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26 October 2005 : nothing said.
every thing i do is a symptom of the place where my life came to a standstill.
dyed hair, dark. purchased lipstick, red. scarves and velvet jackets, corduroy pants and henley sheets, fresh razors, overpriced lotion. i am desperate for warmth, color and textures against my skin.
i have been dispossessed. of my free will, maybe. of my effervescence. i only do what i must in response to this environment. i have been left only with my culpability.
where then, is bravery? do you respond innately to a stimulus, will you run toward the brightest light you see if i hurt you? are we (you, especially) brave only with our mouths?
you might be brave to put your hands on my back, soft flesh above the blades of the ilium, that bone that cradles all the organs, that bone that allows me to walk upright. you might be brave to touch me there by way of exploring new territory. you might be brave to want that. i might be brave to tell you this. the inominate, it is - the bone without a name.
you might have been brave to use your mouth to kiss me. i have friends who would label that brave, and so do you. mine would cheer, and yours might shudder. you might think i am a girl to pass on the street, not a girl to stop for.
native americans believe that the only thing a human being owns, from birth to death, is a voice. you can use that voice to cry, and that is the only real power anyone might posses.
are you brave, then, only with your voice?
i will question you again and again because i do not believe in this sort of bravery, i do not believe that you are a champion of this kind. i will question you again and again because i can't seem to stop hoping that you want to be brave, trace my bones, submerge me in choice.
how much time spent studying fairy tales. how much time spent building other lives while lying awake. how much time waiting. how much more.
can you be brave?
posted by lindsay at 23:12 :: 0 comments
09 October 2005 : this impossible ocean, part 2.
it never really matters what's going on.
you have a clean room and coldplay on the stereo.
your roommates made dinner and you're all caught up on your homework.
you like the way you look, you're comfortable in your soft bed.
you have the best friends, you're sure, that anyone ever had.
you have the best family, you're sure, that anyone ever had.
you're looking forward to the next several weeks - the weather, the people, the knowledge you're going to acquire.
you like a boy. more than you've liked a boy in say, three years.
you are well rested, recently responsible, accomplished, loved. the wind is just chilly enough and it is blowing through the windows, over your shoulders. your cat is curled up purring in the curve of your hip.
still it doesn't matter.
because you just sat down for a second to catch your breath and it all came flowing in. that familiar sadness. you're never sure if it feels beautiful because it is or if it feels beautiful because you want to justify it. either way, you're going to have a lot of trouble working out of it.
suddenly you can't concentrate. the room around you is dim. you've smoked cigarette after cigarette until your throat is raw and you just can't calm down. you are nervous about nothing, because nothing is happening. you can't stand the idea of yourself existing.
and now that you're older, there are no words you can write, no chords you can play, no pictures you can draw that will make it recede. now that you're older you just have to wait it out.
but you were so sick last night, so sick this morning. you didn't get out of bed until after two, you've only been awake for seven hours and you're going to be awake at least seven more. all you can do is let it settle, let it take over. you can't go downstairs because you have to wear it like a badge and your roommates will see it, they will ask you what is wrong. you don't want to talk about it because you won't know what to say - there is nothing to say.
it just comes, and it takes over, and it's there. if you're lucky, it will be gone by tomorrow, when you have to get yourself up and enter the world.
and you still won't know where it came from, or where it goes when it's gone. only that it is real surely as you are and it will always, always be back.
posted by lindsay at 23:13 :: 0 comments
07 October 2005 : inheritance
my father worked long, long hours when i was a child. as ranking officer at two different armories, it was up to him to keep things running. he would come home for about two hours every night to have dinner with us, and then he would return to work until long after i was put to bed. i missed him all the time.
when i was very young, he would fix my hair before school. every cold morning he would put on his red bathrobe and come downstairs early. when i finished dressing i would step into the living room to find him sitting in his recliner, the footrest popped out, waiting for me. that was our time - i don't remember mom or my brothers at all during those moments, just me and dad in front of the fireplace. he would ask me questions about my life while he brushed my long hair and braided it. he could always braid better than mom. i have missed those mornings since they ended, fourteen or fifteen years ago.
