Thursday, March 29, 2012
I want to be weightless. I mean that in a very literal, very anorexic sense. I'd like to step on your toes and not hurt you because I weigh nothing at all. I mean that I'd like to appease the media, in a way. If I were weightless, I'd have achieved everything I'm told that femininity is: nothingness. Yeah, I'd have achieved everything I'm told femininity is: everything. If I were weightless, I'd be both nothing and everything at once -- like the nothingness, the weightlessness would make me beautiful, and the beauty would make me everything -- beauty would make me youthful and evil and god-like, and beauty is what I need to be, I suppose, because from what I'm told, I can never be the president, and it's important to wear make-up whenever I go out. I should be a size two with a bachelor's degree and 2.5 children and one dog by my early thirties. With weightlessness, I could speak only when spoken to.
I am not, however, completely irrational. I understand that weightlessness in a literal and anorexic sense is unachievable, and then I remember that I don't care about the appeasement of the media much. You're like, "Appeasement of the media?" and I'm like, "Whatever."
But I'd still like to be weightless in a metaphorical sense, you know? I'd like to wake up without heavy boots, and when I walk, I'd like to be so perfectly weightless that I'm actually just floating half an inch off the ground. It's weightless like the suspension in the space between black and white, between right and wrong, between awake and asleep. I want to be weightless like feathers are weightless, and then the wind will catch on my hipbones and spin me around, and we will dance together, the wind and I.
So just listen to me for a second, okay? Okay? Read my lips, okay? I am not running away. This is not a defense mechanism. I am not avoiding life or reality or my feelings. I'm looking my own feelings, my own life, my own reality in the eye (and they are mine, you know) and saying, "Yeah, I'll face you." Yeah, I'll face them. I will strip them down to their own terrifying nakedness, and when they are nothing, I will be nothing. Nothing in a good way. Nothing in a metaphorical weighlessness.
I know how to get there, and I don't want to have anymore heavy boots conversations. I like it up here. I like it here when I have wings. Up here, it smells like sleep.
"He's got his Ph.D. in poetry."
"That sucks for poems."
All my love,
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
I like to think about all the things the soles of my shoes have seen. All the sunsets and the angels with wings too small to let them fly. I like to think about the stones they've stumbled on and the cars they've been in while I slept, the classes they've been in while I slept, the closets they've been in while I slept. I think about the people they've seen -- the girl across the room in my math class and the boys across the sandwich shop and the woman in line in front of me at the grocery store. I think about all the kisses they've seen and the coffee shops and corners of the mall that I don't go to anymore. I think about the way the soles of my shoes have seen me cry a lot and laugh a lot and forget a lot of things that I don't want to remember anymore.
And I think about all the times the soles of my shoes have seen you. They've noticed the way you breathe, you know? They've noticed the way you sit and the way you move and the way your hair falls. The soles of my shoes would recognize your handwriting anywhere. They've noticed the colors in your eyes, yeah? Yeah. People forget to notice the colors in other people's eyes sometimes, I forget to notice the colors in other people's eyes sometimes, but the soles of my shoes have seen the colors in yours, and they're a fan. (I know because they told me so.)
What I really like to think about is all the things the soles of my shoes will see before I die. All the libraries and more sunsets and angels with wings that are big enough to actually lift them off the ground. More kisses? Yeah, the soles of my shoes will see more kisses. I like to think about the streets of Paris and Rome and Tokyo and the Louvre, like a city of its own. I like to think about all the fire escapes they'll see.
And you. I like to think about looking down the row someday, looking down the pew, and seeing you sitting there again, and how the soles of my shoes will see me looking, and they will see you, and they will love you like I love you, even though we don't seem to come around often enough. But we still love you, the soles of my shoes and I.
Yeah, we still love you, the soles of my shoes and I.
All my love,
Saturday, March 17, 2012
We wake up every day and we do it again. And again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.
And somewhere along the line, we became what we've become. How do we become what we are?
I'm sixteen years old and I've read a lot of books. Where I come from, you either like me, or you don't: There's no gray area with me. Except for God. God is gray area. I think I know about heartbreak, but I probably don't. It took me a long time to realize that I don't have to like everyone. Don't have to like everything. I have a weakness for boys in windbreakers, boys with great hands, great cheekbones, boys who like great literature. I like cats with human names. I like cats. I say a lot of things.
