it’s not that i don’t love you

it’s just that i’ve had other places to spend my focus.

glove portraits, for one

saving the world

“you can’t save the world,” he said

but even though he has years of experience

of wisdom

of life, that i cannot compete with

i couldn’t help but think to myself in response,

“why not?”

where in the world is carmen san diego

i used to play “where in the world is carmen san diego?” on a regular basis. it was a fun game, and i used a really old edition of the world almanac to figure out where csd had run off to with the crown jewels of france or the maltese falcon, or whatever artifact it was that she had managed to snag.  every time you deduced where ol’ carmen had scampered off to and managed to fly yourself there, you’d look around the town and instantly know if you were on the right track based on the responses of the people you’d run into. these people would either be perplexed by your inquiries regarding the renegade carmen or would say “oh yes, we saw a woman with crazy hair and a large coat discussing how much she liked vodka” {to which you were to figure out she was headed to russia next}.  there was something comforting about these responses. you were instantly aware of if you had taken the right path or not. why can’t real life have that sort of comfort? that sort of roadmark? any time someone wanted to tell me that i was going the right direction would be divine. well, maybe not divine. maybe it would make me feel like i do when i watch old episodes of “boy meets world.” but maybe sometimes you need that.

guest room

 

my favorite part about a guest room is having an alarm clock. for some reason, this gadget provides the ultimate sense of comfort for me. it is hard to feel homey and situated with red or green numbers staring defiantly out at me, always centering me with the hour and minute of the day. no amount of molding, of deliberately soothing wall color, of down pillows, or of empty dressers can compare to an alarm clock. a lamp with different brightness settings can hold its own, but still remains firmly in second place. 

i hope one day to have a guest room of my own, a place where i can attempt to give another a sense of belonging where they do not actually belong {as opposed to the futon in my living room, which is all i have to offer a guest these days}. i’m thinking white christmas lights are a must, along with the previously discussed alarm clock. and definitely a cedar chest, full of board games, old calculators, photo albums, a handmade quilt, sunscreen, a deck of cards, a half full bottle of american honey, and hopefully someone’s old diary. having something to prowl through when you’re a guest is the best! there should also be a book case that is stocked with at least some books that would be of interest to a guest. so often i am stuck in a room full of books that look horribly boring. college text books from the 70’s or giant coffee table books that were not cool enough to make the coffee table cut. oh, and dvds!!! maybe all sports themed, {greatest 49ers football highlights from the 1980’s, miracle, the first season of friday night lights, the mighty ducks, ladybug}, and definitely some classic romantic comedies {four weddings and a funeral, when harry met sally}, and holiday flicks {it’s a wonderful life, die hard} so as to appeal to everyone and no one all at once. strange knickknacks would be sporadically placed on the shelves, odds and ends from my childhood that have nowhere else to go. i’m wondering if wall decorations are in order. is it possible to decorate a guest room without making it feel like a hotel or like an extension of myself? is black and white photography hip, or impersonal? 

guest rooms are essential. having somewhere to escape to, and being able to offer a place of refuge are two of the most important things a human can have in their back pocket. 

in due time, i suppose.

we all fall up

i love:

reading in the morning, sparkling cider, seeing the milky way, noticing discreetly excited smiles, discussing radio broadcasts, pirate cat radio, adding grilled mushrooms to soup, eric’s “thought-o-the-day,” hostessing favors from whitney, researching and piecing together a paper, dr. horrible’s sing along blog, hearing k’s ideas on life while we run ridiculously hilly trails, advice from my mom’s best friend, participating in triathlons, anyone participating in triathlons, reading in waiting rooms, unexpected phone calls, indoor soccer with the buffalo girl’s team, playing defense, assisting in soccer, sports psychology, blush champagne, collaborating with simone to categorize groups of things, sleeping in tents, sharing a sleeping bag, national treasure, conversations that take place in rivers, looking at the possibility of new spaces, finding potential in unlikely places, macaroons, nectarines from the farmer’s market, riding my bike to work, secret rendezvous, sunglasses, anytime kassie tells a story, being in the oregon alumni association, having questions answered, going to the airport, not actually knowing someone, the rivercats, letters from past me, remembering sparkmatch, anytime tami is involved, realizing likely outcomes of situations so as not to be surprised by them, reading between the lines, heather’s good news, snuggle-texts, bowling, the verbal tip, eating dinner with renee, having a dress pinned to be altered, daytime movies, dancing to secret sauce, raggamuffin’s high-knees dance, steph’s enthusiasm for hayward, inspiring myself, white russians while packing, whales, reading before bed…

