I don't know what she
makes me want from myself
- - - -
I can always remember this day 6/6/6 because the perfect thing happened. It is strange to think that this will once bring me to sound dated, and that 6/6/1906 and my 6/6/2006 were probably very different.
I had flunked a bunch of high school. My computer addiction was full fledged. Smosh videos were what I was about, along with buying cake mix from Walmart Neighborhood market for 79 cents. I could pay for it in my spare change. Every night from the hours of 8pm-1pm, I locked myself in my tiny tower of a bedroom, pulled out a tupperware, mixed a little cake mix and water (a trick learned from summer camp), and youtubed until passing out.
I had failed English because I had little to no interest in Alaskan dog-sled racing, and a hearty dash of teen angst. My dad said he would pay for summer school, but I had to ride my bike there and back every day. School was 7 miles away, and there was a separate bike-trail for most of it.
There were a handful of issues.
1. I am a girl. Sweating before and after school as a teenager wasn't really in my hair's favor.
2. It is June in tornado alley with big storms happening almost every night. Wet road= wet streak up your butt when arriving to class.
3. I had to cross over a lot of creeks between 6:40-7:10 am.
Pretty much every morning I am trying to pull a windbreaker over my ass, keep my hair off my forehead and blindly peddling through dense fog on bridges.
So it is around 7 am, 6/6/6, and I am finger-combing out my wavy, cherry red locks with my left hand while my right hand is squeezing my handlebar in rhythm with pirated Karen O screams. I've been kinda excited for today. As a young, alternative adult, I'd entertained some possible happenings with the local hooligans, but "gotta get up early for school lol kk tootles". It was perfectly foggy, like milk was mixed in the air, and I turn up onto my last bridge.
Just right there. Just right in front of me. A babies arm.
lols, wahh?
I decide the middle of the bridge is probably the safest for the last 15 ft, and as soon as I make this decision my front tire pulls a moses on a pentagram with baby parts piled in the middle. I jerk to the left so quickly that I immediately fall off my bike and smear myself in the sticky red substance.
I begin weeping. I can feel the curtain close as I pick up my bike, backpack and dust off my jacket, further smearing my mess. I don't look back as the standing ovation begins. They are sucked into the fog as I push my peddles down. I am sobbing with so much suction that the gnats are getting stuck in my throat.
Walking into class after a performance like that was like floating on air.
I showed those kids the man's blood on my jacket from my fight last night. Told them he'd lost 3 teeth. I just got out of jail. When it was my turn to read out loud, I could hear the metal kids whispering about me. My voice was steady and strong. I got some girl to buy me skittles.
All in all it was a good day.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Sunday, June 2, 2013
6.2
"Nothing we had in common was real or genuine, " he says to me as I do the dumb thing and stare at my hands. "You realize we fucking hate each other?"
It had been a long weekend with my uncle. The crazy.
No one really knew what he did.
He drank.
He smoked cigarettes, but I swear they were a different brand last time we visited.
He had this orange shirt that had faded into this strange terra-cotta/salmon color thanks to his organic sodium mixed with infinite hot washes.
He had a name, but no one really seemed to use it in conversation. You just knew who they were talking about when you walked up to the table. Or the conversation would be started by some object being glared at by more than 2 people in the room. One person would raise their eyebrows and the other would nod.
He was what you talked to the cousins about after you ran out of the obvious questions and everything else seemed like it would awkwardly point out how far you had drifted apart.
But now?
He hated me.
He was supposed to be watching me while my parents did what ever it is parents do when revisiting their hometown after 15+ years living elsewhere. So I was sat down in front of the tv on some corduroy masterpiece of a couch he had managed to keep clean. To be fair, his place was pretty clean.
He was clean in scrubbed-raw way. The sun-bleached way. Everything smelled of boiling water.
He watched tv with me for one 30 minute segment, and then we started some movie. It was a film I, apparently, was a minority for not seeing, and now I must remedy this fault within myself. So we chilled. I'm pretty sure he was drinking. I'm also pretty sure that he had jokingly offered me, a minor, a drink earlier. I'm really sure it wasn't that much of a joke.
He left partway through the film and went to this sort of half basement/spare room that was allowed for by the house being built into a hill. Sometimes I could hear some shuffling, placing of things, typing, but never much else. I was still pretty uncomfortable around him and wasn't quite sure where the restroom was. After the movie was over, another one began playing. This one I had seen before. I needed to pee. It was getting dark.
