The grass is singing
The birds are pecking,
Fighting over worms
The green grass sings
The pine tree sways, waving hello,
Kicked around in the breeze
Wake up, you’ll feel better when you stand
Your bed is warm, but it is empty
Nothing there but dreams
The grass is singing
I felt like I was on fire.
I felt like I was on fire when I read your tumblr. How is that even a word? “Tumblr”…
But then I started to read it again, most of the way through, half, fuck.
Poems about being cunty and getting fucked.
Other poems too.
Blame and shit talking.
As if none of it had been your fault in the first place. You, such an innocent specimen of the perfect female form.
I’ll giggle at you, but I won’t laugh.
This reminds me how rude you were.
I remember things differently, though I don’t know “who fired first”.
I remember losing my ability to forgive when I realized that you were never going to learn from those mistakes.
I remember when I figured out you’d never be able to love anyone the way they could love you,
Because, though you should love yourself, you shouldn’t love yourself too much. There is a time when you have to realize that a strength has become a weakness.
I remember that that’s when I stopped being in love with you. I remember just loving you.
I remember figuring out what you said when we first started dating.
“I’ve had exes tell me I’m selfish.”
What they must have meant by that.
I remember thinking that the word isn’t “selfish” the word is “self-centered”.
I remember feeling my love being wasted, no matter how much I put in. I remember nothing ever being enough for you. I remember turning cold. I remember being an asshole – each and every time.
Yeah, Squid ate my glasses; yes, I cried, just like I said in my text message. But I didn’t cry because I thought of you and missed you. I cried because Squid had done me the greatest favor. The glasses were one of the last things we had together that she didn’t destroy, gnaw, or irreversibly put her own hell hound mark on to cover up the memories of you and Olive. Squid saved me from you in ways I’m still finding each and every day. I didn’t cry when i burned the “box of Grace’s abandoned shit” in the alley behind the house I was living at. That felt good… That felt damn good. Did you feel that tremble through the earth this summer? Did you feel a part of yourself hurt just a little? No, you’ve locked feelings so deep you don’t know where you put them, haven’t you…?
I’m sad to see that you still hold on to the negative stuff. I’m sorry you’re having a hard time with this too.
I’m sorry that you feel like you “made” me.
Because you didn’t.
You didn’t give birth to me, you didn’t raise me to be polite and to think for myself; more importantly about anyone else. Those are things you’re not capable of instilling on a child, remember? You admitted that to me on so many different occasions. Fuck you were rude.
But what you did was pull me out of a situation that could have gone somewhere and into a situation that you had no intention of letting go anywhere. Because you’re incapable of letting yourself be happy. Because you’re a poet. I’m glad that you did it though, I never would have learned from Mix, who I’m no longer friends with – defending your name, if I might add – and would never have met Poppy, who has become one of the best friends a person can ask for. She really helped clean up a lot of bad habits you left behind.
I’m glad you’re back in Florida, getting back to the life you should have had.
I’m glad I’m still in Oregon, as far away from you as I can be without leaving the country.
I don’t put blame on you, or me, or anyone else. I remember that you left, and I remember why.
I’m glad you left.
I don’t want you back, and I think you’re reading me wrong if you think I do.
Yes, I miss you – but I’m glad you’re not around.
And yeah, I still love you. But even that will fade in time, without seeing you face to face.
Sometime’s people need to know that someone still thinks about them from time to time.
That they’re missed, that in some small way they’re loved.
I’m sad that you don’t have a clue what love can mean.
But seriously, there’s no need to be a bitch.
As I watch the world spin around me
The stars seeking to grasp my attention
Look here, no there, no everywhere
As we collide with your atoms
I can feel the universe pulling in through me
I can feel the blood thinning in my veins
How I’ve missed you
Making everything laughable
Everything I’ve heard tonight
Everything I’ve said
“What do I do if I can’t walk her off?”
I ask Poppy
“What do you do if you can?”
Nothing is a genuinely new experience any more. My thirst for something different, new, out of the ordinary bites at my insides like a pack of hungry dogs. It’s more than an anxiety now, more than a want. Further down the rabbit hole than a need. Everything is gray and boring. Until I was fed up, stir crazy, out of my mind with boredom. I woke up this morning, threw on my clothes walked out the front door and drove my car into the woods. I drove for twenty five minutes before stopping. I parked on the side of a gravel and mud logging road, pulled my keys from the ignition and exited the vehicle, slipping the keys into my pocket. I shut the door, not bothering to lock it, and ran directly North into the trees. Suddenly all the colors were bright and alive. The rain drops sang their familiar love and the ground beneath me was soft and welcoming. Every branch or fallen log supported my weight as I sprang from mossy patch to fallen log to leaf and dirt and ground. Sounds had taste and substance in the air, as if you could run along it’s tail and find the source of any noise close by. To close my eyes was to see the world just as I had left it with my eyes wide open, only now in color and shape and sound, from memory, yes, but more so from sense.
Two hours later I snapped back to the reality that I had no idea where I was, found my way back to the car, and left vowing that I would return with gear and supplies to make a more prolonged visit into the silence and peace of the wood.
I’m guessing being out there is going to do a lot more good than being frowned at by all this concrete.