canary

that sound of moistened lips 
pressing together
and tongue grazing gently
but firmly
through the tiny grooves of teeth
are little more 
than the sweet nothing sounds 
of me 
attempting to swallow the canary 
{flock of yellow feathers and all 
bones crunched down to bite-sized pieces
beak nibbled to bits
gulping down those pointy toes
beady eyes}
and leave no trace of a smirk in my smile
before you turn around
to walk back 
over my threshold

universal blackout

light from billions of years away  is visible when twilight dissolves into night {only distance lets us see the past with clarity} but what happens if all that light goes out?  a universal blackout  each star flickering  faltering finally succumbing to nothingness a dark pit where bright once ruled would there be silence {in the same way as an earthly loss of power when ceiling fans and refrigerators stop their constant hum} or would there be supernovaly noise  as celestial bodies lose their joy in existing is the universe still the universe without light racing through the dark matter?  we’re lucky that we have pg&e to restore our luminescent expectations.

srsly

so seriously are vowels overrated?  consonants ahoy!  * maybe if we cut out what is in-between  focusing only on the toasted bread part of the sandwich  we won’t be so confounded  ever so confused forevermore simplify simplify simplify

i live in a beautiful world

i live in a beautiful world.  there’s always a game of pick-up soccer or volleyball going on, and you never have to be the spiker if you don’t want to be. if you feel like going home mid-morning and burrowing under a fuzzy blanket and an afghan blanket while eating french fries and watching reruns of “the real world” and “beverly hills 90210,” you are more the welcome to do so. no one asks any questions when you quit your job to go back to school. you get mail at least twice a week, and you send mail at least twice a week. you correspond with loved ones, with tree trunks that have been alive for the last four hundred years, with your great-great grandmother who always knew you might exist and is terribly excited to get to know you. she’s pretty hip for someone who never even saw the light of day in this century.  radio djs exist again, all day and all night, taking requests and playing music of their choosing. racquetball lessons are available every other hour. sometimes there are fist fights, or people fall asleep while driving, but these events are few and far between. libraries are clean and spacious and full of most every book and always have amazing young adult sections. they even have studios in the library so you can work on graphic novellas or collaborate on poems if you get inspired while browsing or hanging around. there is no self checkout at the library because having contact with people is important.  everyone takes turns cleaning up and being janitors. it’s not fun, but it makes everyone more clean because they know what it’s like to clean up now. and this way, the janitors get to do other things, like clean their own homes and go to the zoo and give all the flamingos names, just because they can. time goes by slowly, which is a blessing and a curse. but you never feel rushed, so you never get road rage or wonder where the time is going.  there’s a really advanced monorail in my world, so cars aren’t necessary unless you’re going out to the country. the monorail picks you up at your house whenever you want, and it runs smoothly. it feels a bit like the best plane ride you’ve ever been on. a kind voice always offers you a cup of water. people always want to go camping on the weekends, or to the beach, so you don’t have to worry about going to these places alone if all of your friends are busy. you’re constantly meeting new people and having new adventures.  cats have screen doors just for them to scratch, and like people, are basically well socialized. but if they aren’t well socialized, that’s okay, and no one makes fun of them. most people have their own gardens and a lot have miniature farms. communities share peach trees and tomato vines and lettuce plants.there is a board game club that meets once a week. people actually attend. you can go hiking by yourself whenever you want, and you have to be wary of mountain lions, but never of any person.  if this sounds too perfect, know that it isn’t. perfect is atrociously boring. there are issues and conflicts and hard times and people are sad and sometimes kids and puppies are still abandoned. but things are resolved in a more polite and easy fashion. it’s a nice place to be.

cover

the thing about an open book is this: 
i always presumed that the book was already written
everyone simply read at a different pace
{perhaps in a unique font, but all the same words}
hence how we ended up on different pages; 
but it occurs to me lately 
that i’m writing my own book
{one fragmented yet descriptive line at a time}
not following along with one finger
lips moving to silently sound out the words.
so our pages can never align 
unless i start writing what you are scrambling to read
which is unlikely at best 
as i make every attempt not to rewrite stories told
and much as i would love it if you were interested in my book
there is not enough forever to go around waiting for my words to inspire you
we’re already dying, so we might as well live.

take back

i’d like a take back. 

don’t give me that bullshit about how take backs aren’t “in” anymore, about how it’s not second grade and i’m not standing in line for four-square, freezing my spot so i can run and get a drink of water while you busy yourself with defrosting it so when i get back my spot has melted and you’ve just walked right into it. taking the rest of the line with you. this take back is for the best. so when i’m at my worst, when i’ve sank as far down as i’m willing to let myself go, i can whip that take back out of my pocket like a hard-earned ribbon from an intruder during capture the flag, wave it calmly and say “take back, please,” and be given another chance, not just by me, but by everyone, to redo it the way it was meant to be done. the way that remains truthful to who i am trying to be and what i want to stand for.