He had started murmuring to himself. At first I thought it was the film, but then I noticed there was laughter during inappropriate parts. I turned the volume down. Not all at once. I took maybe a good 10 minutes to get down 5 even numbers. They always have to be even.
He wasn't so much murmuring now. His voice had risen to normal conversation mode. I heard a beer open. I heard him talk and put the can down on the table several times over the rest of the second movie. As if on cue he started to come out of the room right as it ended.
"He looks happy" is all I can think. I realize I am turned, open mouthed smiling at him with the volume very low.
He realizes too and becomes a shade of scarlet I have only seen once before.
He takes me outside and sits me on the tail gate of his truck and starts pacing in front of me. I'm not quite sure what is happening at this point, but I fantasize about romans dragging prisoners behind chariots. "Am I in trouble?"
He is throwing his hands up and pacing this awkward oval in the driveway.
He has mastered this drunken mumble yelling. I have no idea what he is communicating. I ask "is that room why you are upset?"
He says he needs advice
It had been a long weekend with my uncle. The crazy.
No one really knew what he did.
He drank.
He smoked cigarettes, but I swear they were a different brand last time we visited.
He had this orange shirt that had faded into this strange terra-cotta/salmon color thanks to his organic sodium mixed with infinite hot washes.
He had a name, but no one really seemed to use it in conversation. You just knew who they were talking about when you walked up to the table. Or the conversation would be started by some object being glared at by more than 2 people in the room. One person would raise their eyebrows and the other would nod.
He was what you talked to the cousins about after you ran out of the obvious questions and everything else seemed like it would awkwardly point out how far you had drifted apart.
But now?
He hated me.
He was supposed to be watching me while my parents did what ever it is parents do when revisiting their hometown after 15+ years living elsewhere. So I was sat down in front of the tv on some corduroy masterpiece of a couch he had managed to keep clean. To be fair, his place was pretty clean.
He was clean in scrubbed-raw way. The sun-bleached way. Everything smelled of boiling water.
He watched tv with me for one 30 minute segment, and then we started some movie. It was a film I, apparently, was a minority for not seeing, and now I must remedy this fault within myself. So we chilled. I'm pretty sure he was drinking. I'm also pretty sure that he had jokingly offered me, a minor, a drink earlier. I'm really sure it wasn't that much of a joke.
He left partway through the film and went to this sort of half basement/spare room that was allowed for by the house being built into a hill. Sometimes I could hear some shuffling, placing of things, typing, but never much else. I was still pretty uncomfortable around him and wasn't quite sure where the restroom was. After the movie was over, another one began playing. This one I had seen before. I needed to pee. It was getting dark.
He had started murmuring to himself. At first I thought it was the film, but then I noticed there was laughter during inappropriate parts. I turned the volume down. Not all at once. I took maybe a good 10 minutes to get down 5 even numbers. They always have to be even.
He wasn't so much murmuring now. His voice had risen to normal conversation mode. I heard a beer open. I heard him talk and put the can down on the table several times over the rest of the second movie. As if on cue he started to come out of the room right as it ended.
"He looks happy" is all I can think. I realize I am turned, open mouthed smiling at him with the volume very low.
He realizes too and becomes a shade of scarlet I have only seen once before.
He takes me outside and sits me on the tail gate of his truck and starts pacing in front of me. I'm not quite sure what is happening at this point, but I fantasize about romans dragging prisoners behind chariots. "Am I in trouble?"
He is throwing his hands up and pacing this awkward oval in the driveway.
He has mastered this drunken mumble yelling. I have no idea what he is communicating. I ask "is that room why you are upset?"
He says he needs advice
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
5.29/2
after house hunting
last night, she took me places. And as I watched the grey smoke curl around her silky hands, I brought my eyes to meet hers. The flames below us were warm, and lit her stomach in a soft, pleasing manner. I smiled as she noticed my stare.
"who are you?"I laughed.
She grinned and spit smoke into a bush. "His name is gypsy", flatly fell from her lips.
"okay, but who are you?" I think my hand was reaching out to her by this point. She didn't move away or flinch when I touched her. In fact, the opposite occurred.
We walked further.
I hadn't been quite sure who she was for a while now. I thought we first met at some party 2 years ago, but she swears it was before then. However, I can't remember learning her name until tomorrow and I swear her hair was blonde at some point. I think I could find a photo if I stalked hard enough.