And you, you're almost 19 years old and you've done your fair share of kissing. You don't understand the things I understand. I don't understand the things you understand. Whatever, you're over it. Yeah, you're 18 years old, and you call yourself a Christian, say you're giving up a couple years for it, but I don't think you're anywhere near as Christian as the boy who wears too much black who we think had friends before us, or that boy who looks a lot like Calvin from Calvin and Hobbs -- yeah, you're giving up a couple of years for this, but those two have been living it for their entire lives, because that's who they are. Are you offended by that? I don't mean for you to be.
There's a girl who got a 33 on the ACT, perfect grades, comes from a family of people who don't even know what that means. I think they should, and if they don't yet, they will. They will. Sometimes I forget to ask questions, but she keeps sticking around.
There's Avery with that hair, and Kaitlyn with that dog, and Morgan with her dad. There's something about beating hearts and things coming in threes and dinner for two.
And we're these things. We've read a lot of books and we like cats and we've done our fair share of kissing and we call ourselves Christian and we come from a family that doesn't even know what that means. We keep sticking around and there's something about beating hearts and things coming in threes and dinner for two. We're these things, and I'm not sure how we became these things, but I think it might be because of all the times we've failed.
I've read a lot of books because I wasn't good at that for a long time. People like me, people hate me because I failed in their eyes. And 33 and perfect grades didn't do everything perfect. And Kaitlyn had to fail a lot of times to get that dog. Avery had to fail to cut that hair for a lot of years. She now successfully has the longest hair of anyone I know.
Yeah, we failed a lot, but we became what we've become.
There's something about beating hearts and things coming in threes and dinner for two.
Fashionably late, as always.
All my love,
Friday, March 9, 2012
I don't mean to offend you, but I've something to say.
If I die tomorrow, I hope the right people come to my funeral. I know, I know. This is a very touchy subject for a whole bunch of people right now. I know that a lot of this is because I didn't know any of the people who a lot of you have been feeling the loss of over the last couple months. I know. Maybe I'd feel differently if I had, and I don't feel like I'm adequately expressing what I'm trying to say, but I'm giving it a shot. I don't know. So if you're reading this? Give me the benefit of the doubt.
If I die tomorrow, I hope the right people come to my funeral. I mean that in the most literal way possible. I mean that if I die tomorrow, I know my family will be there, and I hope that the fellowship is there, and Roah, too. I hope August comes and January comes and February comes, even though I'm not sure who cares less, August or January? I hope the "you smell like Addy!" people come. I hope the "you're going to go somewhere with those words of yours" people come. I hope the "I've opened my heart and my kitchen to you" people come. I hope the "come to seminary"s and the "just because 7 over 11 is a over b, doesn't mean a and b are 7 and 11"s and the "sing with me"s and the "Addyson"s and the "goodnight, my darling"s and the "our uterus"s and the "If I ever have a first kiss, it's going to be you"s and the "ttywifhol"s and the "I love you even though you vomit in hotel bathrooms after concerts"s and the "my cute pokemon wishes to make your acquaintance"s people show up. I hope the "I miss your stupid face"s and the "if you only knew how really beautiful you are"s and "It's an such an Abe day you don't even know"s and the "fiend"s and the "you determine your own fate"s show up, and for heavens sake! I really hope Katie comes.
Bluntly speaking, I don't want the people who didn't a.) know me, b.) speak to me, c.) like me, d.) care about me, or e.) all of the above at my funeral.
I guess what I'm getting at is that if I die tomorrow, I don't want to suddenly be appreciated. I'm not saying that everybody needs to appreciate me all of a sudden because I might die very soon (in fact, this isn't about me at all, but I'm an easy person to write about when I'm writing), but really that I'm exhausted of the fact that when people die young, they've suddenly become a big symbol for youth and young love and how much more life they had left to live. I feel like when people die young, everyone seems to lose track of who they actually were. I take that back: Not everyone loses track of who they actually were, but the general populous has a way of getting a little caught up. When you're young, not everyone likes you or knows you or hears you pray or sees you cry or makes you laugh or knows what the inside of your journal looks like. I don't think anyone who didn't should pretend they did after you die.
I guess I don't mean that you can't go to their funeral if you never read their journal, just that when you go to their funeral, you shouldn't pretend that you did.
And, of course, when people die young, there are people who sincerely hurt, and I don't think dying young is something that should, in any way, be taken lightly, but you know what? I'd like my death to be a big deal for the people who actually like me and know me and hear me pray and see me cry and make me laugh and know what the inside of my journal looks like. What the inside of my heart looks like.
