagining a million lifes for myself, what conversations would i have in this dorm room or a dorm room that looked like this? what realizations would this campus lead me to making? is it even possible to tell or is it all based on some serinipity?

i'm coughing now. i feel like shit now. like sweaty and like i should have brushed my teeth and my hair and like i shouldn't have taken the bus. like maybe i should go to sleep, like i'm taking this blog entry wildly off course, like i'm proud of myself for not freaking out right now even though i haven't the slightest idea of how i'll get home, how i'll find my way from bus station to bus station to bus stop to house to shower and bed. how i have some sort of faith now on the bus, perhaps induced by sleepyness, by shere inability to worry anymore. i would love to take a shower.

scared shit-less of moving out, of staying here. of two fights in a row, you texting your sister and me on the phone with my mom. one fight about the fair, and another about my head. it's not really about that though, it's about not wanting to call, it's about wanting to be free.

perhaps i am wasting my summer in the very best way. perhaps i am falling in love either with you or with how open the sky is. perhaps when i start to cry it has to do with being in a body, with not being in the wind. like being with you in bodies is too much work. spirits don't get driven home by their dads. spirits don't talk about brown and williams. spirits live in the moment when the radio is loud in the sun, when there is jumping and taking your sister's nail polish. spirits paint each others' nail under the big open sky. spirits don't have heads to get stuck inside of. spirits are spiritual without god, they laugh at bad jokes and never get tired or hungry or cranky.

perhaps i should learn to love the body, to learn to love the way my mind goes in cirles until it reaches the end. the way that i am able to work on a paper or a project or study for hours and hours. to get so hooked onto that i don't notice my back hurting or how bored i am. maybe i should love that my spirit is trapped inside of a body that i have control over, that nobody can take a box and capture my spirit. put it up for sale, or...

if i do end up taking pills (am i being to up front here? or is that part of the charm?) will i be the same person? will it be a hole in my head, or a damp on my spirit? will my blog posts be as good, or my studying so constructive? but really does that matter? really do i care? will i be happier under the sun, laying there, not wishing to escape the body, wishing to escape my head going in circles, over and over like i'm going crazy, like i'm already crazy?

i don't like to go to bed before my parents get home. my parents are leaving me home for days at a time, and i will stay here, glued to this screen, scared of the noises at night.

it didn't use to be an issue. back when i was little, when i was twelve and i would put myself to bed, before they returned.

this year i would get up before them, in the morning and go to school on my bike, and turn off my lights after them. having hit the books all day, having talked on the phone too long.

i'm sleepy now. i'm waiting for my dad. glued here to the safety of the internet, where there is nothing but light, there can't possibly be dark.

tender forever is by far my favorite band. in a way that i can even explain. the love for those songs resides in my chest not in my brain. it resides in the belly, in the heart.

every morning i would watch a tender forever video, after getting out of bed, before getting dressed, getting dressed is such a hassle. i'd rather stay in my pajamas and watch youtube, all day.

it doesn't work like that, instead it was my coffee. a video, a song and then being pushed into a day, into a week.

i love tender forever.

new post, new day, hot day, waiting for a phone call, waiting for a hundred phone calls, waiting for the mail, getting the mail, not getting the call, not having the gall, not being sure, not being not sure, hoping that you read this, hoping that you'll still love me in a hundred years, even when your dead in a grave next to someone else.

even though we've never been to the grave yard together, even though all i want to do with you is to check up on your uncle, take care of your dogs, be tucked into bed. i want to be married, i want to to be free, i never want to leave.

i would rather spin the bottle, i would rather, sometimes, forget. i would rather not be so hot, it is so hot. i am so tired, i want you to hold me. i want you hold me and tell me that i am not crazy, and that you do not love me. i do not want to think that you love me, i do not want to think that you love me, that i love you. that my shoes are hurting the backs of my feet, that the airconditionar is going to be the straw on the camels back, that while i'm getting cooler the world is getting warmer.

let's drive around. i like to drive in your car with you. i like to be with you. i like to feel alive. i like to feel dead. i like to lay in bed. this is to a hundred yous, to you and you and you. this about nothing. this is about me .

maybe i am actually crazy? maybe not a sane person, maybe it is my own fault, maybe you shouldn't be reading this. maybe i shouldn't write, maybe it is selfish, maybe i am being selfish running in circles in my head, maybe gatsby was being selfish falling in love with daisy. didn't he owe the world? not anything exactly, but having been there, all that time, shouldn't he do something, have more parties, supply more illegal booze?

maybe the sad music doesn't help. maybe you being across town, where the streets feel different, maybe when we met, maybe that i forget to eat.

maybe.

i am thinking about my love for this american life. about how nothing at all makes any sense when snow is blowing into your face. how snow blowing into your face makes you walk fast, how snow makes you different. not a day, but a winter makes you love meat and it makes you sleepy. it makes you want to escape or quietly die.

airpoet

my grandparents drove me here, to this airport seat, to this brightly lit room. they drove through the gray, we drove through the beige of the suburbs where all the buildings look alike.

what am i trying to say?

