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and at the mention of seattle, i forget california. the realization hits me: i’d praise anywhere, as long as it held you. so who am i, really? where am i going and why? these questions would be so much easier to answer if i had a passion in life. but i don’t, not really. i like frivolous things, like reading books, writing this, flirting with men who are too old for me, entertaining my friends, philosophy and coffee, free art museums and my own sad painting skills, the prospect of having long hair and being ten pounds lighter, sugary cereal with vanilla soymilk, song lyrics and poetry, the dream of an eloquent apartment in a city near the sea, running for hours, swimming for minutes, chocolate, and you. oh my god, you. if i knew you were mine for life, i’d have nothing else in the world to worry about.
but at the mention of seattle, i know you’ll be gone soon. maybe not to oregon, or california, or south korea, but you’ll go away because i see something in you that i once had in me. call it unrest, call it dissatisfaction, call it not-quite-love, call it my impending heartbreak. i felt it with the others; they were wonderful and kind and devoted – but i needed more and i couldn’t stop looking around. leaving each one of them was an easy slip. i don’t want you to slip away from me, but more importantly, i don’t want you to want to slip away from me. i want to be everything you need.
but at the mention of seattle, and my quick praising of the city, i know that i can’t change for you and i know that even if i were to try, it wouldn’t be enough. it’s not me, it’s you. you have changed me irrevocably but i think you’re the same person you were when i met you, with your cynicism and your chain, a chain pulling you to a different life. from day one, i knew you wanted out of everything i was in. but i fell for you anyway, and it’s not my time to leave yet even though your day of departure is impending.
at the mention of seattle, i call my best friend, and i hear her sporadic plans for her departure day. it finally sinks in; i can rely on no one. i need a dream, a new dream, a dream with no room for people and no hope for love. a dream that only changes with my mind, a dream i can pursue independently. but a dream is something you desire, and everything i desire involves more than me and more than my mind. i am nothing without love and others. but, thank you seattle, i have learned that i need to change.
at the mention of a suicide in the middle of the ocean, i am even more desperate to change. i may soon be living alone, but i will never die a lonely death. i will learn to turn sadness into enlightenment and pain into strength.
at the mention of seattle, i remember we have three months. at least three months. can we fit it all in three months? i hope it is impossible.
angrily exhausted or exhaustedly angry, i’m not sure which but i found myself flying through my neighborhood, barely looking beyond the curves, blaring “wounded” and feeling just so.
it’s painful to stay awake at this point, but pain is weakness leaving the body and there is so much in me that just can’t stand ground. i don’t bother improving though, because i often find water and wind to be preferable to this ground, and fire even more engaging…
i’m strange, i tell you, in a twisted sort of way. most people look into the eyes of a beautiful innocent girl and mourn, “one day she will be hurt!” i look into these same girl’s eyes, narrow my own, and whisper “one day this child will cause pain.”
i’m strange, i tell you, in an inconstant sort of way. most people just fall in love, but i fall in love deeper and stronger, i can swear it on your grave. the only reason i haven’t let it go is because, well, what then will we have to wait for? what reason will we have to stay when all the doors have been opened and peered behind, and every room is emptied? i will birth no child, not now, not here. and i have absolutely nothing left to give.
neither do you. not really. i know this and so i fall in love elsewhere, in those hours of your invisibility. wait, don’t go yet, this isn’t like last time or the times before that. it all fades when you’re in sight again, disappears like the stars in the sun. i can’t help it, i’m just a human; i need light in the dark.
“sorry about last time. by the way. i never said it.” i sing “no regrets” and i get an apology? my heart stopped a little because… i guess i’m not crazy. i was beginning to believe i maybe made the whole thing up. the frightening thing here isn’t that delusion, but the fact that i was more frightened that you didn’t remember, or that you’d disappear. or that i’d never feel your arm around me when we walk around screaming every cliche.
i know i’ve been altered by far too many songs, but something about befriending your younger neighbor and taking swigs out of a bottle while walking the streets past midnight and talking, sitting on a hill and brushing elbows, well, something about it feels wholesome.
and something about july feels awfully nice. it’s a blank page, and i’m surrounded by every art utensil possible. last year i grabbed some scissors and black ink and created a blanket to cover the next twelve months. this year i draw from memories, but more importantly from lessons. i worry i’m creating a blur, pathetically abstract, when i want something concrete, something certain, something sure. a portrait, no questions, a skyline, no interpretations, me, no mistakes. not possible.
but life is long, and after all, it’s only life.
i got a little bit of myself back today.