less than fist size

i always thought i had an average, fist sized heart. in fact, it wasn’t until you mentioned hearing janis joplin croon about taking and breaking pieces of her heart that i realized how true it was, and how much of my heart had gone missing in the last seven years. it isn’t anyones fault but my own.  see, back at the age of eighteen, i lent my broken heart to my old third grade classroom, the one with the sea lions hanging from the ceiling {third grade is such a surreal place as an adult}. mrs. doxy thought it would be a fun art project to let the kids play with my heart, dismantle it, and then put it back together again. they had successfully rebuilt clocks, car engines, and hard-drives, so i figured these kids were as good as any to re-construct my shattered heart.  the kids worked for days, ignoring other lessons about kelp gardens and ramona quimby. they mashed up all the pieces into one glob of heart, and pushed it all through a garlic press {no one had promised it would be painless} until every piece of my heart was now a strand no wider around than the head of a pin. then they sliced up those strands until each moment of my heart was as thin and crinkled as sparkly red tissue paper.  i was hallucinating from a lack of oxygen by this point, laying on the floor behind the teacher’s desk, envisioning making a geometry book out of tiles and hearing dashboard confessional songs like i’ve never heard them before, so the kids started to hurry. they picked up each piece of my heart with tweezers, and without worrying as to whether they were fitting it together exactly, they pulled up elmer’s glue {it dries clear so no one would know}, got all the pieces in the correct shape, and i breathed again.  the project was such a success that they’ve revived it every year since, sometimes rebreaking my heart for me if it hasn’t been already. and each year towards the end of my hallucinations, one kid finds a few pieces of my heart that were overlooked, and he panics. while everyone is busy celebrating my revival, he’s on the other side of the room, tossing each piece in a separate garbage can, hiding them behind old posters of the asl alphabet, shoving them under crayon labels. i’m alive, so he hopes no one ever knows the difference.  but the thing is, seven years is a long time when you’re a young adult, and that’s a lot of heart to have gone missing. so sure, i’m still pumping enough blood to be healthy, still taking jogs and swims and hikes. but how much longer until there is no heart of mine left to put back together? how much longer until i have to find kids who can regrow organs instead of just fix them?  or perhaps i’ll send next year’s third graders on a scavenger hunt to find all those lost pieces. then i can put off all this worrying for awhile still.

i’m a professional

oh, 2008
with your sneak attacks a ninja would envy,
your ability to shock and awe,
leaving me both breathless and out of breath,
knocking my spinning plates down three at time,
beating me over the head with that lead two by four you’re ever so fond of
watching as the will to stand in the shower leaves
until i’m crumpled at the bottom of the basin
praying to the god i don’t think listens to just stop existing,
enjoying my elation because you served it to me on a silver platter
knowing full well you were going to swipe it out of my hands to fall
butter. side. down.
{you’re so wily, 2008! butter side down}
you think you’ll get the best of me, don’t you?
that i’ll break
snap in half
or quarters
just for your own delight
but watch yourself, 2008
this girl is a professional
and a professional always gets the job done right

*

the obvious addendum to this year:
bring. it. on. in 2008; i’m a professional.

*

love you soccer kids! you make my sundays a delight!

checkmate

all my strategy was forgotten
until we’d already laid out our respective sides of the board
and only then did i realize i lacked a plan
that my pieces were just placed at random
while your pawns were lined up at the ready
with rhyme or reason
so when it came time to play
{really play}
i had nothing to rely on, not even myself
for as skilled as i am in spur-of-the-moment choices
i knew i was no match for your well devised intentions
a bloodbath was close at hand
and sure enough
in just a few short moves
you had me backed into a corner
zig-zagging for my life
check
waiting for that inescapable moment
check
when i surrendered into the most vulnerable position
checkmate

aglow

never can be certain what i’m running from
which is why i’ll always be intensely curious about your attempts to hide
as you must know you better than i know me
but my red kite is all a-tangle with the power lines
probably because you never bothered to warn me of such dangers
{you’re so busy knowing you and not me}
did you know electricity leaves scars
where it enters and exits your body?
i’ve got crater near my pinky
and two more in the arch of each foot
where that lightening shot out through the rivets of my converse
which has slowed down my running considerably
so i’m all aglow in the aftermath of being lit up
the flash no more, until further notice
i’ll keep tortising along
and let you be the hare for now
i probably won’t be as victorious as one would expect
from that metaphor
just hoping for a friendly tie
when it’s all said and done.

