18 December 2007

burning eyes

"come back down here, i'll show you where it hurts." guster

"This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again" regina spektor

"loving is so short, forgetting it so long." pablo neruda

"tell em that this house is not for sale." ryan adams

exhausted & in need of words that are not my own.

13 December 2007

you only get a little bit

i love sitting down and hooking together words to express thoughts, to express my soul, to express things within that need to go out. you only get a little bit of this (a censored, little bit), but i think it's what i would've written here had it not been part of an email to kate marks...

"...I've been practicing being ENTIRELY present with paul, and not sacrificing experience for expectation. i have felt a curtain within gently begin to tear; we hold the sacred on one side and the profane on another, and i have this longing to unite both of them under the existence & precedence of love. love wins. why do we filter our lives to protect ourselves from what we desire?...

...i am quite naive when it comes to all things eros------ any kate marks advice?

i hope my sharing isn't too much for you
i hope, rather, it connects us somehow.
from my small things to your small things.
between me and you,
many strings,
holding our hearts together,
making frida kahlo so proud,
exchanging blood through those lines,
the real stuff of life.

(p.s. i loved this: carpe that diem hahahaha you are the best kate!)

10 December 2007

that's the world's priority; this is mine.

i probably should be cleaning my room. but i'm listening to iron & wine and i have a letter from wendell berry sitting on my desk and there is a lot more pressing into my brain than a tidy cuarto. that's the world's priority; this is mine.

i have just been birthed again. this new life doesn't directly correlate to jesus or the virgin mary, though i imagine that's always infused in my being somewhere, knit tightly together with the multiple christian spiritual affections i possess. la cuña: have i mentioned that is my favorite word in the spanish language? i wish i could have the Larousse spanish/english dictionary before me, give you the precise definition, and get a poster size copy of their illustration of la cuña. alas, my stories will have to do.

people will certainly ask me tomorrow, my "monday:" "how was your weekend?" should i be so honest as to tell them it was extraordinary, life-changing, the best 48 hour experience i've been present for in some time? i feel new, in fact, so new & vulnerable & refreshed that today i felt overwhelmed. i let the weekend be life, really life, life in perfection and balance and purely wonderful existence. the winter air was colder than ever to me this afternoon. banks & meals with family & the never-ending cycle of activity, though meaningful, seem to just be about keeping me busy. not keeping me alive, not keeping me rested, not keeping me intrigued, just busy.

i don't want to be busy. i want to lay in bed and listen to iron & wine while drifting in and out of sleep & affection. i want to read the NYT magazine and have it take me over two hours. i want two humongous proper cups of tea (ok the proper part was for effect). i want two hearts; two raw, flesh, beating hearts immodestly & über-vulnerably laying out their aspirations, fears, thoughts, tears, teeth, pains... all of that and more, onto the sidewalk, into the fresh air, underneath a pouring sky, washing all the is settled into all that is flowing into all that is alive.

i want hand-written letters, from wendell berry, nonetheless. i want words that change my life.

"Here is what I tell myself. In spite of the damage we have done to it and to one another, the world still contains many things that are beautiful and good--things of art and nature, human pleasures and affections--whore existence does no damage. We are kept alive and whole, I suspect, by loving and humoring those things. I mean, to be more explicit, the things that alert us to the presence of sanctity in the world and in ourselves." (w.b)

awake, new eyes, new flesh, settled, accepting, among the diversity of the world, i am alive again.

04 December 2007

i'll find you

shivers are being sent up my spine; titillating, quivering, life-shaking thoughts moving & flashing throughout my entire body. it's amazing. emotion. feeling the waves of thoughts that flush through our bodies, holding onto them & letting them go. i feel a sudden sense of acceptance & understanding for the plethora of emotions that exist. before, or during other seasons of my life, i have had no tolerance for anything more than basic emotion. i wonder, sometimes, when did i ever let love in? what were the circumstances that convinced me that it was all going to be okay if i did? and what on earth ever convinced me to filter it?

"all the geese fly home for the winter" joshua james.

back to the comfortable land that i came from, that's where i try to go when i desire to avoid experiencing an emotion. rather than just allowing it to come as it pleases, let it send me into a wind-twister, fall freely out of it, only to experience the next one---as new & fresh & unexpected as the last. i would imagine i learned inconsistent love from a very young age. say, as a six month old, i actually knew i had to be careful or i would be hurting. "well, you hurt either way,so you might as well hurt in the midst of loving..." that's what my twenty three year old self wants the six month old within to understand.

the exploration of new emotions directly correlates to the initiation of a new relationship. a new relationship that involves a young man, a fine specimen of man with a beard & a plaid soul; what is a plaid soul? it's just a fine thing, and i do hope one day you meet one. i think f. scott fitzgerald would have written short stories about this soul. and it's amazing, because this young man who allows me to drape my legs over his, has done nothing less that afford me time & space for an exploration of territory formerly undiscovered.

and having discovered, or even having peered into the crack of that wonder, i see more about me that i yearn to exchange for more about the world in the local marketplace. take me, sell me there, trade this for that, and for the sake of my heart, make sure i get one of thOsE. let me write letters from that place, introducing others to my own exploration, & perhaps introducing my own self to others...unguarded, unfiltered, emotionFULL.

02 December 2007

old ticket stubs

i keep shit like that. my friend deemed a nickname for me while i was packing my 6 months of life in spain into two suitcases: paper packrat. i am utterly obsessed with paper. some of my most treasured possesions are journals, books, old letters, the stuff of paper pulp & hand writing. what does that say about my life.

i keep a letter posted on the wall in front of my desk, from my beloved friend jane, and i read it occasionally for the lifting of my own soul. it's absolutely nothing special to look at, but it's a handwritten (in pencil, that's her unique style) on college-ruled notebook paper, and perfect. it isn't dated, so i will make a mark to assign it a spot on the timeline of my history. the first line of this letter reads: "yes, you have to read this in dreaded pencil." her letter is intensely personal, and it wouldn't make sense to quote from it here, but it's one of my treasures. i pull it down from the wall, read it slowly, remember what it felt like the first time i read it, remembering how it feels new each time i read it, remembering my own life written out on those pages, and sometimes thinking: is that really mine?

so i write letters. i keep stamps in my wallet, in my car, on my desk. good pens are everywhere. gluesticks & old dictionaries cover my room. i wake up on sunday mornings and can't move around for an hour without searching around for my journal, my watercolors, my paintbrush, bits of inspiration collected throughout the week..and finding myself once again in my chair, at my desk, creating. these are the proud moments of my existence. it feels natural and right and organic to sit there and let out what is burstinf forth from within.

it blesses me. it blesses my existence. it is my opening. my awakening. my heartbeat.