Sunday, February 17, 2013

Big news.

Hey, blog world.

You may have noticed if you're here often, but I'm tired here. I'm tired of blogging here. I'm not good at it anymore.

So I have a new blog [here]. You can head on over there and follow along, if you like, but it's not going to be like this. I'm not good at this whole ambiguous, poetic, cryptic, exhausting blogging. And I'm sure I've started to bore you.

So. I'm going to try my hand at fashion blogging, maybe. Expect music and art and, well, joy. I guess that's maybe what's been missing around here, and I think I'm just ready for a clean slate.

I hope I'll see you over at

For the last time.
All my love,

Saturday, February 16, 2013

An end-of-era homage.

This is an homage to a little poem called little infinities [here] by my friend called Avery. I feel like I can't take hardly any credit for anything beautiful about this piece, because the creative credit really goes to Avy, and the rest of it is just because I got lucky and ended up with a lot of really nice people in my life. xoxo

Phosphorus beauty, you never needed anybody, but the world is on your doorstep; it's begging for you to let it in. The world is yours more in its music than its microscope lenses, and years and years from now, they'll thumb through your notebooks and say, "God must be real; He has to be." There are things that you know and there are things that you are.

Xanax beauty, no one's ever going to love you more than I do, no matter how hard they try, and believe you me, they'll try so hard. You see the world through real, honest glasses, never rose colored and never graying, just the way it is, and then you smile at it. There are things you should fear and there are things you should embrace.

Pianissimo beauty, your sheer athletic bravado, I thought I knew love and then I saw you at my piano. You stepped out of a jazz age, something like a lullaby, and I wonder what you wonder about, how maybe you see thirty-second notes in the grass, or maybe you just see them on the tips of your fingers. There is A flat and there is B flat minor. There are the things that you say and the things that you laugh about.

Long-legged beauty, I still cry when someone whispers your name. Numbers drop, lungs expand, starter gun shot, and I still cry when I watch you running. Your heart and your mind are separate things; you and me are separate things; your socks and mine are separate things. There are things that I'll remember and things that I'll miss.

Philadelphia beauty, I've never loved something so much as I love the way the sun loves you. You never found home and you're never letting go of that, climb on a plane, see the world, touch the sunshine and never turn back, but I'll always set you a place at the dinner table. There are things you pack and there are things you cling to.

Medicinal beauty, you spend most nights on my family room couch, simultaneously making me wish I was you and terrifying me that I will become you. Let your hair curl. These are my hands. I am tall and you are tall and we both wear heels and that makes sense to me. You don't get to pick your relatives. There are the grades you'll get and there are the gravestones you'll see.

Ink-filled beauty, it's you I want to be when I grow up. I know you see poems in the streets and we'll write them together, toss them out the window, call for gun control, and die together, and you'll still answer the phone when I call at 1 am. These are the perks of being an insomniac. There are the things that you talk about and the things that you write about.

Scriptural beauty, your aggression felt like a personal insult, and now it just feels like home. Smarter than all of us but still having trouble with homophones, if I'm here to humble you, you're here to fix me. There are promises you can break and there are promises you can't.

Laundry Room beauty, do I thank you often enough? You're not excitable, but you're charitable, and I like the way you like the heat. I'll kiss you goodbye and set off into the world, broke except for your phone calls, broken except for the lunch you packed me -- what you asked of me was easy, and how many ways can I say that I'm sorry before you know what I mean? There are the children who will never leave you and there are the children who will never forget to tell you they love you before they close the car door.

All my love,

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

This is Mambo no. 5.

The truth is shaped like this: I am tired now -- but I am not tired all the time anymore. The mid-day caffeine wears off by late evening, but by then I have usually done enough to allow myself to be exhausted. This is how things go now.

