Monday, October 22, 2012

My America With a Capital A

I allowed you to be my cosmos. I thought that was safe. I thought that was romantic. You were the stars in the sky, and I would never let you be my world, because then, even if you left, I still had the world. But, surprise!, you snuck in. You became my Eiffel Tower, my Great Wall of China. You became my mountains and my land masses and my seas. And then you left.

But it's not your fault. It's no one's fault. This is just how life goes. I don't blame you. You might be reading this. You're probably reading this. I don't blame you, my darling. I'm just sad. We never even had a song, and now, because of that, all music is you. I wish you could see how stunning you are when you sleep. I didn't mean for this to be what I wrote when I said I would.

What I can do now is celebrate the little successes: I wrote a beautiful essay in AP Lang today and didn't think about you once. I did yoga tonight; it felt just as good as it always does.
And I wish I believed in fate. And I wish I hadn't done that, let you sneak in. In June, we had the farthest thing from skinny love. It's almost November. I get sad when I think about my earring lying on your nightstand. Your nightstand is a filing cabinet. You are so beautiful. You made me so beautiful. I'm going to be sick now.

I'm grasping onto Warhol's weird weather balloon installation and the way you kissed me. There is an indefiniteness about this that shouldn't inspire hope, but it does. And look, look at me, I'm already the best at overcompensating: I curled my hair today. I'm singing so much. Like, even more than I used to. I'm singing Book of Mormon the musical. I don't want to talk about it. I'm right where you left me. I'll be here when (if) you come looking, probably. 

I think I'm going to fill my world with books now, like it was before you were my world, and books never hurt me. Books never hurt anyone. Welcome back into my life, House of Leaves. Nice to meet you, Angels in America. I know those are probably really bad decisions, but I'm growing accustomed to making those at this point.

The saddest part is that you're still my cosmos.

Marilyn Monroe.
All my love,

"There were days I wanted out.
But then You would go and do things
like dive into the Vancouver ocean,
big brilliant cliché poem that You are,
water rolling off Your back
as You swam toward a sunset
that hung like a sacred recipe painted
all the way around Your holy head.
And then there were the ways You caught me
moving back into my cave where the wheels turn,
same wheels that drove You off.
I should have told You
before talking in terms of Forever
that any given day wears me out and works me sour,
that there are nights when the sky is so clear
I stand obnoxious underneath it
begging for the stars to shoot at me
just so I can feel at Home.

What’s left of You now is a shrine
built from the pieces I kept of Your presence,
Your incredible stretch of presence.
It sits in Our room like a sandpiper
cross-legged and crying,
remembering the night we met
and the day You left, and the Light
shifting in between.
By the side of it stands a picture of the poem where I promised,
“You will never have another lonely holiday.”
The words “I Promise” and “Forever”
begged me not to use them
but sometimes I don’t listen to God,
so You can imagine how much it hurt
to let Your last birthday pass
with no word. August 3rd.
You weren’t the only one comin’ up lonesome.

Listen, if I had to make a list
of everything everywhere
- and I mean everything… everywhere -
the very last to-do on that infinite list of
every – single – thing – would be – to hurt You,
so I need You to know
that in an attempt to keep my promise
I did write a letter to You on Your birthday.

It was covered in stickers of flock-printed stars,
choir claps, and a bonfire of buttercups stuck in the air,
but when I finally drew enough courage
to send You all the Love in the World
my hand snapped off in the mailbox
from clenching.
It was returned to me with a gospelstitch, a hope stamp
and a note etched into the palm I had to pry open
with the pressure of pitching doves
reminding me
we agreed to let each other go.

There is a point when tears don’t work
to wash things away anymore.
Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.
I miss You so much some days
that I beg for the airplane to crash
with just enough time in the freefall
for scribbling “I Love You” across my chest.
That way – when they find my burning breast plate –
they will tell You how the very last thing I did with my life
was call out Your name.

A. R. L.

I know Your momma didn’t raise no sissy,
so it's best if I believe
that You’ve bounced back and been born again,
but in the bottom left corner of dreams
in the dark spot
where it gets windy and hollow
I can still see you flailing,
eating knuckle cake,
full torque and tender,
heart pounding from being pulled under,
feet bleeding from bracing for endings,
tongue dying to curse Forever
because promises murder us backwards
when people like me don’t keep them.

And sure, we all deserve absolution,
but especially You. You and Faith,
You've got the same hungerpunch,
same song
still rising off the watertrain running through the laws
of a moon dead set on daylight
digging marbles from the trees
in a Love not scared to make no sense
and monkey enough to see
the same devastating reason for living this life
My Giant
I promise You
these words have buckled my lips
so far back to the beginning
that I am now allowed only
so from my snap-chested heart spraying
fully flying
sending out the birds:
Today I stop believing in words.
Today all my visions converted to blurs
like the night We saw the Light
and I could not shut up
but I swear I was feelin’ silence."

-Buddy Wakefield

Monday, October 15, 2012

Surprise! I'm back and blogging, or The Day I Really Understood Hamlet.

To this day, I swear it: On that corner, you looked like Hamlet, but it might've just been the way the light hit your hipbones. You seemed like no stranger to brooding, and I am no stranger to disaster boys. You looked like a real glorious disaster.

I know what happens next: You go crazy, I go crazy, we both die, but not before you say a few beautiful things about sleep being the cousin of death, you look a little pale, and you're all, "Seems, madam? Nay, it is; I know not 'seems,'" which is a really brilliant line, and believe me, I love you for that one.

I have things to say, though, too, before I lose my mind and drown in a river: Like, "Lord, we know what we are, but not what we may be." Shakespeare took care of his ladies, old pal, and don't you forget it.

They say you might be gay for Horatio, but I'm going to pretend I never heard anything about that. Ignorance is bliss, as I always say.

And you're so angry, but it's brilliant. Really. I mean that. You deliver the To Be Or Not To Be: "To be or not to be -- that is the question:/Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,/Or to take arms against a sea of troubles/And, by opposing, end them." It's brilliant, of course. You're brilliant, of course, but then you're like, "Get thee to a nunnery." Scholars will argue for centuries whether you're protecting me from the antics of men or calling me a slut. I'll keep my opinions to myself.

But I've read enough to know what happens next: You go crazy, I go crazy, we both die. But today, before that has to happen, when you kiss me, I'll whisper into your mouth: "This above all: To thine own self be true." I think it's good advice. I'll take it as my own line now.

"This above all: To thine own self be true." And true that.

I would like an Iphone now.
All my love,

Monday, October 1, 2012

Manifesto Ultimatum: Day 8: Something That Has Made Me Cry

Do you have any idea how long it's been since I wrote a journal entry? My life is still happening, mind you, but words are not, and it's breaking my heart. 

I have writer's block still, so help me God.

And Connor leaves the day after tomorrow.

I'm just going to stop while I'm ahead.

"For most of history, Anonymous was a woman." -Virginia Wolfe
All my love,