i am listening to the new tender forever, finding an old friend in a reformed body. the mist over the city, i think my glasses are dirty, you are looking a little bit different. i love you just the same. i miss you just the same.

sometimes when the only thing you want is to feel really alive, saying goodbye makes you cry. i didn't cry saying goodbye to lois and eric, i was trying too hard, holding my eyes opens with some sort of determination, not saying anything. almost crying hurts worse than crying.

to stop and to think about being about to get onto an airplane is fucking scary. we will hurtle through space. it is flying, it is magic.

where does one actually belong, after time finding friends in new bodies, in better shape, with different thoughts, and then you are in some magic place, or are looking for some sort of magic, are trying to chase each other back in time, finding the things that you had in common, or maybe there was never anything there. to what extent is friendship a construction? a house built of marshmallows on the beach, you just only hope it won't start raining, and then maybe now it's melted down, and rather than starting over you try to turn the knob of fluffy sugar that has dissolved anyway.

i love you still. even if it only in a memory. can i love you in the past tense? can i keep stealing that line over and over out of andrew's poem, out of my own heart.

how does time work? how does love work? how does magic work? how is your imagination different and/or the same as mine? to what extent are our imaginations shaped? to what extent is the problem not rain but different concepts of how the house has weathered time? to what extent does it being well built make a difference? to what extent can you compare friendship to marshmallows?

how are boardwalks justified? (extremely unedited writing)

i am falling asleep right now, falling to pieces, always. was on a bus for too many hours to count today, was next to someone i love too much too tell. next to the sister who isn't a sister, the friend who is more than a friend without being anything more than a friend. in the isle with m&m's and head phones and a piece of seat between us. she is on the other side of this town now, but i won't see her for a while now. neither of us belong here, we will both return to where we really live, to these lives that we are carefully crafting, painfully slowly.

she said that someone had said to focus on the task at hand, to focus on each task at hand and then a month will be over and then the year will be over and then it will be a little bit less painfully slow. and then i will be dead, not literally, but fuck, slow the fuck down. my grandpa's friend told me not to rush, he's all gray and wrinkly. i am rushing through today, getting ready to dive into this year, to hold my breath as i kick across the pool, racing my own ability to hold my breath.

but really, why? but really, maybe i should slow down, to give myself a reason to take a breath, to open my eyes. this is corny now, but really. a lake and not a pool, a beautiful tree covered hill side. something like that. something more. like maybe if there was something beautiful i would or could slow down.

then again, maybe it is in my head. like maybe if i took a breath while i was swimming across the pool, if i slowed down i would see something too. a beautiful girl adjusting her goggles, or a sliver of light promising magic.

how does one construct a life? how does one construct a building or a city? how does one put in windows so that people pause? how are boardwalks justified? how do i put aside something? how do i build my life? how is a life crafted so that it is something beautiful? something to be lived and not to be survived?

that friend is something else. lets me put my head on her lap and meow, a friend who crawled around on knees with me, who drank milk out of bowls on the floor with me, a friend who played "cat" with me. she is something else. she is something besides that, a friend who knows with me, a friend who talked about floor plans with me, a friend who talked about building a commune with me, an eco friendly commune when we were ten. she hasn't really changed, we still talk about building, on the bus about living. on the bus about days and schools and houses and parents and grandparents and broken hearts and harry potter and farting. like all that goes together, as we rush on the bus, through the tunnel of free way, through the day that was today, waiting to get off to finally go pee.

multivarible

we will learn it all over again, how all the pieces fit together, how it is not y=x, how it is a million times more complicated then that. how there is still a shape, how the equation still makes a shape, how the math all breaks down. how we are the limit or a sum of infinite parts.

this is not the place where i live

to return home each year, to find a place the same, to find things different. everyone getting closer to dying, or watching a flower grow, one picture a day. all in slow motion, all moving too fast. to be in a beautiful house, to be with beautiful friends. to be sleepy. to be done. to be ready. to be tired of talking. to be thrilled with light. to want to go, to want to stay. to return home each year to find that it is less your home. to return home each year to find it the same, to find you're different.

a new way of trying

trying something new, or a new way of trying. let's try to be happy. let's make that the goal rather than something else. let's not try to prove anything, even to keep promises. let's try to be a good friend, since being a good friend makes us happy. let's try to up date our blog with astounding regularity and let's try to get internet famous using raw emotional blog posts as our fuel. let's try to jump off the high dive without holding our breath, let's try to scream with joy and have it be the right type of behavior in the moment. let's try to stay alive knowing that the possibility of death or destruction only makes us more alive. let's not shy away from holding hands or saying what we think. let's not worry so much, let's sneak in and out, and jump high and fall down sometimes. let's write on our hands all the time because we are writers and writing is an action and not some far off thing we do in the clouds, and sometimes we don't have paper. we would be sad if we lost our hands, unable to grope in the dark we would be reduced to something else, groping with our feet, a new way of trying.

Fireflies

Riding home there are bugs all around all the lights. I miss the place where bugs don't need lights to glow. I miss the place where bugs just glow. I wonder why bugs cluster to the light. I wonder why they don't cluster to the sun. A million bugs flying to one point. At what point would the air get too thin? When would they die and fall back down? What would happen then, all the bugs falling down? A storm of bug bodies. I miss bugs that glow all alone. The bugs that glow all together.