For a thousand nights I spun completely out of control. I don't mean that in a dramatic, wild, self-pitying manner. I'm simply saying that for a thousand nights I thought I had direction, but I did not. The stars used to whisper things to me like, "What happened to Miss Independent?" and "Stop screwing it up or you'll regret it," and "Have you stepped on the scale lately? You're letting yourself go," but I, insomniac, mumbled to the oblivion, "Do you hear something?" and followed after the cries of, "Addy! You beauty!" and "Addy! You've got legs for days and hair for years!" and "Addy! You. You're perfect." It's easier to hear lovely, screamed lies over whispers of truth from the depths of the sky.

Look. I'm not trying to tell any of you how to live your life or say that these are my mistakes and I am perfect now so save yourself the pain and learn from me. What I'm telling you is that mistakes are part of life. You're not going to get out unscathed, I can tell you that much. You're not going to come out of this, not out of high school or out of life, unscarred, natural hair color, un-inked, flawless.

Allow me to enlighten you on perfection: You're never, ever going to get there. Not in your eyes. Not in God's. Not in the eyes of your mother or your publisher or your director. Perfection is an ideal. It's what will tie you to the bed every morning and hold a knife to your wrist and snicker, "Just say the word." Perfection will drown you, perfection stuck Sylvia Plath's head in the oven, Bukowski drank perfection into oblivion. Perfection will rain on your parade, rain on your nice hair-do, rain on your newly-washed car.

Now I don't know about you, but I know about me, I've had 17 years to learn about me, and I've gotten tired of realizing every single day that I will never reach perfection, a truth so perfectly articulated by a ballet teacher:"You will never reach perfection."

But I don't feel good. I don't feel healthy or skinny or spiritually present, and I think it's because I keep letting perfection strap me to the bed every single solitary morning. So I think I'm going to wake up now, for heaven's sake, because I'm sick of rope-burnt wrists and flat hair and fear, because "you will never reach perfection," I know, I know, "but you should never stop striving." Remember that part?

So remember me. Plant Forget-Me-Nots at my grave; bury me beneath the sky of a merciful God. Remember the long, skinny fingers of my life. Take care of the words I'll leave behind. Let me answer the rumors before you taint them: Yes, every day is Hamlet, and no, I don't think about you often.

The truth is shaped like this: I'm never going to die -- the best never really do, but I'm not going to be perfect, I'm coming out like the rest of you, scarred, fake blonde, tattooed, blemished, but today is the day I say to perfection, "I hope you'll clean that up when you're done," because I say that with a little caffeine and the right shoes, I'll conquer the entire universe.

All my love,

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

A realization (among other things).

I fell in love with someone like you.

Someone with your eyes and your hair who smelled like you used to when I would wake you up early. They had your voice and your house and your mouth.

But I fell in love with someone who had longer fingers than you do. I fell in love with someone who never stopped holding me like you did or looking at me like you did or whispering the things you whispered to me in June. I fell in love with someone who had better musical tastes and laughed louder and read music.

I guess it took me five months to realize I was in love with someone who didn't exist, but I suppose that's okay, because at least it only took me that long.

New. York. A. Week. From. Thursday.
All my love,

Friday, January 25, 2013

The space between perfection and despair is called nostalgia.


No, not yet, not right now.

It's 12:36 am as I type this, and I'm still fully dressed, and the truth is that I don't even know what I'm doing here. Like, here. In this blog. Because I don't even know if I like blogging or if I'm trying to hang on to those days when the people who came up in my reading list were my friends, and they had blogs that were beautiful and unique and then they disappeared off the face of the earth.

The point is, Becca, Lehi drama girl? Thank you. I'm glad you like this sort of thing. You can always comment, you know. That goes for all of you, because I'm still trying to figure out if you guys, the ones in the corner with the tiny icons, actually exist, and if it even matters to you that I create something you might like to read.