as i got older, he was away from home more and more. now that he is gone and my mom feels like she can speak candidly, i know that he frequently worked those hours because he didn't want to be at home. all his stresses, his anger, he would take them out on the four of us. and they could all be traced back to one single thing. he hated that he couldn't give us everything that we wanted, and everything that he wanted for us.
i don't recall wanting for anything.
after a few years, i started finding excuses to stay up late. extra homework, drinks of water. anything to get myself out of bed during the half hour before he came home and went upstairs. at night he would sit in the kitchen, because he wasn't allowed to smoke in the rest of the house. i would lean against the counter while he sat at the table, watching the light of the tv reflect off his skin. those nights were always colored a dark dusty blue. those nights, he spoke of my future in absolutes because he never doubted me for a second. he said when - never if.
from my father, i recieved a desire to know everything that is in the world. a love for languages. a desperate aching desire to learn. from my father, i recieved a need to write everything down, find new ways to describe the things that i saw. from my father, i learned to want to help others. i found an endless quest for perfection.
he used to bring me small presents. every few days or so - "i saw this while i was out this afternoon and i thought, wow, my little girl would really like this." and on my fourteenth birthday he took me shopping and bought me a ring. four months later my mother shook me awake at midnight, the lights of the ambulance flashing around inside my bedroom.
after he died, i learned that happiness is something you sometimes have to fight for. i learned that a good life doesn't just happen to you, but you have to go outside and find it.
something about the weather today made me sad. a certain charge in the air made me want another day with my daddy. instead, i'm left with writing this down as a reminder to myself that i had him once and that i was loved.
from my father, i have recieved a calm sense of self assurance, a blank slate of prejudice, a gold necklace, a love of reading, a completely flat ass, and a belief that i am good and strong. i think i found a reason to stop acting like a child today.
posted by lindsay at 23:17 :: 0 comments
01 October 2005 : on the road
Driving on I-65 is a tragedy in the making. Everywhere on the highway is somewhere for you; two miles in any direction and there is somewhere else you would rather be going.
North, past highway 30 you can find the exit to 80/94. If you follow this through Chicago, it will take you to Wisconsin, where you can sit on a dock in the dark, smoking cigarettes on the water and remember that once you were brave and daring and knew how to make things happen.
South of highway 30, you could take exit 205 or exit 215, drive down country roads remembering how it felt to be young and fierce, loved and in love.
The exit for 70 west goes all the way to San Francisco, where waits a green ashtray and a windswept balcony from which you can almost see the ocean. 70 west could take you into the city where you could find your way to highway 1, highway 101, highway 280, because any of them would do to drive south. The serpentine curves of highway 17 lead to Santa Cruz and the love that almost broke you.
70 east, 80 east, 95 north and you are in Providence, on a dark humid evening with the smell of your shampoo filling the air, wishing everything had not been broken, wishing you had all just stayed together, just this once.
74 east and you could head for Cincinnati, where someone would hold your hand on the sidewalk downtown and rub your back while you slept huddled together, comfortable knowing that you'd always at least have each other even though the distance continues to grow.
Going south, you can find highway 46, highway 7 - two hours exactly to find yourself covered by the security of the strongest friendship you've ever known.
We could explore even further south - take on the oldest memories. At some point in Tennessee or Alabama 65 south meets up with 20 west meets up with 55 meets up with 12 so you can find Baton Rouge, the remnants of your childhood and the first passions of kids trying to grow up too quickly.
Does it ever end? Can you drive any direction and not feel a tug? Will there be a miraculous day that allows you to pass an exit without turning off the stereo, without catching your breath?
You hate this highway. You hate the way it tells you that you're a different girl now. You hate the way it tells you that you are too old, too tired, too afraid to move on or move forward. You hate the way it tells you, sometimes, that you've settled.
