general complaints regarding the institution of chaos

I don't know whether I should laugh or cry or shatter things weaker than I feel right now, for the pleasure of a power trip and the satisfaction of destruction. Don't ever wonder how it might be more difficult than it is; it could always be worse.

He's always full of new news and it almost always makes a mockery of the things I thought I could rely on, even when they aren't desirable. I've been bracing for some events since the beginning of us. They are bristles-raised threatening, guns-and-bombs scary; they creep into the dreams of even a sound sleeper to chip away at rest long before they are urgently upon us. Nevertheless, a person can condition oneself for anything given enough time to build up walls of sandbags. Even a war-flood becomes a tolerable idea when you have had time to prepare for it.

And so I think that's the worst of it. Nothing is bigger or more difficult than all we've been through already and all that is written into future date boxes. Life on the coat-tails of a soldier isn't billed to be an easy one - constantly jerked and bounced around in the shadow of his duty to country. No matter how jostled, the peak was in sight just above the crags and ridges. It always appeared to be reachable until new news birthed low clouds to make me question our direction.

I knew that you in the calamity of war would be fucking awful! And yes, it is simply unbearable to let my mind entertain the possibility of that phone-call - so I don't, I can't. If I did, every tomorrow would be "insurmountable". There are times when it feels like we are held together only by fraying scraps, but you come home and we stitch the wounds and mend the tears. What do we do if there is no home, and all the patched up ragged shreds wear faster and thinner? It isn't this over that, it's both circumstances stacked high and heavy one upon the other.

This is a life for the mad, the numb, the inhuman. The truth is, I don't want to be stronger. I want to crush thin, perfect glass between a swift downward blow and a solid surface. I want to scream and kick my feet against the floor in an epic tantrum. I want to tear out my love-drunk heart to wring it sober.

she wants what she cannot have

I should absolutely, ABSOLUTELY not be here right now, but that's when I want it the most. I can't help it - maybe that's why I couldn't write all summer, because the keys were so clearly there and my time was so wide open to caress them. Anyway, my psyche is all to complex for the few seconds I can afford between a folder of poetry I need to workshop before one o'clock and the other half-page response I owe to Jacobs's Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. It's the third book for my 19th century lit class and I've all but made up my mind that I'm not a fan. I wasn't a fan of calculus either, but I had to stomach the course to get my diploma. Such is life, I guess.

Speaking of which, [life that is] it continues to move forward. I've inquired about several apartments in the new -ville and I'm looking forward to the end of my other lease. The hour commute to school is wretched with the fuel whores being hungry for more and more and more. And my puppy has all but forgotten that she has a human mommy. I stop in between demands and she has torn the cushions from my antique sofa. I situate them again in their precise order and before I have left [again], she has made her rebellion noticed. With them spread across the living room floor, she perches herself proudly on the now barren lining. She's ready to move, too. The distance is not good for her nerves.

I'd love to scrawl more, but I really have to finish these assignments. More later. More later.

portion control

Normal should feel warm and relieving, but usual and forgettable - certainly not profound.  It should accompany the peace of Sunday's sunset as we routinely ride home beneath its shreds of violent pinks.  It should not spark a jolt of unsettling fear when I realize that I have recklessly nestled myself into the nook of Normal's safety.  There is no true safety in letting all of your armor fall away; there is no actual reliability in waking and retiring against the heat of his skin.  Sooner or later I'll be clutching pillows with the hope of fooling myself through the night.  He'll be gone again, swallowed up by the abyss of War's fury, and I'll jingle with my insides full of broken shards.  That's the fate bestowed upon little girls who play with gluttonous, luxurious Normal.

Make yourself comfortable.  I know better than that.

I only wish I could take him for granted.  I wish that our duet was so stiflingly blazé that it drove me to maintain a drunken fantasy of something less ordinary.  Instead, I snatch his sneezes from the air, capture each of his scents, memorize the quake of his rhythmic pulse.  I stash these events away without thinking because I know the days will come again when even meager shadows of him will hold me together.

 

um. so. yeah.

