alien.

Tags

aliens, lessons exquisitely crafted, my major dysfunctions, what a dream!, writing

sometimes i think you’re an alien from another planet
and most of the time i know you think the same of me.

but then i wonder.

maybe we’re both aliens from the same planet
but we’re from opposite poles.
different cultures,
you know.

we recognize each other as being the same,
somehow,
but we’re speaking different languages.

it’s fate. we’ve found
each other
across the stars,
tucked away in some corner
of some galaxy,
so far away from home.

we know it’s fate,
but we don’t know how
to say it.

so we keep trying.

and i know even if that were true -
and then if we were back home on our planet
with all the aliens like us -
somehow the stars would still line up the same.
you’d still have affixed to me
and i’d still be fixed on you.
speaking different languages
but knowing the same things.

asleep.

Tags

ambitions, my major dysfunctions, wishing doesn't make it so

Everything seems so far away from me right now.

Not even in a bad way, I don’t think. In a bittersweet sort of way. There are things I want, things I want my life to have, and they’re just…distant. I can’t have them yet. They might be coming, but for right now they’re out of reach.

(This post may or may not be influenced by the fact that I spent the better part of the morning searching homes for sale in the area I want to live.)

It’s as though I spent the years nineteen through twenty-five in an enchanted slumber. I can’t think of anything I accomplished in those years. I didn’t graduate from college, as many of my friends did. I didn’t break into any major theatre communities. I didn’t even hold on to one job or another for a long period of time. I was involved in a relationship that ended up being – honestly – a bit of a lie, and in the end nothing came of it. (Other than a cancelled wedding.)

I drifted so far away from where I wanted to be, even from where I thought I wanted to be. And when I woke up, I pointed myself in the direction of where I thought I wanted to be – which ended up not being what I wanted at all. If I’d been awake that whole time, maybe I would have figured that out sooner.

Things are different now. I am awake, and moving in a direction that I like. (I’m the captain of this ship now.) But I feel as though I’m eight years behind everyone else. I’m sure I’ll get there, eventually. But for now, so much of what I want is out of reach.

Everything is so far away.

glass.

Tags

fairy tale girl, glass, made of seafoam and stardust, mermaid, writing

It’s like I tried to be Cinderella, but the glass slippers didn’t fit
(shoes never were my thing anyway)
so instead of slippers, I have slivers of shattered glass that I walk on.

And my voice
that soaring part of my soul,
the only thing I ever had in common with the birds
(that voice that you loved so well
even if it wouldn’t have charmed sailors from their ships)
now quiet.
Silenced.
Not mute, exactly, but afraid.

The sweep of waves against sand
(glass comes pre-broken, you know
it’s up to us to change it into a mirror-smooth surface
perfectly reflecting back what you want to see)
is the accompaniment to my hushed voice,
quieting me.

“Shush,” it says,
“don’t speak of it,
don’t sing.
Stay quiet,
don’t bother.
Glass is transparent
and reflective.
You needn’t shout.
Shush.”

What happens when I don’t want to be quiet anymore?
When the restlessness of my caged voice
overshadows the fear?
When the shush of the waves
can’t convince me to stop singing?
When I look in the mirror,
and what’s reflected in the glass
is something I’m willing to accept?

Shoes will never be my thing,
but maybe walking barefoot won’t be quite so painful.

scribe.

Tags

autumn, i make my own magic, stories, writers, writing

What is it about autumn that makes me want to write?

You know? I’m not a Writer.

I’m just not.  I like to write, but I’m not a Writer, it’s never been something that defines me.  I’ve never had a burning desire to be a novelist or poet; I don’t have Stories inside of me that haven’t been told. (Most of my Stories already have been told: better, clearer, more truthfully than I ever could.)  Because I don’t have that burning desire, the one I see in so many of the people I know, I don’t think I could ever classify myself a Writer.

Most of the year, I’m content to sit back and read others’ Stories and their stories.  Not only are there libraries filled with them, so many people that I know are Writers and Storytellers.  Apart from loving the written word, I spend most of the year revelling in the fact that I have so many talented and wonderful people in my life.  Some of these people I only know in my online life, but even so I get to peek in on creative processes and character development and the discoveries that they make as they’re journeying along with their stories (and their Stories).  It’s wonderful.  I’m so grateful to be privy to even the tiniest bit of their creative processes.

But there’s something about autumn.  I don’t know if it’s the back-to-school associations – new notebooks, new pens! everything clean and fresh and full of promise and without flaw – or if I’ve conditioned myself over years of National Novel Writing Month in November, but something in the autumn air makes me want to pick up a pen myself.

It’s an exciting feeling.  One full of endless possibilities.  I’ve been bitten by the writing bug again, scribbling down thoughts and ideas, revising old projects and streamlining old plotlines, and feeling at peace with the fact that I’m not a Writer – not really – but that’s okay, and I can pretend for a little while.

push.

