dream

walking home with a new one, through neighborhoods that are familiar from other dreams or from a history i’ve forgotten. a box of puppies, of course we’ll stop to play. there’s someone else there, and i wonder why he looks familiar. at first i think he is a musician i listen to and then i realize he’s someone who took me home once, and i let him because he reminded me of the musician.

Dreams

Whenever I dream about you, it isn’t right. You’re here, and I’m anxious to show you everything, because now you’ll finally know who I am, so much of me defined by place. It’s winter, and we are ice skating everywhere. I am planning to meet you, but you don’t show up. Your skates are broken. I am frustrated, waiting, and it’s cold. I wake up before I get the chance to reunite with you, still feeling frustrated.

Past and past…

And what if, instead of just calling, he was actually there. And he wasn’t even drunk, even though I was, and he was still saying the things I wanted to hear. And I could tell he meant it. What then?

Beating a dead horse.

The ideal thing would be, if he got really drunk and called me, at a time when I also happened to be really drunk, and told me how much he’s still in love with me, and I would tell him the same thing, and neither of us would REALLY mean it, but we’d still feel good that the other one had said it.

 

Yep.

January Hymn

I know, I know, it’s hardly even September yet, and probably in a few weeks I won’t understand what prompted me to feel this way, and I’ll be longing again for coolness and clouds, and, if we’re perfectly honest it isn’t even that cold now, just sort of wet and mild, but still a change from how it’s been.

Something about weather changes really messes with my moods. Makes me want to change my life, go somewhere else, slip back into my past. I think it’s mostly nights like this– damp, crisp, crickets and distant cars, all sounds somehow magnified by the moisture–that make me miss the northeast, staying out till late, running around in a small town, calling each other to sit in silence on the other end, just listening to the air outside and knowing that even though we are blocks apart, we are sharing that. We are together. And it’s warmer than this.

And then, it feels like this at night, and I’m at home, and even if we’re on the phone, the sounds are different. And we’re not talking, and we’re not together. And I can almost feel the distance across the phone and everything that I want to say but I am too scared. Since you won’t know what to say in response. And I’m always scared that I felt everything more deeply than you, so I tried so hard not to feel even anything at all.

Which just made it worse.

On a winter’s Sunday I go
To clear away the snow
And green the ground below

April all an ocean away
Is this the better way to spend the day?
Keeping the winter at bay

What were the words I meant to say before you left?
When I could see your breath lead
Where you were going to
Maybe I should just let it be
And maybe it will all come back to me
Sing oh, January, oh

How I lived a childhood in snow
And all my teens in tow
Stuffed in strata of clothes

Pale the winter days after dark
Wandering the gray memorial park
A fleeting beating of hearts

What were the words I meant to say before she left? 
When I could see her breath lead
Where she was going to
Maybe I should just let it be
And maybe it will all come back to me
Sing oh, Janu, oh January, oh 

About getting what you always used to want

Sometimes it’s the little things like how he held his arms out, unprovoked, for that first hug, the one you’ve been waiting for, if you’re honest with yourself, for years, and, if you’re honest, you should have been the one reaching, the one with more beers, the one with less inhibitions. Yet it was he who reached forward first, and though it was small and weak, and without a spark, it was still the thing that you’ve wanted since you heard he wasn’t gone forever, since you found that you had so many similarities. And the next time, too, it was by his initiation, though this time you called him on the weakness, the coldness, the stiffness of his body against yours, and (the alcohol talking?) demanded something warmer, closer, more intimate. Demanded a future of (maybe not intimacy) but closeness, a friendship that you’ve always wanted (though to be honest, you wanted more.)

Hobbies are Good for Your Health

So, I joined a pottery co-op today.

It’s pretty awesome, it’s like having a personal studio that you share with 10 other people who give you advice on how to do stuff, and talk to you, and sometimes help you clean up. Since I am relatively new to pottery, it’s great to be able to have a space where I can work and not be intimidated because I mess up stuff a lot, or don’t do things in a very good way (throwing a plate without a bat is a terrible idea, if you actually want to keep your plate.)

This journey into pottery has been really cool for me. It’s nice to get to put my hands on something, to shape a mushy ball into something sometimes beautiful and sometimes useful and sometimes both. And even if the piece I work on ends up turning back into a ball, that’s okay too, since chances are I learned something that’ll make the next one better.

So far, I can make a pretty nice bowl if I’m lucky. I made a soap dish at Connor’s request, and it looks great, but it likely won’t balance.

I have spent probably 14ish hours in the past two days at the studio, practicing, learning, getting my hands dirty, and I couldn’t be happier. I am taking requests, so if anyone is interested in something let me know!

 

This is one of the bowls I made-- perfectly sized for cereal!

I can’t say the thought never crossed my mind as you sat across the room, already at ease yet vulnerable… The sunlight catching your eyes, the blue startling in its intensity. I can’t imagine you didn’t feel the electric tug between us, as you asked the questions he already knows the answers to. But the electric tug fizzles and fades when pulled too far, and I know just how many drops this glass will hold before it overflows and ruins everything.

 

 

 

Hey, how was that for some uber bad writing? Bleh.

A Moment

It’s midnight and you’re sitting in a corner with strangers from your past. No one’s really talking, because there isn’t anything to say and even if there was it’s too loud to hear anyway. He’s staring at you, not looking away, not looking at you so much as into you. You feel like defying him. Holding his gaze until he breaks, looks down. You stare, a moment passes, he doesn’t falter. Another moment, starts feeling familiar, like that night in the rain, when you challenged a different stranger not to look away, and he didn’t, for years. You look away, terrified of what could happen if you don’t. Down at your lap, at your hand on the table,  draped casually around your beer. A quick glance past him, out the window, and he’s still staring. A nervous smile, and he grins, blinks away, and it’s over.

Has it been long enough, do you think?

I haven’t felt much like writing lately. Being not in school tends to do that, I guess. Not being in the habit regularly makes the words not come as easily, even if I wanted them to. But it feels good to write sometimes, to have a record of how I am feeling about any given subject so that later when I look back at where I’ve been the gaps aren’t so big. I think the thing is that not so much happens to me anymore. The people aren’t very different, and the situations don’t cause as much emotion as they used to. Maybe I’ve lost the need to write anything.

The question remains what am I going to do with my life, but frankly that doesn’t interest me. Maybe I’m to scared to face it head on, but I’d rather think that it’ll work itself out in time.

 

Anyway,  I guess that’s all I have to say right now.