I listened to this Ted Talk once, about fireflies that can glow all together. One giant mating call on the bank of a river. How in unison they glow, how it is magic or science or math. And maybe it's all the same, but I miss the place where the bugs glow without light.

we laugh like crazy for no reason at all. feel bloated from eating too much. check our phones to see if you've texted back. watch mean girls and i am thinking only of all the ways that it is a poorly constructed story. it is not a day, but that is all that i did today, until they pulled up because her grandmother has fallen. a hug in the dark, it is always dark at night. it is never dark, there are streetlights everywhere. 

it felt deep in detroit

i will walk in the airport convinced that from here on it is simply falling action, falling to my death, until there is the realization that perhaps life is a novel and not a short story. and this was a chapter. it felt deep in detroit on the moving walkway.

stumbling now

of who i want to be in theory and who i want to be in actuality. the discrepancy is unpleasant but i feel like the word unpleasant is too contained to match of the feeling of being ripped between two worlds or maybe more.

maybe it could have worked if we could live in one place, if we could lay in bed until we were ready to get up and didn't spend our time thinking about the places we ought to go but the places we want to go.

of what it is in theory to be young and what it means to live with the years yet to come weighing down instead of standing on the years already lived proud or ashamed i'm not sure that it matters. the expectation is crushing, carrying something heavy or something light, walking through the night.

sometimes i am sure of something. some moment where i am sure or not so sure that everything is not the same. when i feel like i know things in my gut instead of in my head i feel like my gut is falling out. like the gut is too heavy for the body and is dragging on the ground, the redness of my imagined gut getting dirty, like an open wound or something.

like to know is to be open to the world, to be ready to get dirty and infected, to be ready to die or to be ready to live. mumbling now.

of course there is a more important word document open. of course i am wasting time. of course ke$ha almost makes me cry when she comes up on my pandora, of course i cried in the bathroom, kneeling on the floor. of course it all reminds me of you. if course i'm not sure. of course you don't read my blog. of course i am a girl incapable of making choices or not being tired. of course i write long rambling stories about forgiveness. of course i want to try again. of course i want to stop trying and start laying in bed. of course i'd rather that we not go anywhere and that our lives be contained in a snow globe. of course we would blow up the snow globe, of course there is no choice in any of this. of course i love you.

I am in Iowa City

Tonight was something that I could care about. Or something. It was the way that I want things to be forever, except for the interrupting phone call that made me feel sick and the possibility that forever is too long for things to be fun. As though or as if a moment catching fireflies (a shockingly easy task) could get boring after a life time. Could a moment be a lifetime and/or in what ways is a lifetime a moment? The walks home in the dark. The ones where voices are flying and your feet are flying and the air is perfect. Could your life be a walk home in the dark and/or is your life walking home in the dark? Although that implies a final resting place, a bed, and a lamp, and the ability to make cheesy pasta while listening to the radio—I don’t believe in Heaven but walking towards a hole in the ground is not fun at all, as though or as if having the goal of home actually changes the air on your skin and your feet on the warm cement, and the sound of your friend’s voice.

i feel asleep in a wet shirt today. today i have no motivation. today my whole school smelled like shit from the poorly ventilated chemistry lab. i don't know what to tell you. i want to know everything. or nothing at all. i feel like a big kid but don't feel like telling the internet all my secrets. i don't give a shit what you know about me. today while i was riding my bike i thought about how i have no sense of privacy. it's the internet, or something. today i don't care. i feel asleep in a wet shirt today.

possibility.

my computer screen is framed with sticky notes reminding me of all the things i have to do before i leave for iowa. they are taking tests and marching in parades and finding dresses. on the top is the budda that mr. cochrane gave to me and the box of helpful hints that jax gave me today. i had to promise her something to get the box. i promised her that i would write a book by the time i'm twenty six, and then my mom and i had a conversation about me having a baby by the age of twenty seven.

all the posts here are about the same thing. WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO WITH MYSELF? HOW DO I LIVE SO THAT I AM HAPPY AND SO THAT MY LIFE MEANS SOMETHING.

this isn't poetry. this is shouting into the dark. this is asking for advice that no one can give me.

the past and the future converge constantly at the point called now, and now it's now and there is too much now. too much future and not enough now, because the now is seen only as a way to get to the next part and the next part is abstract. who the fuck knows.

watching the five year olds i see that their experience is no different from this experience, and that what they feel is just the same as what i feel. and then with this, i can guess that there will never really be new feelings, just new routes, and more complexity. i have felt all the simple feelings, and then some combinations.

what is the use in marching forward into the forever. if i have already felt most everything there is to feel?

and i don't know what i want to do. not just now, but forever. i want (HERE) to be big and make big things. the fireworks. there is defiantly something wrong. something wrong? where either i'll be up ^ or way down



HERE, and feeling like shit. or as if there are only two settings on the cypress machine. obsessed with bad things, or obsessed with good things. none of it is any fun.

i want you to hold me. and make me feel like i'm HERE.