I'd like to be taken seriously both in life and in death. Please don't turn me into a symbol is all.
And I'm sorry if you're offended, but all I'm saying is that if the kid across the row in your math class dies tomorrow, don't pretend you loved him if you've never looked him in the eyes and asked how he's doing or complimented his shirt and mentioned how nice his eyes are, and you know about his eyes because you've actually looked at them. I'm not at all saying that you shouldn't be supportive of losses or that you should deal with death in a flippant manner or that you should only go to the funerals of your nearest dearest, of course you can go to the kid across the row in your math class's funeral, but don't go and say he was your best friend (he wasn't) after he dies. If you want to know him, know him. Know him now. NOW.
Or maybe what I'm saying is please care about the people you care about.
Or maybe what I'm saying is please celebrate youth all the time, not just when it's ripped away from you.
Or maybe what I'm saying this that all of those people who I hope come to my funeral? I love you guys. I love you guys a whole lot.
Or maybe what I'm saying is please appreciate artwork before the artist is dead. Yeah. I think that's what I'm saying.
Though the sound overpowers.
All my love,
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
So I don't care if you nit-pick. I'm sure you'll find something wrong with this if you look hard enough -- the Youtube viewers have a lot to say, that's for sure, but this? This is inspiring. It's something so worth fighting for, something so worth living for.
And there's that million dollar question, you know? Why am I here? I think why we're here is left up to us. And I think we're here to fight for something, because things don't always go as planned, because that's beauty. Beauty is fighting for something worth fighting for. So I know not everyone will agree with me, but I don't think that matters. This is what life is about, people. This is why we're here. To make a difference. Sure, sure, if God didn't want it, He wouldn't let it happen, but that isn't the way God works, my friends. So it's happening.
"The world we live in has new rules." The world we live in has new rules. The world we live in has new rules. The world we live in has new rules.
We live in the most developed, most wired, most intelligent society yet, and it's time we do something real. This is real, everybody. "When we heard about injustice, we cared, but we didn't know what to do. Too often, we did nothing. But if we're going to change that, we have to start somewhere. So we're starting here."
So why are you here? You tell me, yeah? You tell me.
Joseph Kony 2012. Make him famous.
All my love,
Monday, March 5, 2012
This is some serious stream of conscience. My apologies, but not really. Sorry I'm not sorry, I guess.
I had this good idea for revenge, but it wasn't really very good and I deleted it. It was who I was back then, not back now.
I think it takes two to tango. Sometimes. But someone has to ask for the dance.
I don't know how to feel. I don't know how to make sense of myself. I don't know if I have a favorite color. I don't know what color my own eyes are, and I certainly don't know what color yours are. I don't know what I want. To catch up on sleep? A toaster that pops the bread up when it's finished? I don't know. Oscar says, "I feel everything." The therapist says, "Maybe everyone feels everything," or something to that effect. Oscar says, "But it's worse for me." Therapist: "Maybe everyone thinks it's worse for him." Oscar: "Maybe. But it really is worse for me."
I feel everything. Maybe everyone feels everything. But it's worse for me. Maybe everyone thinks it's worse for him? Maybe. But it really is worse for me.
I get myself into crazy situations that make for good journal entries. The things that should go into normal, religious-affiliated journals never make it in. God never makes it in, even though I know He should. I'm just trying to keep him in my normal life at this point. I'm trying to find God in these fragments. I think He's in that stained glass window, on top of that cathedral, stretched across Michelangelo's ceiling? Maybe that's what God is in the end.
I don't think I'll ever measure up to Virginia Wolfe or Mr. Foer. I don't think I'll ever be the first in line. Maybe if I knew what I wanted I would be able to be there, be on time, be. Be. Be. Be. I sat on a bee at the beach once, but I love the beach anyway. I threw up a peanut butter shake once, but I love peanut butter anyway.
The Ivy League stopped wanting me when I made a bad airplane in the seventh grade. NASA stopped wanting me when I stopped wanting NASA. You stopped wanting me when I got distracted.
I'm scared because nothing is proportional. I'm scared because I don't think this will make sense to you. I'm scared because this might make sense to you.
"You're not my type."
"Sorry I don't weight 86 lbs."
"Sorry I'm not Cache Thompson."
All my love,