You hate that it's all over. All you have left is the drive to work.
posted by lindsay at 23:21 :: 0 comments
every thing i do is a symptom of the place where my life came to a standstill.
dyed hair, dark. purchased lipstick, red. scarves and velvet jackets, corduroy pants and henley sheets, fresh razors, overpriced lotion. i am desperate for warmth, color and textures against my skin.
i have been dispossessed. of my free will, maybe. of my effervescence. i only do what i must in response to this environment. i have been left only with my culpability.
where then, is bravery? do you respond innately to a stimulus, will you run toward the brightest light you see if i hurt you? are we (you, especially) brave only with our mouths?
you might be brave to put your hands on my back, soft flesh above the blades of the ilium, that bone that cradles all the organs, that bone that allows me to walk upright. you might be brave to touch me there by way of exploring new territory. you might be brave to want that. i might be brave to tell you this. the inominate, it is - the bone without a name.
you might have been brave to use your mouth to kiss me. i have friends who would label that brave, and so do you. mine would cheer, and yours might shudder. you might think i am a girl to pass on the street, not a girl to stop for.
native americans believe that the only thing a human being owns, from birth to death, is a voice. you can use that voice to cry, and that is the only real power anyone might posses.
are you brave, then, only with your voice?
i will question you again and again because i do not believe in this sort of bravery, i do not believe that you are a champion of this kind. i will question you again and again because i can't seem to stop hoping that you want to be brave, trace my bones, submerge me in choice.
how much time spent studying fairy tales. how much time spent building other lives while lying awake. how much time waiting. how much more.
can you be brave?
posted by lindsay at 23:12 :: 0 comments
09 October 2005 : this impossible ocean, part 2.
it never really matters what's going on.
you have a clean room and coldplay on the stereo.
your roommates made dinner and you're all caught up on your homework.
you like the way you look, you're comfortable in your soft bed.
you have the best friends, you're sure, that anyone ever had.
you have the best family, you're sure, that anyone ever had.
you're looking forward to the next several weeks - the weather, the people, the knowledge you're going to acquire.
you like a boy. more than you've liked a boy in say, three years.
you are well rested, recently responsible, accomplished, loved. the wind is just chilly enough and it is blowing through the windows, over your shoulders. your cat is curled up purring in the curve of your hip.
still it doesn't matter.
because you just sat down for a second to catch your breath and it all came flowing in. that familiar sadness. you're never sure if it feels beautiful because it is or if it feels beautiful because you want to justify it. either way, you're going to have a lot of trouble working out of it.
suddenly you can't concentrate. the room around you is dim. you've smoked cigarette after cigarette until your throat is raw and you just can't calm down. you are nervous about nothing, because nothing is happening. you can't stand the idea of yourself existing.
and now that you're older, there are no words you can write, no chords you can play, no pictures you can draw that will make it recede. now that you're older you just have to wait it out.
but you were so sick last night, so sick this morning. you didn't get out of bed until after two, you've only been awake for seven hours and you're going to be awake at least seven more. all you can do is let it settle, let it take over. you can't go downstairs because you have to wear it like a badge and your roommates will see it, they will ask you what is wrong. you don't want to talk about it because you won't know what to say - there is nothing to say.
it just comes, and it takes over, and it's there. if you're lucky, it will be gone by tomorrow, when you have to get yourself up and enter the world.
and you still won't know where it came from, or where it goes when it's gone. only that it is real surely as you are and it will always, always be back.
posted by lindsay at 23:13 :: 0 comments
07 October 2005 : inheritance
my father worked long, long hours when i was a child. as ranking officer at two different armories, it was up to him to keep things running. he would come home for about two hours every night to have dinner with us, and then he would return to work until long after i was put to bed. i missed him all the time.
when i was very young, he would fix my hair before school. every cold morning he would put on his red bathrobe and come downstairs early. when i finished dressing i would step into the living room to find him sitting in his recliner, the footrest popped out, waiting for me. that was our time - i don't remember mom or my brothers at all during those moments, just me and dad in front of the fireplace. he would ask me questions about my life while he brushed my long hair and braided it. he could always braid better than mom. i have missed those mornings since they ended, fourteen or fifteen years ago.
