Archive for March, 2016

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Actually, yes. Yes I do.

March 31, 2016

In a week, I’ll turn 40. No shame, no trepidation, no lady macbeth style hand wringing going on over here.

I’ll be forty years old.
Not years young, or some other number that makes me feel like I’ve cheated the passage of time somehow. I’ve earned this. I have lived and breathed and danced and fucked and screamed and fought and been hurt and laughed so hard that there was pain. The good kind. I’ve been places and met people and done things that are wonderful and silly and I’ve been loved and I have loved, fortunately.

Sometimes when people find out how old I am, they ask me how I look so young. My first thought is, well, I’m not ancient or anything. (Especially when one considers my plan to have an eleventy first birthday and then walk into the sea. Then I’ll be ancient and wise and probably sassy as fuck if I’m lucky.) But my usual response is to say, “I laugh a lot. At everything. And not at so much, but with.

I laugh with life, when it shows me things absurd, things delightful, things silly and mirthful and joyous. But I also laugh when it is sad, when it is painful, when it angers me. Because the alternative doesn’t seem as fun. But that’s a post for another time.

Tonight, when I was thinking about how someone recently said to me, “You don’t look 40.” And I puzzled on that. Ended up searching for pictures of people who are 40. To see if I could recognize the number on their faces,there was some similarity in our features, our demeanour.

But there is nothing that says any one experience will be the same for any two people. In fact, because of the subjective quality of perspective, there is almost a guarantee (though there are no guarantees, don’t believe people who tell you otherwise, unless you really want to, I suppose) that they will be quite different, even when shared.

And so, the next time (if there is one) someone tells me I don’t look 40, I can smile at them and say, “Actually, yes. Yes I do.”

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Que sera sera

March 29, 2016

I’m so scared that the right thing to do is walk away from you,
though I know that you’re not going anywhere.
Because I am.
I can’t stay here and somehow I fear that our orbits aren’t quite ready to collide.
But whatever happens, I’ll abide.
Paths cross,
lines intersect,
tales weave themselves of details intrinsic, incidental and integral.

Integrated, these meditative thoughts of what might be get caught up in the coulds and woulds and lose sight of what’s right in the shoulds.
What should I do? Run to you and hope that our timing is bang on? That carving a path is the same as allowing it to make itself known? To be shown the way without delay because I’ve been waiting a lifetime’s worth of unrequited lovestory pop songs for something that feels like you do.

But if it’s meant to be, it can’t help but do exactly that, right?
I mean, that’s it’s only fucking job.
Be.
Does it matter when? Or where? I know how much I want it to be here and now (and how!) and how much I miss the featherlight kiss, the way your words make me sigh with bliss, reminisce of times we had leisure to explore the possibilities of who we were apart and more, who we are together.
Birds of a weird and silly feather, you and I. No point in trying to deny what seems like fate and for the most part, feels great.
I’ll never underestimate your innate ability to make me smile.
Every fucking time.
How you respond to all my brilliant rhymes, in kind
How when you whispered, “mine”
I knew.
It was completely
fucking
true.

I have to trust, be patient,
thrust as I am into the role of the girl (me) no one else can be.
Adventure will come calling, as though we’re kin.
So I’ll cast these thoughts to the wind,
arms spread,
the weight of my head
light.
Free of worry and concern
that my fortune lay under stone unturned.

And if by chance I walk away,
doesn’t mean I stop hoping for a day
When fate sees fit to follow through
And the road I ramble leads to you.

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Exploration of self.

March 22, 2016

This body, that I don’t stretch as often as I intend to, really really likes it when I do. Even now, sitting here, my toes find their way in and out, curling now and then, as though we’re practicing for the day we remember how to fly. Because things that fly must land now and again to remind themselves how it feels to be grounded.

These legs that feel amazing when they feel sun on them, that I’ve got wrapped in fleece right now, with an i.o.u in the pocket for a lazy sun sunday sometime. With knees that pop when climbing stairs, as though to feel like we’re practicing for altitude, up or down matters not, by displacing air.

These hands that know well how to hold a pen, even if it’s not exactly as my grandmother believed one should hold a pen (what are they teaching you in school these days, if not how to hold a pen!), and are happy to cramp up from the act of scribbling my mind’s eye on dead trees because maybe there will be massages?

Arms that want to squish, to emulate wind and swoop, to wrap and weave and weigh themselves down with a load we’re confident we can carry.

Feet, bare or clad in shoes, could teach arms a thing or two about carrying weight. And dancing. And the moon. No one understands the moon as well as bare feet.

This face that looks at itself in the mirror and feels so familiar that sometimes it doesn’t recognize itself as being worthy of perused. That loves to be woken up with a damn warm close to hot facecloth especially on sinus days. That has freckles it forgets about until that sunny day i.o.u is cashed in (oh yeah! on my nose!). That has it on very good authority, confirmation that it is a cute face, with wrinkles packed with laughter and lines that spell out secrets that aren’t very secret at all because face gives it away every time with the way it can’t help but smile.

This head that is sometimes stood on because feet get tired and head enjoys a good dizzy now and then. Head that is firmly attached even when it’s running away with itself. Head that recently remembered to let heart know what it’s thinking, and discovered that yes, they are on the same page of a very lovely story.

Mind that appreciates head, even when it forgets to pay the rent. Mind that could be more self aware, full of itself, mindful of mind. As well as the rest. And probably needs to get out more, it does spend a lot of time indoors with it’s own thoughts, forgetting that thoughts unshared have no chance to bloom unless exhaled calmly, as with breath.

Heart that beats to a rhythm constant and subjective. An organ that if asked, what letter would you most like be used to describe you, would choose yes.
This heart is my own and the better for sharing.

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Unlocked; finding a way to level up

March 21, 2016

Speaking with a friend earlier tonight about the feeling of being locked into surface. Skimmed without digestion.
Glanced at and not really noticed.
The way it feels to look at my phone, and literally seconds later when someone asks me the time, having no idea because I don’t really see anything.

It makes me dizzy to be so unobservant. It makes me wonder what the fuck I’m doing with my time, why I can’t be bothered to fill it with things that make me present, if indeed that is something I crave.

I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write with accountability. How to make words mean something more than an abstract consideration on the other side of a cursor. How to make pens bleed righteously, selflessly, happily, for the cause that is exploration of an ability to make the senses tangible.

I’ve become so accustomed to reading articles on the internet, not books. To write stories that don’t tell me much and inhabit white boxes of formless intention.
No back story, no depth. A snapshot that doesn’t tell enough of a story to make me want to continue to read.

It’s so easy to blame the winter. It’s been cold, it’s been grey, it’s been meh. And there will be days that will be hard. But there is almost never an excuse.

There will always be an excuse for those who need to pass the buck. Who need to live in a world where it’s never their fault when things go wrong. Who need to own nothing except the sense that they’ve been wronged somehow, that they’re entitled to a better life.

Fuck being that guy.

I want to be a girl with the depth of a keyhole, who felt as though she contained worlds beyond that door. But lacked the courage to unlock it because she was afraid the room was empty.

Perhaps she was afraid of being lost.

Or, of being found.

 

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