I wake up wrapped in the same blanket, on the same bed, in the same room. The same place. The same day, over and over and over again. No matter what I do to change it, no matter how many times I try every minor detail in place of another. The numbers on the calender change, of course; my computer takes no shit when telling me the time. Nor my cell phone, awful bastard that it is. November into December, January following closely behind on Decembers coat tails; ringing in the new year. On to February next and finally March. March goose stepping to, past, and onward like a war parade so April can finally show it’s magnificent, glowing face. The Spring returning the signs of summer, life slowly burning brighter beneath the remaining sheets of winters tears and ice. The end of purgatory. The start of a new season.
Another lonely gray hair plucked from my beard as I study the lines on my face in the mirror. When did this show up? I trace a line on my cheek with my fingertip and open one eye wide, my face nearly pressed up against the glass in order to more closely observe the signs of age creeping in on my visible skin. The dark rings around, but mainly under, my eyes. Black eye purple loops that fade in and out like warning beacons of the choices I’m making. Sleep more tonight -or- I guess it’s alright to stay up entirely too late.
I wonder what my face looks like without this beard. Would I drop five to ten years? Would I get carded again for cancer and poison?
I shake the thought from my mind and laugh, loudly, like a man. Or at least what I think a man should laugh like.
I stare at myself in the mirror with the wonder of a boy.
I write a poem about Grace.
She told me in our email correspondence recently that she has written twenty something poems about me. I haven’t bothered to count the pages, strips of paper, scribbles dedicated to her lack of presence in my life.
My new years resolution is to forget her.
I’ve got three months and then another two thousand six hundred and sixty (give or take) miles to see if this can be accomplished.
Save, close the window. Move on.
I can hear the microwave, dreadful machine, beeping at me from the kitchen. Through the living room, down the hall, through my door. Shriek, shriek, shriek. My orange chicken is done.
I step through the house with mechanical precision and retrieve the food stuffs I decided to force myself to eat. Food has become such a bother.
When did food become less of a priority than sleep? Food used to be important; now I feel the hunger pangs tremble through my gut and I ignore it. Later, I tell myself. But when is later when you only eat once a day? Correction : When you have to force yourself to eat once a day?
I chew a piece of the brightly colored poultry and survey the scattered remnants of my life that stack and scatter throughout my room. I should put a sign out my window that reads “Everything must go – want it? Make an offer!” Lining the far wall with everything I own. Want the beat up guitar with no strings? Yeah, five dollars sounds fair! Sold to the man with no hair!
My eyes keep surveying the room as I shovel another piece of chicken into my face. The box of PCT maps looks at me defiantly. I need to cut them into more manageable sizes, remove the filler. I need to get my shit together. Motivation. I need a lot of things, but don’t. I don’t really need anything I tell myself.
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs (in order of most to least importance):
-Love and belonging
These are things that need to be explored, questioned, thought about deeply.
April is coming.
The changes are slowly coming. I can feel them. Less pulled one way and more in another. Where once my attention seemed so concentrated on one area of my life, now another demands all my energy. Feelings, thoughts, behaviors, and personalities I used to be able to overlook or ignore now stand more prominent before peoples words and actions. I wanted to be open and honest with everything and everyone, and I was. But I did not get anything in return. No honesty, no truth. I got sleepy sunny dreams tied together by words. Just words. No meaning or thought. Just what sounded the best at the time. There is no perfect happy moment. This I’m coming to terms with now. Just a series, a collection, of possibly positive snap shots in time held together by glue and cheap ribbon. All these people clamor for hope, honesty, and love. But what they really want is “more for me, more for me, more for me.” They go on and on and on about how they want honesty, freedom, and the ability to go wild. But when you give them that opportunity, what happens? They say you’re being dramatic for sharing how you feel. They lock themselves into slavery by choice. They realize what they have to give up to be wild and run the opposite direction.
So, what have we learned over the summer?
- There is never a happy ending.
- People, no matter what they say, don’t want honesty.
- It’s better to be silent and perceived as uncomfortable than it is to have a voice, share yourself, and be seen as the problem.
I couldn’t tell you when I’m going to update this again. I’m keeping all my writing private and hand written again. Probably self consciously preparing for the PCT in April. No money, no job, and most of the gear I need… Change was, is, and will be.
It’s been entirely too long, but honestly, I’ve been delightfully busy. Work has moved steadily along in it’s death march rhythm – gearing our production and packaging crew up for the next three to five weeks of forty eight hour (give or take) work weeks – oh joy. But that is work, baking for a living. Not baking for a life. Life has moved in interesting directions, opportunities springing forth from where once there was nothing but ash. Crow, one of several of my new friends, is moving in to take the place of a room mate who is leaving. Eventually Mix will move in as well, or the three of us will find a place closer to work (since we are all employed at the same place). Mix and I became friends quite quickly and have combined our personal talents to create a new circle of friends, carving a new hovel here in Portland. The Cute Girl, who I will refer to now as Poppy, and I have become closer over the last month – but a gentleman never kisses and tells. To put it gently, thing’s could be going much, much worse.
I’m pleasantly distracted though, that being enough for me at the moment. The world is open before me. I came to the realization a few days ago that Portland made me bleed for my life here. After moving back from the failure/learning experience that was Arizona I had to work my way back into Oregon life, as if the place itself had to relearn it’s trust for me. Once that trust was reestablished I had to pay my penance to be happy in Portland – to accomplish this it sent me Grace, who brought me up to speed before the universe pulled her in a different direction. But now I’m here, in Portland, with a decent job, good friends, and a new lover.
I tip this stale whiskey and coke from last night to you Portland. Cheers.