Sunday, January 30, 2011

this one time, we just drove.


I am nineteen but I don't feel nineteen at all.

much older.

I just wanted to take things at a normal pace for once. To sit and have a decent conversation.

[because I said it. I said I wanted a decent conversation. Once I say it out loud I need it to be true.]

I walked away from his house with a lump in my throat. None of it had been wrong, just very not specifically what I was looking for and really, what I thought I found.
it started to rain and I walked quickly past drunken kids heading back to the dorms. The lump in my throat got bigger and I called a friend.
I was fine with returning home alone, in fact I preferred it. I opened my jar of nutella and began eating spoonfuls as I listened to 'Dear Avery' by the decemberists.

then she said, "lets go for a drive"

I changed out of my date clothes and into a huge comfortable flannel. Raced down the stairs, passed a romantic goodbye as I walked out the door.

And we just drove. I recounted the full story and she listened. She talked, I talked. Give and take, silence.
We kept driving and as I looked out my window and had a flash of being in Palos Verdes. the sky was black and it made me miss the ocean.
I looked forward and watched in shock as the aggressive rain turned into snow.
It was SNOWING.
real snow.
REAL SNOW.
we drove to the lake and it had frozen over. I was still in my flannel with a scarf wrapped around my head, my moccasins slipping on the icy rode. We got out and looked up. The soft, cold snow, landed carefully on my face and couldn't help but laugh to myself. It was exactly what I could hope for at the end of this day.
We drove back, back to the reality of dealing with what had happened before, the reality of my research, the reality of midterms.
I just needed to sleep.
I had left my computer up with my itunes on and the last strums of some song played and right as I put my keys down the song 'The Penalty' my favorite Beirut song began to play.
it was a good way to fall asleep.

I put away the jar of nutella.


Like an ancient day and I'm on trial
Let them seize the way, this once was an island And I could not stay for I believed them
Left for the lights always in season
Impassable night in a crowd of homesick fully grown children,
you'll leave the lights

-Beirut




Saturday, January 29, 2011

that takes....

last night was "that takes ovaries" a open-mic benefit for The V-Day Campaign. I watched a few of my best friends here with pride as they sang and read personal poetry. For one in particular my heart filled as I watched her, very boldly reading a piece.
I wanted to sing but I still don't know if I can just go up and do that. That would take balls, not ovaries.
Instead, in order to promote The Vagina Monologues that are coming up in less than two weeks [yikes!] I wrote my own little vagina monologue. Since it was about me I assumed it would be harder, but, then again, the vagina monologue I have in the show is very close to home too so it was good practice.

Here is the piece I read:


I’m not someone who talks about my vagina. In fact, I very consciously don’t talk about it. Its part of me, whatever, but I never let it define me.

Recently I’ve begun to consider my vagina. Considering what it would wear and say. It would wear moccasins and a cape. The kind of moccasins that have been worn in and are now comfortable and the kind of cape you make from a sheet when you’re five. It would jump around on couches and pretend to fly around the room. On days when it felt sassy it would wear something see-through, see-through underwear, probably red lipstick. It would not talk about important matters at hand and instead say something sarcastic or a sentence that started with “duuuuude” or “what’s good?” Maybe one that ended with “fo sho!” It wants to make forts and lay in them all day with someone else. The funny part about that is, it hasn’t wanted to do that in a long time. Before it wanted to be irrational, stupid, fail a lot. It thrived on mocking itself. It craved the wrong kind of attention. It was moody, complacent and bored. Now, it just wants a decent conversation. Someone else to initiate. It wants to be tempted and perhaps even… romanced? ‘Romance’ is a strong word, a scary, cool word it isn’t familiar with. It wants to read a lot and be able to not have to impress anyone while still being impressive. It wants to say what it means, and what it doesn’t mean and would never mean. It needs to laugh; it needs to laugh a lot. But mainly it wants someone to make a fort with.






***side note, it may have found someone to make forts with. we'll see. the jury's still out.



Wednesday, January 26, 2011

it was too wonderful for me.

Creative writing assignment: Begin a piece of writing with the sentence "it was too wonderful for me"

It was too wonderful for me. I was full, full of something unrecognizable. I allowed myself to appreciate the sky. Walking back to my postage stamp of a room at three in the morning I allowed my gaze to find its way up. Stars were not normal. I was clearly not normal. My normal so long ago had swiftly become a hole of over-analytical self-involvement. I wasn’t living anymore. [Had I ever been living?]

It seemed to be almost unfair that I had all this good all at once.

The best of it all was that there was a constant undertone, a small layer of doubt underneath the surface. This doubt grounded me in the same way all the wonderful was trying to pull me up. Was I odd for still appreciating and embracing failure above all things? Failure taught me the wonderful lessons.

Failure is teaching me.

Now, it is a slew of old pictures that have a way of making me feel incredibly full and desolate at the same time. These pictures remind me of what was, and thankfully not what could be. Now, there is no backtracking. It is full speed ahead, like one of those expensive bullet trains they want to build back at home.

This is the feeling I like though. This is the feeling I feel right before something big happens, something substantial. I never know exactly what it is but this time I feel as though this is the thing I have been waiting for sense the last time I looked up at the sky, I mean really looked, which was far too long ago to even remember clearly.

