"I felt the Lord begin, to peel off all my skin."
original by Grace Adams
words by Manchester Orchestra
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Lightweight
Today I’m not a nurse.
Today, I’m not a runner.
Today I’m not a housemate,
I’m not a grown up,
I’m not a gardener.
Today I’ve never been in love.
And today I’ve never broken a bone,
or been confused,
or put myself second.
Today I have nowhere to be.
I have nowhere I’ve gone.
I have nowhere I’m going.
Today I am a very young girl.
And being alone in silence,
With the beginnings of a fading sun outside my bay window,
Seems simple, not lonely.
Seems fresh, not sour.
Today I have nothing on my agenda:
just to be.
4am.
Nothing is good enough:
Not at 4am.
Not when you’re tuning yourself off in favor of getting it done.
Not when the insurmountable tomorrow is what you know you’ll wake up to.
Nothing is good enough:
Not my body,
Not my brains,
Not my spirit,
Not my past,
My wits
My humor
My quality.
Nothing is good enough.
Not even you, anymore.
Not even sleep, at 4am, is good enough.
So as I lay me down to sleep,
I’ll hate you
Like I hate me
And I’ll hate every moment until I’m unconscious.
And when the alarm tears me awake in the morning,
I’ll realize that 4am is a very unholy place to be.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Dreams
She awoke in the morning with the vague feeling of adventure and heartache. She rolled onto her stomach and breathed in heavily, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes and subsequently letting them slide through her hair. It was a clumsy attempt to remove it from her face, but her fingers caught in the tangles and she brushed it aside as the beginnings of one large dread. She slid her bare feet over the edge of her bed, and their impact with the cold hard floor brought her mostly back to life. She plodded off to the shower, robe in hand.
The water ran over her shoulders and it wasn’t until it started to turn icy that she realized how long she’d been standing there. Something felt thick around her. She felt as though there was a heavy fog in her mind. She thought hard. There was something on the edge of her memory.
She slipped her purple sweater over her shoulders and as she began to slide the last button into place at her neck, she looked at its reflection in the mirror. She stopped and stared at it. Something was just barely eluding her. She rolled the button between her fingers for a moment, trying to make the fog lift. There was something she had dreamed. Something that she didn’t want to forget.
She took her toast out of the toaster, buttered it, set it on the table, took a mug from the cupboard , poured herself coffee, began to spoon in sugar—a flash—she set the mug down abruptly. It spilled light brown on the kitchen counter. She was sure of it. There was something she had forgotten. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and thought hard. Fleeting memories left their quick impressions upon her mind, but she couldn’t grasp it: not anything concrete.
She spent a moment staring at the jar of sugar then drank her coffee and ate her toast quickly before climbing in her car to drive to work. She stayed in the office from eight to five and then went home. She fed her dog. She made dinner. She went for a walk. That week she got promoted. The next month she bought a house. The next year she completed her garden. She worked and cooked and gardened and walked her dog and she forgot. She forgot that there was a time in which she had a dream.
*
She had dreamed one night that she had not put work first. That she had not gone straight home every evening. She dreamed that she had indulged in life and bought into its loveliness. That she never got promoted or bought a house. She dreamed that her heart and door were always open and that she had laughed at the consequences. That a shiny piece of jewelry had been placed on her left hand.
She dreamed that she had not lived life alone.
And as the early morning beams had wrapped themselves around her and began to pull her back to reality, she clung to her dream. She clung to the memories of laughter ringing across a lake, burning dinners, and late bills. She basked in the glory of inside jokes, themed gifts, and discrete communication. She seared into her memory what it was like to never laugh or scream alone, to have a human being as your right arm, to be one flesh.
They both knew she was slipping away and they both knew their glory days were coming to an end, and as the memories of a life lived began to blur into early morning light, she held onto him and told herself: “Don’t forget, don’t forget, don’t forget. It was all worth remembering. Don’t forget! Don’t forget there was something worth remembering!”
*
She awoke in the morning with the vague feeling of adventure and heartache. But there is a reason ideals are called dreams, and life, reality.
The water ran over her shoulders and it wasn’t until it started to turn icy that she realized how long she’d been standing there. Something felt thick around her. She felt as though there was a heavy fog in her mind. She thought hard. There was something on the edge of her memory.
She slipped her purple sweater over her shoulders and as she began to slide the last button into place at her neck, she looked at its reflection in the mirror. She stopped and stared at it. Something was just barely eluding her. She rolled the button between her fingers for a moment, trying to make the fog lift. There was something she had dreamed. Something that she didn’t want to forget.