Anyway, it was like I could feel her forehead against mine as I watched her footsteps fall in the wet pavement. This simultaneous presense was some new power she possessed. I tried to slow down and fall a few more paces behind, but she would not have it. Soon we were barely walking and stopping seemed like the obvious thing to do as we were both laughing every time we took a step in slow motion. She went from taking a drag every few steps to taking a few drags every step. The last mile was littered with filters sizzling in the street.
I turned to her and said, "okay. what do you fucking want?"
"to show you something"
"Is that where we are walking?"
"yes, are you injured?" she was still giggling.
and lighting a new cigarette, she asked my silence "hey? why are you so upset?"
but I could see that we would probably never make it.
last night, she took me places. And as I watched the grey smoke curl around her silky hands, I brought my eyes to meet hers. The flames below us were warm, and lit her stomach in a soft, pleasing manner. I smiled as she noticed my stare.
"who are you?"I laughed.
She grinned and spit smoke into a bush. "His name is gypsy", flatly fell from her lips.
"okay, but who are you?" I think my hand was reaching out to her by this point. She didn't move away or flinch when I touched her. In fact, the opposite occurred.
We walked further.
I hadn't been quite sure who she was for a while now. I thought we first met at some party 2 years ago, but she swears it was before then. However, I can't remember learning her name until tomorrow and I swear her hair was blonde at some point. I think I could find a photo if I stalked hard enough.
Anyway, it was like I could feel her forehead against mine as I watched her footsteps fall in the wet pavement. This simultaneous presense was some new power she possessed. I tried to slow down and fall a few more paces behind, but she would not have it. Soon we were barely walking and stopping seemed like the obvious thing to do as we were both laughing every time we took a step in slow motion. She went from taking a drag every few steps to taking a few drags every step. The last mile was littered with filters sizzling in the street.
I turned to her and said, "okay. what do you fucking want?"
"to show you something"
"Is that where we are walking?"
"yes, are you injured?" she was still giggling.
and lighting a new cigarette, she asked my silence "hey? why are you so upset?"
but I could see that we would probably never make it.
5.29
I thought that I would be mad when I saw her, heard her.
But, tbh,
I felt resolution.
Her solid footsteps fade away and I have pulled all my thorns.
But, tbh,
I felt resolution.
Her solid footsteps fade away and I have pulled all my thorns.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
5.26
text from andy: I had a dream that I had long hair in a pony tail. Did I tell you that already?
larn: Did you like it?
-picture of a smoothie-
I just realized, fully realized and understood, that unless something truly terrible happens, my children will be able to look at every single day of my life.
And to be honest I am thankful for that fact. I am so jealous. I wish I had some idea what my mother thought/lookedat/did at my age and I would give anything to understand.
I don't know why. Not for validation, or for some sort of unity. I feel genuinely curious as to what she was interested in.
My texts[letters] would be what I really want them to have access to if I died. Maybe not at the same age, I would probably have been a NIGHTMARE if I had validation from my dead mother on my outrageous actions that I am sure all teenagers will make anyway. I would probably want them to never ever see my preteen aim/aolchatroom messages. lol. I got a cell phone when I was 16 so they could probably have access to my 16-17 year old one when they turn 17, my 17-18 when they turn 18, and then I guess continue in that pattern? Until maybe 30? Jeez, I just, who the fuck would really want to read all this bullshit. But my text/letters would probably be pretty interesting threads. I would be interested to read my friend's messages with their friends [if they were dead and we would all be spared the embarrassment]. I feel a HUGE connection to people when re-reading messages. also a weird sense of self discovery when pulling a paranoid parrot and re-reading my sent mail. haha. fuck.
But the fact that I take photos of things around me on a daily basis and sent that shit to my friends and then we talk about it like we are sitting next to each other even though we haven't looked at each other's faces in 4 months and some how when we are actually irl it feels exactly the same and it makes me wonder how friendships worked before technology.
I would give my ring toe of my left foot [I decided this right now, and I gave it a good, honest think-over] if I could see what my mother cooked for dinner last night, then how her cat, in the bathroom, looked while she took a shit [that she also considered photographing but decided against], and then what she saw at work and the different outfits she tried on, her checking her teeth when she couldn't find a mirror and was to lazy to get up. I would shave off all my hair [yes, another honest wager] if I could see Photobooth video-diaries she had made in order to get things off her mind in the middle of the night.
I don't feel as though I am curious for some sense of validation. I feel like the rest of humanity pretty much got that covered.
I just miss her.