Also I'm crying. Because nostalgia hit me hard today. And it hit fast, like clotheslined me, train to the stomach, I don't think I'll ever find Avery and Kyle and Matt and a cardboard-cut-out Kaitlyn in my bed in December ever again. I've never hated the way we're rolling with the punches so much, just keeping secrets now because that's what people who don't watch fireworks together on New Years Eve together do. I feel like putting my fist through a wall over that. No one calls me because the phone doesn't ring. I'm not blaming anyone. 

And Benjamin -- I just had this vision of Benjamin today when I was standing in that foreign auditorium and I knew exactly what it would be like if he'd been standing there next to me: Someone would've called him the best actor they'd ever seen and he wouldn't have known how to take that and then he probably would've picked me up and paraded me around like I was the best thing that ever happened to him, because, in a way, we were the best thing that ever happened to each other. You guys, me and Ben? We literally wrote the same stories sometimes without even knowing it. We would've made up a stupid song together. We would've rolled our eyes at how generally annoying and weird theater people are en masse, loving ourselves a little too much, but feeling okay about it, because deep down we love you, too.

Train to the stomach.

Hailey James is the most incredible person I've ever met.

Train to the stomach.

My uncle died on Monday. We visited him for the first time in months on Sunday afternoon. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I was in the right place at the right time. For once.

Train to the stomach.

I went to the film festival. The writer shook my hand and told me I could be him when I grew up.

All I think about these days is the future, and that's a train to the stomach.

There are people in my bed because we're going to the funeral on Saturday. Funerals are for the living, though that does not make them any more or less beautiful and sad and imperative.

And yes, Ross Lee, I think you're very handsome, which I figured I would bring up someday, but apparently Kaden beat me to the chase. If you're reading this, I admire you from afar and would you like to hang out sometime.

Aubrey (Audrey). Cody.

I think it's time I dealt with the fact of waking up tomorrow (today).

Goodnight, I guess.

I'm sorry about this one.

Macbeth 2:2
All my love,

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Speak for Yourself (installation no. 5?)

So yay for SFYS again. And yay because some of you showed up and some of you read and I love you all a whole dang lot. I must say it's a little intimidating to read with a larger-than-life Anis behind you, but it's nice and also inspirational. I hope you know I paid $50 to get in there because of this: WE'RE PUBLISHING A BOOK. It's full of beautiful things like Avery Taylor and Rachel Smith and me and Roah and I hope you will buy it and read it, because (however biased I am) I think it'll be nice. Plus Kyle's making new t-shirts, and I can't wait because apparently they have some cool skull on them? I don't know. But I'll be sporting one soon enough.

The point is, this was my contribution to SFYS last night, brand new thing, written day of, and here you go. I'll say no more.

Lunch with Eve: Discussions on Apples and other Forbidden Fruits

Eve ate that apple because she was bored.
Sex-starved and overly-curious, she ate it because she could.
I know this because she told me over lunch last weekend.
Allow me to blaspheme for a moment here: Eve, eating that apple,
she was a real first-wave feminist, so, like, take that, Gloria.

And me? I ate my own Forbidden Fruit,
hook, line, and sinker.

So Eve and I discuss liberation and regret.
She says, "Time heals all things."
I'm impatient.
Eve got half the Bible for some catharsis,
but I have another idea: At the age of 17, haikus for
every boy I've ever kissed; some were serpents, some were fruits.

They go like this:

1: Took you long enough,
You darling, awful kisser.
Love you just the same.

2: Your lips are so big,
and I still hate you some days,
but you're so practiced.

3: You said sorry 'til
I believed there were things to
be real sorry for.

4: Your tongue on my teeth,
you hear what you want to hear.
I never said "love."

5: I still think you are
a liar who broke Marley's
fragile innocence.

6: To this day, I think
you are my soul mate, 'cause we
write the same stories.

7: In May, your first kiss.
What we meant was we think you
deserve the kisses.

8: I should have listened
when Connor White told me you
act like a teen girl.

9: By now, I've used up
all the syllables I have
to write about you.

10: That night: French kisses.
My dear, nous l'avons cassé.
Je suis désolé.

