From A Long Time Ago (I Still Love You)

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

How do laundromats make their money? They pay utilities for the constantly running washers and dryers and have to count piles of coins to make up for it. It seems like a grossly mismatched payoff, but the same could be said about you and me and I'm still here.
I've been writing a lot about pain and love and how they manage to tangle themselves together so very often. And when I say writing, I mean making note after note after note on my phone of jolted lines and memories that make the heat of immovable air in my room nearly unbearable. 
What is it about pain, exactly, that is so much easier to trust than love? The source? The deservedness? 
Why do I look in the mirror and search for the weight of you behind my eyes?
I used to think that existing only in the dark was a negative, a sign that rain and the depth of night was the only thing keeping us alive. But every time I leave, the sun feels exhaustingly bright.
I'm living in this very temporal space. My clothes and pictures and notebooks sit in a room that I return to only to leave again. I let lettuce rot in the fridge and wine go sour on the windowsill. I cannot relax for the ten minutes it takes to get out of the city. I am living here, but I'm holding on to there so much tighter. 
I used to think I could do it. I could be the smart one and never look back. I could make it. But then I see the way your hair is mushed against the back of your head in the morning, as I watch you cook eggs and toast, and I can barely swallow my heart back into my chest.
You ask me how the movie was. Disgustingly cheesy. A 2000s pre-teen joyride. I miss you the kind of way you can physically feel but I just saw you two days ago so I cannot admit that.
In case you couldn't tell, I cannot walk the not-so-fine line of graceful mystery and garish oversharing. One or the other. All or nothing. Sound familiar? 
I don't mind going to the laundromat. You put all your loads in next to each other, a minute or so apart. You watch them whirl and whirl. You know exactly what to expect and when. The space you occupy is for a reason. There is no questioning, no hesitation. Only the mind-numbing drone of machines stripping what they can.
This is the thing-are you ready? I would leave you every day if it meant I get to come back.

Paris, Day One // 5.10.18

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Day One.
Arrive, gawk.
Join the masses.
See, walk, buy.
Eat. Drink.

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I'd Like To Be In Paris

Saturday, June 2, 2018

I'd like to be in Paris. I am a different person there. My insides do not shake. My body does not weigh a thousand pounds more than it should. In Paris, there is a world of investigation and exploration and new, brand new. Cafes and boulevards and huge, sacred monuments to forces we humans could not ever hope to understand. When I stepped into the Notre Dame I thought that maybe I would not step out. I thought that maybe a force would take over and make it so that none of us ever left. I did, though. We did. I walked out and all the way down to the Louvre and back again. I would like to walk the Louvre a hundred million times and maybe then the lump in my throat would dissolve. Maybe I could hold my thoughts still. Did you know there are love poems etched into stone that are a hundred hundred hundred years old? I've seen them. I don't think I saw anything more beautiful. Not the buildings, not the paintings, not the bread through the windows or the dogs or the Seine. We saw ancient sculptures and famous brushstrokes and hallowed halls, and I think the ceiling of that staircase was the most beautiful thing I saw. Maybe that I have ever seen. 
Can you imagine a love like that? A love that requires tons of limestone, riddles and symbols, royal force to create decades of proof? 
A love that lasts? 
I don't think I've thought of anything else since.

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Sugar Honey Baby

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Yesterday, as the clouds blew across the sky and the sidewalk cracks told time, I wrote a story in my head. It matches the bruises on my thighs and the crack in my forehead. 

Something inside of me has been uneven lately. Tilted. The sun helps, but I'm still not sure how swallowing a capsule can provide the same result. 

Do you need sugar pills to feel happy?

I think we all take a sugar pill of some kind. They get us through the day when the day's obligations are too much of what we do not want and not enough of what we need.

That is nothing new. 

Force down whatever acrid brine or compacted concoction you need to fuel you and your body. What is the difference, I wonder. Are you not your body? I once read a book where a supermodel and a normal human girl were in a freak accident and the normal human's brain got transplanted into the supermodel's body. The girl was amazed that her new body actually craved vegetables.

I saw an Arizona license plate yesterday. My license plate says Kansas. Isn't that strange? I think I would like to have no license plate, no $900 piece of metal that ties me anywhere. 

Today when I sat down in the sunny corner of the library, the man next to me told his headphones, "I'll just find a seat next to the bathroom so I can puke whenever I need to." Is it terminal? Self-inflicted? Apparently one in four people get cancer in their lifetime, if they're lucky. If they aren't, they'll get it twice. Or something else along with it. My mom tells us at Thanksgiving that she is ready to die. Just know, she says, I'm okay with it. She is healthy. She eats pizza and chocolate if she wants to. She does not understand the need to stretch a life longer than it should be.

I am trying very hard to not let things like shelves or bar stools or rugs or linen shorts determine how I feel or who I am. I am trying to let experiences like Marlon William's voice and the sun's rays and the wind in the trees and chicken teriyaki stir fry at 10:00 pm determine how I feel and who I am.

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