I would give most of everything if I could have some sort of conversation with that woman.
It would be funny as shit.
larn: Did you like it?
-picture of a smoothie-
I just realized, fully realized and understood, that unless something truly terrible happens, my children will be able to look at every single day of my life.
And to be honest I am thankful for that fact. I am so jealous. I wish I had some idea what my mother thought/lookedat/did at my age and I would give anything to understand.
I don't know why. Not for validation, or for some sort of unity. I feel genuinely curious as to what she was interested in.
My texts[letters] would be what I really want them to have access to if I died. Maybe not at the same age, I would probably have been a NIGHTMARE if I had validation from my dead mother on my outrageous actions that I am sure all teenagers will make anyway. I would probably want them to never ever see my preteen aim/aolchatroom messages. lol. I got a cell phone when I was 16 so they could probably have access to my 16-17 year old one when they turn 17, my 17-18 when they turn 18, and then I guess continue in that pattern? Until maybe 30? Jeez, I just, who the fuck would really want to read all this bullshit. But my text/letters would probably be pretty interesting threads. I would be interested to read my friend's messages with their friends [if they were dead and we would all be spared the embarrassment]. I feel a HUGE connection to people when re-reading messages. also a weird sense of self discovery when pulling a paranoid parrot and re-reading my sent mail. haha. fuck.
But the fact that I take photos of things around me on a daily basis and sent that shit to my friends and then we talk about it like we are sitting next to each other even though we haven't looked at each other's faces in 4 months and some how when we are actually irl it feels exactly the same and it makes me wonder how friendships worked before technology.
I would give my ring toe of my left foot [I decided this right now, and I gave it a good, honest think-over] if I could see what my mother cooked for dinner last night, then how her cat, in the bathroom, looked while she took a shit [that she also considered photographing but decided against], and then what she saw at work and the different outfits she tried on, her checking her teeth when she couldn't find a mirror and was to lazy to get up. I would shave off all my hair [yes, another honest wager] if I could see Photobooth video-diaries she had made in order to get things off her mind in the middle of the night.
I don't feel as though I am curious for some sense of validation. I feel like the rest of humanity pretty much got that covered.
I just miss her.
I would give most of everything if I could have some sort of conversation with that woman.
It would be funny as shit.
Friday, May 24, 2013
5.24.13
my philosophies are surfacing and record of them feels necessary
I agree with the statement "we are the life force of the universe"
I agree that the subconscious world is just as important as the conscious/shared world, but that our subconscious worlds have some sort of shared notion.
I don't know what that notion is.
See, my obsession with Shamans stems from my belief, assumption, that their idea of the "Spirit world" is just what I am referring to as the "subconscious world". I think that the subconscious is the extra details, information, we have absorbed radiating off of our memories and ideas. This is our gut feelings, our ability to be attracted to others, why dreams seem to prepare us for things and how we know who is coming up the stairs, who is standing behind us, who we need to contact. This is why buildings with unsteady foundations and vibrating pipes give us the heebie jeebies.
My issue with Shamans is the abstraction, religious aspect, "gods" and other trunkjunk that society has taught me is unnecessary and delusional. In today's world, meditating/yoga seems to be taking the place of church. These breathing exercises, internal thinking time, "relaxing" are allowing our brains to rest and communicate more than just our conscious self's opinion. We really do trust our subconscious by sleeping on important decisions and having positive attitudes and going with our gut.
I agree with the statement "we are the life force of the universe"
I agree that the subconscious world is just as important as the conscious/shared world, but that our subconscious worlds have some sort of shared notion.
I don't know what that notion is.
See, my obsession with Shamans stems from my belief, assumption, that their idea of the "Spirit world" is just what I am referring to as the "subconscious world". I think that the subconscious is the extra details, information, we have absorbed radiating off of our memories and ideas. This is our gut feelings, our ability to be attracted to others, why dreams seem to prepare us for things and how we know who is coming up the stairs, who is standing behind us, who we need to contact. This is why buildings with unsteady foundations and vibrating pipes give us the heebie jeebies.
My issue with Shamans is the abstraction, religious aspect, "gods" and other trunkjunk that society has taught me is unnecessary and delusional. In today's world, meditating/yoga seems to be taking the place of church. These breathing exercises, internal thinking time, "relaxing" are allowing our brains to rest and communicate more than just our conscious self's opinion. We really do trust our subconscious by sleeping on important decisions and having positive attitudes and going with our gut.
Friday, May 3, 2013
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