as i got older, he was away from home more and more. now that he is gone and my mom feels like she can speak candidly, i know that he frequently worked those hours because he didn't want to be at home. all his stresses, his anger, he would take them out on the four of us. and they could all be traced back to one single thing. he hated that he couldn't give us everything that we wanted, and everything that he wanted for us.
i don't recall wanting for anything.
after a few years, i started finding excuses to stay up late. extra homework, drinks of water. anything to get myself out of bed during the half hour before he came home and went upstairs. at night he would sit in the kitchen, because he wasn't allowed to smoke in the rest of the house. i would lean against the counter while he sat at the table, watching the light of the tv reflect off his skin. those nights were always colored a dark dusty blue. those nights, he spoke of my future in absolutes because he never doubted me for a second. he said when - never if.
from my father, i recieved a desire to know everything that is in the world. a love for languages. a desperate aching desire to learn. from my father, i recieved a need to write everything down, find new ways to describe the things that i saw. from my father, i learned to want to help others. i found an endless quest for perfection.
he used to bring me small presents. every few days or so - "i saw this while i was out this afternoon and i thought, wow, my little girl would really like this." and on my fourteenth birthday he took me shopping and bought me a ring. four months later my mother shook me awake at midnight, the lights of the ambulance flashing around inside my bedroom.
after he died, i learned that happiness is something you sometimes have to fight for. i learned that a good life doesn't just happen to you, but you have to go outside and find it.
something about the weather today made me sad. a certain charge in the air made me want another day with my daddy. instead, i'm left with writing this down as a reminder to myself that i had him once and that i was loved.
from my father, i have recieved a calm sense of self assurance, a blank slate of prejudice, a gold necklace, a love of reading, a completely flat ass, and a belief that i am good and strong. i think i found a reason to stop acting like a child today.
Labels: old chestnuts
posted by lindsay at 23:17 :: 0 comments
01 October 2005 : on the road
Driving on I-65 is a tragedy in the making. Everywhere on the highway is somewhere for you; two miles in any direction and there is somewhere else you would rather be going.
North, past highway 30 you can find the exit to 80/94. If you follow this through Chicago, it will take you to Wisconsin, where you can sit on a dock in the dark, smoking cigarettes on the water and remember that once you were brave and daring and knew how to make things happen.
South of highway 30, you could take exit 205 or exit 215, drive down country roads remembering how it felt to be young and fierce, loved and in love.
The exit for 70 west goes all the way to San Francisco, where waits a green ashtray and a windswept balcony from which you can almost see the ocean. 70 west could take you into the city where you could find your way to highway 1, highway 101, highway 280, because any of them would do to drive south. The serpentine curves of highway 17 lead to Santa Cruz and the love that almost broke you.
70 east, 80 east, 95 north and you are in Providence, on a dark humid evening with the smell of your shampoo filling the air, wishing everything had not been broken, wishing you had all just stayed together, just this once.
74 east and you could head for Cincinnati, where someone would hold your hand on the sidewalk downtown and rub your back while you slept huddled together, comfortable knowing that you'd always at least have each other even though the distance continues to grow.
Going south, you can find highway 46, highway 7 - two hours exactly to find yourself covered by the security of the strongest friendship you've ever known.
We could explore even further south - take on the oldest memories. At some point in Tennessee or Alabama 65 south meets up with 20 west meets up with 55 meets up with 12 so you can find Baton Rouge, the remnants of your childhood and the first passions of kids trying to grow up too quickly.
Does it ever end? Can you drive any direction and not feel a tug? Will there be a miraculous day that allows you to pass an exit without turning off the stereo, without catching your breath?
You hate this highway. You hate the way it tells you that you're a different girl now. You hate the way it tells you that you are too old, too tired, too afraid to move on or move forward. You hate the way it tells you, sometimes, that you've settled.
You hate that it's all over. All you have left is the drive to work.
Labels: old chestnuts
posted by lindsay at 23:21 :: 0 comments