from the heart

from john mayer’s blog:  I need to write this. I’ve been traveling alone in Japan for the better part of three weeks now, and It’s been so remarkable an experience for me that I can’t book a ticket home yet. I haven’t spoken very much out loud these days, but I’ve been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share the perspective with you.I’m already aware that when I sing, say or write anything, 50 percent of the response will be in support of it and the other 50 will want to discount it. This blog, though, is directed to 100 percent of people reading it. If my blog truly does have any cultural effect, then it should be used for more than just pictures of sneakers and funny youtube videos. (If you don’t think my blog has any effect, than you can’t by definition be reading this right now and therefore don’t have to respond to it in any way. Isn’t that tidy?)What I’m about to write isn’t about fame or success or celebrity or the media. That’s my business.This is about us all. This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it’s actually toxic. This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she’s awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She’ll take a hundred photos until coming up with one she’s happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she’s done poring over images of herself, will post one on her myspace page and then write something like ” I don’t give a f*ck what you think about me.”This is about the person trying out for American Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe. This is about me, the guy who walks through a throng of photographers into a restaurant like he’s Paul Newman, but who leaves a “reject” pile of clothes in his closet so high that his cleaning lady can’t figure out how one man can step into so many pairs of pants in a week.This is about a young guy who maintains a celebrity blog that subsists on tearing other people down but who has wrestled with a lifelong battle for acceptance as a gay man. This is about us all. Every one of us. Who all seem to know deep down that it’s incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we’re all just one sentence away from being brought to the edge of tears, if only it was worded right. And I don’t want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the past year, since I decided that I wasn’t going to care about what people thought about me. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that, sure, I couldn’t feel the negativity, but that’s because I couldn’t feel much of anything. And I think I’m done with that. I’m not the first person to admit we’re all self conscious, Kanye was. But what I want to  do is to shed a little light on why we’re all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. We were spoken to by name through a television. We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to shake hands with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing. And really? Really? It turns out we’re just not all that special, when you break it down. Beautifully unspectacular, actually.  And that truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. The paparazzo following me to the gym ain’t gonna be Herb Ritts and the guy he’s following ain’t gonna be Bob Dylan. It’s just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact. And for me, 30 sounds about right. What now, then? I can only really say for myself: Enjoy who I am, the talents and the liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Read. See more shows. Of any kind. Rock shows, art shows, boat shows. Create more art. Wear hoodies to dinner. Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me.Root for others. Give more and expect the same in return, but over time. Act nervous when I’m nervous, puzzled when I don’t know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that. And when it’s all over, whether at the end of this fabulous career or of this life, which I hope takes place at the same time, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able. And so should you. I’m going quiet now. John

color me inspired

i love: starting a project, having many people i adore in the same room playing games and drinking, taking back sunday, holding hands, feeling so alive that everything has a halo around it, running on sunday mornings, amelia earhart, salad, stories involving summer camp, postcards in my mailbox, witty text messages, having someone i adore rest their head in my lap so i can play with their hair, discovering, remembering my dreams late in the day, the buffalo girls & boys, looking through photo albums, having kitty privileges, scavenger hunts, getting up early to listen to music, conversations about popples, persevering, sleeping outside on an air mattress, blowing bubbles, scenario dancing, she-ra, having everything to say, color-forms, fine-point pens, soccer, making up words, cover bands, discussing time management, when other people are sparkly-excited about their lives, my pink-checkered shoelaces, adventures, being in pictures i didn’t know i was in, sarah dessen, being in the middle of a project, this american life, my managers, sitting in a sun-warmed spot on the rug, saki, giving compliments, cheering, drawing stick-figures, getting on the ferris wheel with a trusted friend, cribbage, waking up on a friend’s couch, my scrabble necklace, bonnie, playing in the ocean in february, long arms, mermaids, rocking at teaching, eye-glasses, being respected, surprise kisses, “eleven” by sandra cisneros, late night trips to the playground, oregon rain, regular customers who seem genuinely pleased to see me, dinner with matty and dave, laughing so hard i can’t move, champagne, planning an escapade, inhaling crisp air, butternut squash ravioli, roller-skating, hi-jinx and mayhem, driving long distances with someone i don’t know well, listening, lying in the middle of the street at 3am to watch a meteor shower, girls who stand up for themselves, solarquest, a book so good that i am compelled to stay up late reading it, the month of november, magnets, unplanned group singing, hot showers when i have nowhere to be afterwards, sleeping bags, windstorms, mistletoe, finishing a project.