She took her toast out of the toaster, buttered it, set it on the table, took a mug from the cupboard , poured herself coffee, began to spoon in sugar—a flash—she set the mug down abruptly. It spilled light brown on the kitchen counter. She was sure of it. There was something she had forgotten. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and thought hard. Fleeting memories left their quick impressions upon her mind, but she couldn’t grasp it: not anything concrete.
She spent a moment staring at the jar of sugar then drank her coffee and ate her toast quickly before climbing in her car to drive to work. She stayed in the office from eight to five and then went home. She fed her dog. She made dinner. She went for a walk. That week she got promoted. The next month she bought a house. The next year she completed her garden. She worked and cooked and gardened and walked her dog and she forgot. She forgot that there was a time in which she had a dream.
*
She had dreamed one night that she had not put work first. That she had not gone straight home every evening. She dreamed that she had indulged in life and bought into its loveliness. That she never got promoted or bought a house. She dreamed that her heart and door were always open and that she had laughed at the consequences. That a shiny piece of jewelry had been placed on her left hand.
She dreamed that she had not lived life alone.
And as the early morning beams had wrapped themselves around her and began to pull her back to reality, she clung to her dream. She clung to the memories of laughter ringing across a lake, burning dinners, and late bills. She basked in the glory of inside jokes, themed gifts, and discrete communication. She seared into her memory what it was like to never laugh or scream alone, to have a human being as your right arm, to be one flesh.
They both knew she was slipping away and they both knew their glory days were coming to an end, and as the memories of a life lived began to blur into early morning light, she held onto him and told herself: “Don’t forget, don’t forget, don’t forget. It was all worth remembering. Don’t forget! Don’t forget there was something worth remembering!”
*
She awoke in the morning with the vague feeling of adventure and heartache. But there is a reason ideals are called dreams, and life, reality.
Monday, December 19, 2011
A Study In Silence
I've been on a journey for the last twenty years and I've learned a lot in that time. I have a story that I'm not ashamed of, though it's filled with shameful things, and knowledge that is worthy to be shared, though more than anything I've learned how little wisdom I really have. I'm passionate about where I've come from, but it's brought me to where I am now and the person I've been molded into is one that needs to change. I look at myself and I see who I am:
I have a weak sense of family loyalty, I do not miss people when they leave, my friendship is conditional, I have a lazy and unmotivated disposition, I succumb to my desires over upholding what is good, I look down on marriage and have no desire for such a thing in my life, I see men as chauvinists and women as pathetic, I view people as being frivolous, immature, unwise, conditional and obnoxious, and I find myself hating others for the sames things that have developed in myself. An apathy towards others has taken hold of me and it has stemmed, for the most part, from the more recent years of my twenty year journey.
But anomalies keep popping up. People keep demonstrating qualities which I cannot explain. They show mercy where I've seen only justice as an answer. They show loyalty where I see none being deserved. They give of themselves expecting nothing in return. They forgive and forget. They show a courage and perseverance toward others that has no logic behind int. There is nothing to make sense of it. I want to make sense of it. I want to understand what they understand and know what they know.
I finished reading my favorite book today, The Neverending Story by Michael Ende, and it traces the journey of a young boy in his journey toward deeper understanding. He succumbs to fear and is overtaken by his inadequacy, he claims power and leadership for himself, finds glory, is overtaken by his weaknesses, is overtaken by total depravity and evil, lives in shame, realizes that he must go back to nothing and start from scratch and it is all in order for him to become who he was made to be. He does all of this through wishes: by making them consciously and unconsciously and ultimately realizing that what he is lacking and what he is wishing for is love.
Is that not how many great stories go? A character falls into complete depravity and goes on a journey for change? I keep encountering these stories. Stories in which the characters embark on a journey which leads them instead of them leading the journey, and the end result always has something to do with love.
I think it's in us. I think we know how the Great Story goes and for all of us who feel that irresistible need to tell stories, it comes out in what we write. You don't need to know the Great Story to tell it: it's innate. It's worked into our own lives and into our own actions. It's worked into the very foundation of what we're made of. It once worked its way into a story I wrote in which a young man took off on his adventure not knowing where to go, but in following a black cat was led through thick and thin until he was able to find his lost friend, and in doing so prove that he loved her.
I have done a lot of talking in the past. I have done a lot of proclaiming my wisdom and enacting change in my life. I have done a lot of decision making and analyzing. I have done a lot of teaching. But I have learned how much I don't know and I have reflected on how far I've fallen: I know that I've been put on a more recent journey down a path that I have merely crawled down until now. I've known since August that God has intended for me to begin a relationship with him from rock bottom. To let go of everything I've ever built my understanding of him upon and start from scratch. It is time for me to let go of control and follow. As in the Neverending Story, it is a journey to the Water of Life with love at it's end.
