"What I wanted was mercy, but I didn't know what that word meant."

Let me warn you up front: This post isn't going to be anything artistic or even anything real, but, by all means, read on.

I have to tell you something. It's this: I'm stuck. Writing used to be so easy for me. I could turn anything into a poem or a blog post or a journal entry or at least a clever email to Hayley Walker. But then Hayley and I stopped emailing each other and my journal got more and more "Artifacts of Note" and less and less actual words about actual ideas and for sure it got less than ever actually developed and fleshed-out ideas -- and I hate the word "flesh" but look at me now. And I worry about this blog. All I seem to do is write at anonymously at people who might even read about themselves and then they probably don't even know it's them, but that's narcissistic of me to think half the people I write at actually read this, you know?

I just want to give you something beautiful. I want to give you all ideas that are developed and fleshed-out and I want you to read what I have to say and relate and be touched and hopefully I've put words to something you haven't quite been able to put words to. I've always been grateful for Avery Taylor and Buddy Wakefield for being able to do that for me. I'm grateful for Avery and Buddy for putting words to my own self when I can't, which seems to be happening more and more often than it used to.

I think this is called writer's block. They say it happens to everyone. I keep googling "cures for writer's block" and "when will writer's block go away" and "i hate writer's block so much yeah it sucks."

I have one line. That's it. That's all I've got. I've got, "Chew your food, darling. Stop swallowing things whole." That's all. And I don't know where to go from there. I've got something about eggshells, but I don't know what it is. It's on the tip of my tongue, but I feel like swallowing it instead of spitting it out.

You hear about writer's block all the time. Like, it's a thing, right? And it happens to me sometimes, but only for a week or two or something. Not like this. This is like nothing is getting down on paper right and all the stuff that used to bleed out of me, some of which was even pretty good sometimes, it's just... like blood clots or something.

Plus there's this theory that everything you could possibly say has already been said by someone somewhere at sometime in the existence of mankind. Like, what's the point of even talking if everything you ever say has already been thought up and vocalized by somebody else?

All I do anymore is grocery shopping and yoga. I want my words back. If you find them, please please please let me know. Show up on my doorstep or call me up or send me a telegram and say, "Hey, baby, I found your words! I know where they went!" Give me their longitude and latitude, and I'll go anywhere for them. Anywhere. I miss them. And when I find them, I'll keep them on a leash. I'll lock 'em up.

Say a prayer for me. Send good vibrations my way.

I already tried a change of scenery. Maybe I just have bad karma lately.

I just didn't think it would make me this sad.

"Smoking is not allowed on any Delta flight."

All my love,

Addy

Wanderlust part ii.

Last week, I saw an entire city rise into the sky. One minute it wasn't there, and the next minute, it was. And me? I felt like God -- yeah, yeah, blaspheme, I know -- but I felt like God, like first there was nothing and I said, "Let there be everything," and there it was.


Poetry about that place basically writes itself.


And I didn't miss you, and I didn't want to come home, but I forgot how much I like it here. The times I like home the best are when I've been somewhere very different for a very long time.


I dare you.
All my love,
Addy

Iambic pentameter is the only thing that actually exists.

I'm going to try and explain this to you, but you might not understand what I'm saying. Bear with me. Here: I'm never going to die. I mean, I'm going to die, but not really. That's not going to really happen. I'm Tuck Everlasting. I'm Addy Everlasting. I'm never going to die.


I mean, I understand the facts. I know I'm going to roll over one day and be twenty years old, and that isn't really that far away. But I'm also going to be 35 and then 40something and then 68 and then I'll be 80 years old one day, eyesight and body completely shot. But... but, in reality, I might never get there -- literally -- but also... Also, the only thing that's real is right this exact second.


I get it. I'll never be as young as I am right this second, and I've never been this old before, but those are just things people say. I'm actually just infinite and unending and I'll always be exactly like I am right now. You'll be exactly like you are right now. Mathematically speaking, we'll all always be a mean age of 17.5. Emotionally, we'll all always be a mean age of 17.5 -- "seventeen years old and invincible" -- and we've been this way since the dawn of time, always have been, always will be, which is bizarre, because we definitely haven't always been this way, and I'm not even as young as I was when I started writing this sentence.