I rubber-stamped some manila folders [to keep my school papers organized and fashionable] but I couldn't stop there. I've had a strangely creative day in comparison to this summer's drought-for-ideas and this whole blog thing - it remains a festering sore. It seemed an appropriate time to give this place a bit of focus. I can't decide what I want with it, and frankly, I shouldn't even be thinking about a blog with all of the reading I should be maintaining. I'm a believer that balance must be found and also, it's Friday, so I let my mind creatively wander to bloggier places than Erdrich and Jacobs.

[but only for a spell]

I'm thinking that this could absolutely not be what I want out of "new" and "fresh." What the hell, though, right? If we all cumulatively despise a limp attempt at irony, The Sound is only an upload away. For now, I'm going to sleep on this and see how you respond. We'll convene next week for a final judgment.

Ah-hem...

Inside is a wee, little letter! Is it really ever too soon to begin a Christmas list?

*Secret Messenger Necklace, found at etsy.com

there is a season [turn, turn, turn]

I wish that I could capture that notable autumn chill that suddenly appears after so many days of scalding heat.  It seems cooler now than it will in coming weeks, like the icy shock of pool water following a rolling hot tub boil.  And so it goes that I pulled on a low-cut tank top and left for classes without a cardigan - when every other muggy day it idled in the depths of my purse, crumpled and unused.

Crisp as the air was against my bare arms, I couldn't complain - then or now.  I adore nothing like the first of Fall, walking to my car beneath the orange glow of street lights after hours of class, knowing that some years ago this is when my life began.  Again, there is beginning in the turning of leaves and the slow process of cooling southern earth.  Change hangs just beyond my grasp in this different town, this strange place where the new path pleads to be journeyed.  

And onward I travel.

highways and bye-ways

On Friday I met with my non-fiction professor to discuss an idea for an independent study next summer. I'm not sure how it came to me, but on my way to class the thought congealed: travel writing; a month long road trip. She loved it!

I'm thinking, roughly, 6000 miles on $5000.

The answer to a quarter-life crisis?

A liberation from responsibility and sense?

For what and why?

To find my true self.

To stumble upon Home in pure form.

It doesn't sound crazy in my head, though the money will be a trial. They say, "if there's a will, there's a way." And there's time to consider logistics and funding. I'm not going to mask my lust for it nor will I deny how mesmerizing the day dreams have been. Thirty days to see and taste and smell half of America, or more if I wanted. Thirty days to reinvent my purpose, my place, my routine. Thirty days of distraction from all that is "fair" [in love and war]. And to write it, for credit no less? This is why I can't give up higher education. The Man would never allow such a blatant severing of strings. Ah!, freedom and The Road...

new beginning?

This is like running into an old friend on the street, after a huge [or trivial] episode has sullied a thick-as-theives connection. I'm not sure what to say. My face probably projects an awkward confusion. I'm the [mostly] nice girl, so I want to be kind. And maybe I miss her, truly, because she once held my hand through something rough. It certainly breaks my heart to remember that she was once as necessary as favorite jeans and the right color of foundation. I would keep gentle eyes and afford her a muted, though sincere warmth, and possibly ask about men and work. The performance of discomfort is inevitable and its moves are forced and foolish, yet you play the part knowing that the chance of rediscovery is worth more than feeling caught off guard.

So I'm here, unsure of what to say, how to lead myself through the rhythm of writing without deletion. My fingers ache. They twitch and jump with the desire to make words into phrases, into sentences and on into something complete [enough]. I feel awkward now because I let some things get under my skin, and I felt so bound to censorship by the boundaries of security and judging eyes. And there's also the circus tent of grad school that keeps me currently contained. This kind of school is more than I ever imagined it would be, but I love it. It is partially responsible for my leaving [the lonely sound] and partially responsible for an attempt to continue what was started. I must begin writing again to prevent rusty wheels and rusty gears and rusty eloquence. I need a place to empty after all of the ice has melted.

I'm going to try this again, but I can't help feel that something should be different. I'm contemplating a new idea altogether or actually breathing life into that wordpress address I claimed months ago for just-in-cases. Until I can get the ball rolling, know that all is well[ish] in English and Creative Writing and that the Staff Sergeant is spoiling me rotten. There's so much more to tell but Margaret Fuller is begging to be read and this stuffy head-cold needs another round of lemon tea.