i had been losing something. it started in london. i wasn’t alone enough, so i lost some of myself. i must have realized it at least a little bit, with all those evenings when i’d slip into the bathroom after my second glass of wine and cry, not knowing why. i didn’t have enough space to let myself expand and contract, there wasn’t enough time for my soul to breathe because there was too much world to explore. i absorbed culture and it spiced my mind so strongly that i didn’t notice the void growing deep in my gut.
in the midst of the culture and the crying, i met a boy and fell for him in amsterdam when he held my hand and we belted out the same bad punk songs. we went back to london and shared a few nights. came back to reality and after a rocky adjustment, we stayed together and things are good. inevitably, he filled the void with sweetness and soft skin and smiling. my soul needs what he has given, deep connection with someone who will step back and look at the world with me. but that’s not what was meant to fill this particular void.
today i glanced at a table and saw a small note with the words “take me” printed on them in a bold font, two magazines next to them. i was with him, and i picked up a copy as discreetly as possible. went back to his room, sat on his bed alone, and opened the silly small liberal arts school annual literary magazine. found my name twice, and read my poem and my prose. one written a mere six months ago, and one from years before, boys before. felt the expected rush of embarrassment and then a wave of reminder.
i have substance.
when love inevitably goes away, walks the stage, boards the plane, i will be ok. that substance will lay beyond my bones until i need it, and then it will grow back and expand like a sponge and i will be perfectly fine.
“they will never deplete me
i’ve too much to give”
I am from ink,
from kleenex and soap.
I am from the midwest, green, flat; cotton smelling.
I am from the surprise lily, a long strong stem and a big pink delicate flower.
I’m from christmas tree decorating and loud voices,
from annette and paul.
I’m from bohemian gossip and wanderlust,
From “if you cross your eyes they’ll stay that way” and “take care of your sister”.
I’m from a roman catholic baptism, twelve years of catholic school, and the inevitable rejection of all religion.
I’m from naperville, the czech republic, germany,
mashed potatoes and dumplings.
From the orphan frederick fischer who made it across the ocean with caroline,
from the strength of two teenagers with a baby.
I’m from the photo albums, the chest of afghan blankets, the diary of my great-great-grandfather.
I am memories of the long past, and I am hope for the future.
i was restless at lunch so he suggested we move. we wandered upstairs but the big chairs by the window were taken so we continued down the hall where no one goes unless it’s a friday night and some function is happening. i wanted to go through the exit doors and i swore the fire alarm wouldn’t go off, but before we got there you nodded toward the esch studio and we opened the doors to huge windows and a bright sky and a green and blue view of all those trees and the river. we take this view for granted and cover its majesty with complaints about how boring this town can be. the room was empty except for four chairs facing away from each other. you sat in one and i forced myself down next to you. i’m restless though, and you know this, so not a minute later i wandered around and gazed out at the spring that was unfolding before our eyes. i laughed and took my shoes off and slid around the smooth wooden floor. i asked you to dance with me and you joked about how you would not let me turn our relationship into an indie movie. most of me appreciates the way you keep me grounded but some of me just wanted to dance. i wanted to dance so badly, in retrospect. you should have danced with me. but i danced alone and twirled and jumped and talked about ice skating. i wheeled your chair around and you protested but smiled a little bit. i’m not really sure if my cheesy urges make you smile or if you smile despite them.
i can only hope that one day you love me because of my strangeness. for now it is enough that you love me despite it.
it is enough that i danced despite whatever you were going to think.
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this may have been the saddest thing i have ever written.
the seasons keep us human. and by human, i mean flawed and stuck. one year ends when the cold is just starting. we have hope for a new year, but that hope is challenged by three more months of cold. spring finally comes, but not before we stop trying that hard. spring turns into summer and we turn lazy, settled, and ignorant. before we know it, the year is starting to end and it gets colder and everything starts dying. we start thinking about the next year without even realizing we still have the current year in our hands. by the time everything is bare, we feel like maybe we can finally hit rock bottom and then work our way to the top. but before we fall into the freedom of rock bottom, the hope starts again, a new year begins, and we hit that same wall of cold snow. it surprises us every time.
in san francisco it’s always sunny. the temperature is always warm. you can walk outside comfortably almost everyday. if you look at the average weather from january through december, it’s practically a straight line across the graph.
a straight line to stabilize me. a constant that contrasts all the inconsistencies of my life. of me.
i couldn’t do it though. because if i failed, i couldn’t blame it on the weather.
the seasons keep me from failure. because just before i can ever reach rock bottom, the lowest of low that would force me to get back up, the snow melts and the sun shines and i linger an inch from hell. it’s not better, but i’m afraid of failure.
just as june and july take me higher, august melts me before i can reach the sun. so i linger an inch away from the same kind of burning. and it’s all for the best, really.
because i’m also afraid of success.
exercise in sharing creativity 