It's just, like, these are the golden-est of the golden years. I've gotten everything I've ever wanted. I've got ten fingers and ten toes and I can run and dance and hear and sing and everything is a thousand miles an hour and all achey and breathless and blissful, and it's really cliche, but, "in that moment, we were infinite," and in these last few months, we have been infinite, just forever suspended in the space between the beginning and the end of time, all infinitely youthful, or something.


I've just never really thought about it. I've always known that I'll grow old, but it hasn't been an actual reality until now. No, that's not true. It's not an actual reality even now. The weirdest part is that some part of me remembers the past, like, life before last August or life before last week, but none of it's really real. Even though Old Life was wonderful and beautiful a lot of the time, but it isn't really real anymore. The only reality is now. 


The only reality is long hair and the way things intertwine and Scout the Dog and Atticus the Cat. Reality and Infinity have nothing to do with the emptiness of February that I filled up with phone calls or bad days when I started high school. Reality, Infinity, it's right now, unending, forever, so fake, so raw, so finite, but not. Not finite one bit.


We're never going to die. This is all we have. Just a oxymoronic, paradoxical, doublethink-y, finite infinity. We're just suspended forever in ever-marching time. Does that make sense?


I almost asked the librarian.
All my love,
Addy

2 June 2012: In which I make you seem complicated, cryptic, and desirable, which you are.

And everything's getting sticky, your upper lip in the sun, the backs of my knees in the sun, the way you won't kiss me. That's making things sticky. I'm used to getting what I want. You're used to being in control. You put me in my place for a minute there, but I'll win in the end, baby. I always win in the end, baby.

And I can't decide if you're Judas or Jesus yet, if you're more like Satan or more like the Holy Father, and maybe you haven't really made up your mind yet. I can't get enough of you. You can't get enough of you.

Spring likes to remind us she isn't done yet, like she'll sneak in and rain a little despite the sun, but summer is pulling out all the stops, Lest We Forget Her Beauty, Remember Oh Remember, and I'm into that. I think it's a nice idea, pulling out all the stops, Lest We Forget My Beauty, Remember Oh Remember.

So tell me what I have to do for you. Look like a model? Talk less about books? Talk less? I'm not saying I'll do it. I'm just asking.

I want to impress you. I want to baffle you. I want to stun you. I want you to wonder what I'm doing every minute of every day. I want to be something like famous to you. I want to be famous, books and papers about me, mostly lies about marriages I'm not having and divorces I'm not getting, and I want you to read about me, like I'm some sort of scandal that no one can get enough of. I want a picture with Freddy Mercury, despite the fact of his being dead, which sucks.

So are you impressed by messy hair and pointless musical trivia? If so, I'm set for years to come. But the truth is, I just want to know everything about you. I want to prod you about God and your preferences in winter sports.

And so far, here's what I've gathered about you: You get what you want, and you know what you want. You're true to that zodiac sign of yours, right down to your good ol' SPF 4. You might understand theories of the universe, and even if you don't, I think you might care a little bit about theories of the universe, which is, uh, pretty sexy, I guess. You don't like to be lonely, and you think about the presence of a higher power, and you sleep past noon, which is just so human of you, so teen boy of you. I love it. Your humanity makes you so harmless, makes you so dangerous, and oh my goodness, you're so handsome. That's a pretty toxic mixture, you know, because blatant humanity + second-glancy good looks + sometimes sleepless cynicism/usually sleepless hope just might = my downfall. For now.

This is war. I can feel it. We're too alike. We're frighteningly different.

And most of this has overwhelmingly literal undertones, but don't worry too much, darling, 'cause it's also kind of underwhelmingly metaphorical.

You keep a good poker face. Literally. Metaphorically.


So, do they make SPF a billion? Because I want that.
All my love,
Addy