11: Paid you with a kiss
for your photography skill.
It was a win-win.

12: You? Forbidden fruit.
I'm dancing with regret now,
but it's not your fault.

So now I ask, "Eve, what now?"
She says this: "Me and you? We sure aren't the Virgin Mary."
The irony is not lost on either of us.

"I'm not much, but I'm all I have."
All my love,

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Life without Iphone is still actually life, dang it, and other epiphanies as of late.

So here I am mourning the loss of my cell phone. Literally, like, soul dressed in black, angry at the world because I don't have a cell phone right now. How pathetic is that? Of everything that came crashing down around me, I was more worried about this gorgeous piece of Apple technology than really anything else. Clearly, I need to get my life together.

I exhaust myself, too, everybody, not just you. I know that I wear you out, work you sour, talk to loud, talk too often, interrupt you, overwhelm you -- I get it. I'm working on it. I mean, I'm trying to apologize to you, or sort of explain myself, it's just that I'm really, really spilling over with so many words that I don't know what to do with them.

What I'm getting at is that I'm trying. I'm trying to stop mourning my own stupid cell phone and stop interrupting you when you're talking, because I don't mean to. I don't mean to be overwhelming. I'm not ever going to be "the quiet girl in the back of the temple" (get it, Laura?), I realize that, but I'm just going to make this attempt to get my life together for heaven's freaking sake.

Anyway. In this quest to get my life together and whatnot, I've made some interesting discoveries, even in just a week and a halfish, but mostly this: People, just by nature, are better than we give them credit for. They'll come swing by your house in the morning and give you a ride to school in their warm, stick-shift car for no reason other than the fact that you asked if you could please pretty please have a ride because the bus is truly awful and going there in the freezing cold with (no offense) the bus people is just a really painful experience.

And, in my own oh-so-biased opinion, I think my people are the best people (I don't see why I would've picked them as my people in the first place if I didn't think they were le creme de la creme anyway). My people harmonize so lovely, and I like their haircuts, even if everybody else isn't used to it yet, and I guess this is my apology for how long it's taken me to realize this about every last one of you. You're lovely even in the pictures of yourself that you hate. I even like your nose.

In other news, I'm still trying to figure out what the point of this blogging thing is, which is funny because I've been at it for six years now. Is it a place to put pictures of your mission call and then your temple marriage and then your babies that's art-ier than the Facebook? I don't understand it. I never asked for all 147 of you go come over here and read something I had to say. But I guess the point is that I keep blogging here because I can write. I really can. I just came this way.

I'm not trying to brag. We all come seemingly able to do something or other. Like, some of you just get it when we talk about derivatives and linearization and I'm like, "I'm sorry, but can I just write a sonnet about this or something?" Some of you can sing, my gosh you can really sing or really dance or really actually care about people and listen when they talk or maybe you can teach -- no matter, what I'm saying is that we're all just sort of born doing something and you can't quite explain why. At least that's the way I see it.

But I'm having these epiphanies of being and self and relationships, and here I am writing about revolution: Revolution, it seems, finds its way quite literally into the bloodstream of the young. It is in those years between leaving home, developing personal opinions and beliefs, and realizing the fragility of both government and life that revolution plants her most beautiful and fertile seeds, creating revolutionaries with just enough life behind them to understand the importance of sculpting a future worth dying for.

For some reason writing that paragraph and tucking it in between discussions of ideas getting their hands on bayonets and the way Victor Hugo has created Marius as a sort of characterization of himself as a young man makes me feel... better. Because I can do that. I can write that. I can create these things like you can derive and linearize.

The point is, I'm trying to say thank you for being lovely to me and to everybody else. People are usually better than we think they are, and for heaven's sake, it's time you realized that in yourself, because I feel like the day you realize you're good at whatever it is you're good at is going to be the day you can stop mourning your own dang cell phone.

Oh, and look at this. Morgan Jo Nelson made my blog all beautiful, just like she is all beautiful.
All my love,