I no longer feel as though I have a pile of rocks settled somewhere between my throat and my stomach. I do not miss things anymore. Missing things as much as I did use to be cathartic. No more.

It was too wonderful. Now it is just going to be wonderful.

It is simple that way.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

I want a Sunday kind of love.


I sometimes consider the amount of time I spend considering.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

200



I can't fall asleep. I have been alone in my room for over 48 hours. I'm not good at being sick. My mind is awake thinking about all the things I should do but my body won't let me do them. I just want someone to come over and read the great gatsby to me cover to cover. I need the green light right now. I have been looking through old pictures that have randomly made me burst into embarrassing tears. When this happens I look behind me thinking someone is there but they're not.
I've always been independent. I've always been okay with sh
utting myself in a room for hours and getting over a cold, or in this case this MONSTER I have inside of me. for the first time all I can think of is 'I want my mommy' I just want to sit on our couch at one in the morning with a bowl to throw up in in front of me, her next to me rubbing my hands while watching lady and the tramp like we always did when I was sick. I just want that.
When she said she would fly up and sit with me, or fly me home my heart leapt. I mean, could I?
No.
I forget that I'm on my own now.
I have people. Great, wonderful people but I don't have my person which is the core of the lump in my throat.
I just want to be in my big bed at home.
I just want to sleep continuously for a few days.
I just want to eat my favorite pasta.
I just want to take a long bath.
I just want to go be sick at home.
I just want to stop leaking these stupid embarrassing tears.


Monday, January 17, 2011

as a dog

its not as if I'm the first person to not like being sick.
the problem is, being alone in my room with no distraction from the fact my body hurts and my head is a hundred pounds.
I'm one of those people that doesn't get sick, MAYBE once a year, but when I do its awful.
the worst of it is, I had such a wonderful epiphany this weekend, and it is over shadowed by the fact that standing up takes ever ounce of my effort.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

CUNT

and so I finished 'Cunt' by Inga Muscio.
I must say it achieved what I thought it would. Between Cunt and The Vagina Monologues I am actually appreciating being female lately.
but its funny because I still can't type, "being a woman" without laughing at myself. Maybe its because I don't consider myself a "woman" yet. and not like, "oh sarah is a man" just as in I feel like a woman has a pants suit or a child, or is living on her own, not supported in anyway by her parents. Which makes me somewhere in between.

I have also realized I don't carry myself like a female. I'm not a feminine person. it isn't a bad thing necessarily, its really just who I am.
because of this I don't realize until the last second that I may be torturing someone. I always assume that I'm 'the best friend' because well, to the guys I'm attracted to I am. But I always seem to forget that works in the opposite way.
I had an awful night last night, way later in the night. and an even more awful morning. I got what I needed and still feel rather....
well.
just, well.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

there are two little scars.

creative writing class,

task: old memory, newer memory.


old:

My sister stood in front of the mirror. She was five years old. I crawled into the bedroom we shared and sat watching her dance to whatever music was in the cassette player at the time. I stood up to join her and she told me I had to sit back down, I was only allowed to sit and watch. I kept standing, with much effort, and she continuously told me to sit. Finally, I got up, hugged her and she grabbed my face and pitched it as hard as she could and pushed me into the mirror. I crawled out of the room.


new:

We sat in the back of the car. My legs were on his and we did not look at each other. It was under that same lamppost, that same spot that was now so familiar. The silence was not deafening, and I wasn’t aware of it. My stomach growled. He started laughing and said I ruined the moment. “I wasn’t aware of this being a moment” I said, “I thought we were just sitting here” He sat up and pulled a granola bar out of the glove box and handed it to me. I ate it quickly. He laughed a genuine laugh that I hadn’t expected, or really ever heard. Slowly, he reached over and took my hand. I looked down at my hand in his and wondered why I was allowing him to do that. I hated handholding. It was two am when I realized I should leave. As I got out of the car he released my hand and said simply, “Things will be different.”

Saturday, January 8, 2011

things and things and whats the word?

I keep getting too excited for things that may not come to be. little hope for somethings that probably won't happen.

I want things.
I want things that may not happen but I feel like I deserve them.

my mind resides in a sort of future, an unrealistic future?

not necessarily.


I JUST WANT THINGS.


Wednesday, January 5, 2011

RED LEATHER YELLOW LEATHER

its weird because I'm really loving everything that is going on.
but then sorta not.
but sorta.

Everything and nothing makes sense.
well this is weird.

wait what?
alright.

I turned bright red at the idea of someone who I don't even know. Because I was actually attracted to him. Perhaps the reason I turned bright red was because I haven't considered talking to someone I'm actually attracted to in so long. I was embarrassed for considering it.

I shouldn't be embarrassed for considering it.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

a letter.

To: CEO

its all violently clear now:
I couldn't be in something because my mind was always in the back of your car. when we would draw pictures on the foggy windows and my stomach would growl and ruin and make the moment at the same time.

Three hundred and sixty-six days ago I promised that I would never go back, that I would steamroll over those moments and your car.
I broke that resolution exactly twenty minutes after I said those words on the kitchen floor.

It is clear because now I know the meaning of the words "self control".

My sarcasm is my defense mechanism. You are probably the only person who can manipulate that, without even realizing it.

Maybe next time, I'll pencil you in.

I quit.

from,
Your Former Employee