I know I need to be silent. And I know I need to write. So here this is: a documentation of the beginning of this journey. Instead of proclaiming I will be listening. Instead of leading I will be following. I don't know how to get where I'm going but I do know that the purpose is to discover and form a relationship with a higher power that does exist, and find love: whatever that means. In the Bible between the Old and New Testament's there is a period called the, "400 years of silence," in which nothing was written and we don't know what was happening. There is a 400 year gap between the writings that connect the Old and New Testament's and I feel like I'm at a cross road that requires a great silence as well.
I'll still be honest, but not like before. This is a documentation through storytelling. Stories based on myself, based on others, stories I've made up, and stories that have already been told. It's a documentation of my "400 years of silence" and an honest expression of what is happening and what I am learning through it. We've always learned through stories and passed down our beliefs through storytelling, and sometimes they've been literal and sometimes they've been metaphorical, and just the same, you will find both here.
This time there is no time limit and there is no quota to meet: just writing based on a true story. I'm off to follow my black cat...
I have a weak sense of family loyalty, I do not miss people when they leave, my friendship is conditional, I have a lazy and unmotivated disposition, I succumb to my desires over upholding what is good, I look down on marriage and have no desire for such a thing in my life, I see men as chauvinists and women as pathetic, I view people as being frivolous, immature, unwise, conditional and obnoxious, and I find myself hating others for the sames things that have developed in myself. An apathy towards others has taken hold of me and it has stemmed, for the most part, from the more recent years of my twenty year journey.
But anomalies keep popping up. People keep demonstrating qualities which I cannot explain. They show mercy where I've seen only justice as an answer. They show loyalty where I see none being deserved. They give of themselves expecting nothing in return. They forgive and forget. They show a courage and perseverance toward others that has no logic behind int. There is nothing to make sense of it. I want to make sense of it. I want to understand what they understand and know what they know.
I finished reading my favorite book today, The Neverending Story by Michael Ende, and it traces the journey of a young boy in his journey toward deeper understanding. He succumbs to fear and is overtaken by his inadequacy, he claims power and leadership for himself, finds glory, is overtaken by his weaknesses, is overtaken by total depravity and evil, lives in shame, realizes that he must go back to nothing and start from scratch and it is all in order for him to become who he was made to be. He does all of this through wishes: by making them consciously and unconsciously and ultimately realizing that what he is lacking and what he is wishing for is love.
Is that not how many great stories go? A character falls into complete depravity and goes on a journey for change? I keep encountering these stories. Stories in which the characters embark on a journey which leads them instead of them leading the journey, and the end result always has something to do with love.
I think it's in us. I think we know how the Great Story goes and for all of us who feel that irresistible need to tell stories, it comes out in what we write. You don't need to know the Great Story to tell it: it's innate. It's worked into our own lives and into our own actions. It's worked into the very foundation of what we're made of. It once worked its way into a story I wrote in which a young man took off on his adventure not knowing where to go, but in following a black cat was led through thick and thin until he was able to find his lost friend, and in doing so prove that he loved her.
I have done a lot of talking in the past. I have done a lot of proclaiming my wisdom and enacting change in my life. I have done a lot of decision making and analyzing. I have done a lot of teaching. But I have learned how much I don't know and I have reflected on how far I've fallen: I know that I've been put on a more recent journey down a path that I have merely crawled down until now. I've known since August that God has intended for me to begin a relationship with him from rock bottom. To let go of everything I've ever built my understanding of him upon and start from scratch. It is time for me to let go of control and follow. As in the Neverending Story, it is a journey to the Water of Life with love at it's end.
I know I need to be silent. And I know I need to write. So here this is: a documentation of the beginning of this journey. Instead of proclaiming I will be listening. Instead of leading I will be following. I don't know how to get where I'm going but I do know that the purpose is to discover and form a relationship with a higher power that does exist, and find love: whatever that means. In the Bible between the Old and New Testament's there is a period called the, "400 years of silence," in which nothing was written and we don't know what was happening. There is a 400 year gap between the writings that connect the Old and New Testament's and I feel like I'm at a cross road that requires a great silence as well.
I'll still be honest, but not like before. This is a documentation through storytelling. Stories based on myself, based on others, stories I've made up, and stories that have already been told. It's a documentation of my "400 years of silence" and an honest expression of what is happening and what I am learning through it. We've always learned through stories and passed down our beliefs through storytelling, and sometimes they've been literal and sometimes they've been metaphorical, and just the same, you will find both here.
This time there is no time limit and there is no quota to meet: just writing based on a true story. I'm off to follow my black cat...
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