Tags

but seriously: thanks guardian angels, my major dysfunctions, wishing doesn't make it so

He probably thanks his lucky stars every morning when he wakes up, too.

He didn’t want to marry me.  He never did.  I pushed him into it – nudged him with tears and sadness and “what is so wrong with me?” and probably an ultimatum or two.  I don’t remember.  It’s been a long time now.

All I remember is that I never felt like he really wanted me.  And honestly, probably with good reason: he never really did.  Not that it was his fault, mind you, I really don’t blame him for that.  I can’t blame someone for not acting on a feeling that they never actually had.  Just like I can’t blame someone for not having a feeling in the first place.

Blame me, instead.  Blame me for acting on feelings that I desperately wanted to have.  Blame me for pushing someone to act on feelings I imagined for them.

Beginning the relationship was my idea. Moving in together was my idea. And then the engagement was my idea, too.  No wonder he didn’t take an active role in any of it (not the cohabitation, not the wedding, not the engagement, maybe not the relationship at all); none of it was actually his idea.

So I suppose I don’t feel so badly about thanking my own guardian angels (in the form of dreams) that pointed me in the direction of the door.  The dreams weren’t what propelled me that way, but at least they gave me bearings to go by.

In the end, I made all the decisions.  But at least he’d finally given me a push of his own.

summer.

Tags

lessons exquisitely crafted, what a dream!

the days are sleepy and languid and overwarm, white gold sunlight filtering through shades.

or they’re overcast and gloomy with the threat of thunderstorms, the air sticky with the promise of lightning and the leaves showing their silvery undersides in the wind before the storm.

some nights there are fireworks, either real or metaphorical.  bright bursts of light and color and then an explosion you feel in the hollow of your chest. some nights are calm and warm like a blanket of blueblack velvet, sleepy and soft and tender.

and some nights there are shooting stars, spectacular streaks of light across that blueblack sky, but he’s too busy looking at you to care about them.

mimic.

Tags

my major dysfunctions, oh are we in self loathing mode again, well aren't we feeling maudlin today

It occurs to me that I learn by watching others; that so many of the things I enjoy doing are things I enjoy doing like someone else.

I learned to draw by copying other artists’ styles. I still draw best when presented with a model to work from. Especially if it’s a sketch and I can see exactly where the artist laid down their lines.

I learned to sing by listening to others’ voices and training my voice to match them. I still sound better when singing along with someone else because my voice has no real character of its own.

I learned to dress by watching movies and television shows. I learned what a girl like me was supposed to dress and look like from pictures on a movie screen.

My writing’s never been anything special, and I borrow like mad from the authors and characters and plot points that I love.

Even my handwriting that I’m so proud of, I modeled it after a character’s in a book when I was first learning cursive.

All that acting is, is pretending to be someone else. I guess maybe that’s why I had a knack for it; I’ve been mimicking others my entire life.

I’m just an echo of all the things that I love.  There are worse things to be, I suppose.

orange. (and red.)

Tags

and he still couldn't tell orange from red most of the time, fairy tale girl, lessons exquisitely crafted, pictures, what a dream!

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who wore a red sweater. Her father had given her this red sweater as a gift, and she wore it so much that when she asked her friends what her superhero name would be, it was agreed that she would be Red Sweater Girl. (With the power to wear a red sweater!)

saltwater.

Tags

made of seafoam and stardust, stream-of-consciousness is a thing people do, what a dream!

it takes a special kind of dedication to love the seaside, living where I live.

here, where I live, the sea is not inviting. the temperature will never be mistaken for bathwater. it is not that translucent glowing turquoise or aquamarine you see in picture postcards (or if you’re lucky, in person) with words like this beautiful place; unbelievable; I miss you scrawled across the back; it’s not that intense, pure, impossible lapis blue.

the ocean is not gentle or calm. the sands aren’t white and soft and powdery under your feet (or black, or pink).  mostly, the weather isn’t bright and warm and sunny, either – and when it is, it’s often crowded to the point of unpleasantness.

here, the ocean is often a murky grey bluegreen, icy and opaque and churning.  the coastline is rocky and sharp and grey, mournful and strange. the wind is chilly even on warm days, and the water is always – always – cold.

and yet.

and yet. it is the dark, cold part of my soul; everchanging and still constant.  I’ve always been a mermaid-girl, in truth, drawn to the seaside and the salt air with a magnetic pull not unlike the moon’s pull on the tides.  the cold water numbs my skin and the seaweed twines around my ankles as if to coax me out farther. pull me deeper.

I love the ocean at night. salt air and moonlight glinting off the waves, sshh-sshhing across the sand. my heart and soul are made up of seafoam and stardust, and I never feel more at home than I do with sand stuck to my skin and salt air in my lungs, blinking in the starlight.

keep.

Tags

a good idea for a song, heartache, my major dysfunctions, oh are we in self loathing mode again, wishing doesn't make it so

I’ve tried so hard to be someone you’d want to keep from running away

 

but I guess I don’t know what that means anymore