Um.

I want you to know that I read your poem.
I think I understood,
And I'm sorry.
For lots of things.
Mostly, I'm sorry that
You caught the worst of my uncommunicativeness.

I'd like to see your garden sometime, if you don't mind.
Perhaps I could plant a new flower? A completely platonic but very nice flower?
It should bloom come spring.

Alright.... I'm coming to pick up my Italian book.

Please don't read the rest of this.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-






You Sneak!!!! I told you not to read the rest of this!!!! Oh well.
Do you have any regrets? I'm curious. I'm not sure if I do. Regret I think is a mortal thing, something of this earth. I think it's something you choose, too. If I do have regrets, it's mostly on the ends of the spectrum. I regret either that we tried in the first place, or that it didn't work out, or maybe a little of both. But it was a learning experience. I learned that we are probably better suited as friends. Although, since we've been spending so much time on honesty planet lately, I have a confession. I feel a sense of relief. There was something missing, and it was, for lack of a better word, a little strenuous and tense. But there is still that little corner of opposition. It's the top-left corner, I think. I'll have to look into some repairs up there. It opposes all endings and change. It is determined to keep trying until all problems are solved and every question answered, goll-durn-it! Our rather interesting situation is not immune from that. This is not a plea to try again. I am simply explaining all aspects of my own standing, which I should have done better at before. I don't think the top-left corner is sufficiently strong enough to induce me to try again.
Now. Let's put this to rest, and say, "You know what? They're great, really. And I still care about them, but it just didn't work out." We can turn westward or eastward or whatever way we want, and still wish the best for each other, send each other Christmas cards, and when you get an iPhone, I'll send you a snapchat or something. It'll be funny, I promise.
That's all.

"A lovestruck Romeo, sings the streets of serenade
Laying everybody low with a love song that he made
Find a streetlight, steps out of the shade
Says something like, "You and me, babe, how about it?"

Juliet says, "Hey, it's Romeo, you nearly gave me a heart attack"
He's underneath the window, she's singing
Hey, la, my boyfriend's back"
You shouldn't come around here, singing up at people like that
Anyway what you gonna do about it?

Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start
And I bet and you exploded in my heart
And I forget, I forget the movie song
When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

Come up on different streets, they both were streets of shame
Both dirty, both mean, yes and the dream was just the same
And I dream your dream for you and now your dream is real
How can you look at me, as if I was just another one of your deals?

Well, you can fall for chains of silver, you can fall for chains of gold
You can fall for pretty strangers and the promises they hold
You promised me everything, you promised me thick and thin
Now you just say, "Oh, Romeo, yeah, you know
I used to have a scene with him"

Juliet, when we made love, you used to cry
You said, "I love you like the stars above, "I love you till I die"
There's a place for us, you know the movie song
When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

I can't do the talk like the talk on the TV
And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be
I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you
Can't do anything except be in love with you

And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be
All I do is keep the beat, the bad company
And all I do is kiss you, through the bars of a rhyme
Juliet, I'd do the stars with you any time

Juliet, when we made love, you used to cry
You said, "I love you like the stars above, I'll love you till I die"
There's a place for us, you know the movie song
When you gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?

A lovestruck Romeo, he sings the streets of serenade
Laying everybody low with a love song that he made
Find a convenient streetlight, steps out of the shade
He says something like, "You and me, babe, how about it?""

"Romeo and Juliet" by The Killers

Melon-collie (hehe)

She stared at the darlings holding hands in front of her walking down the sidewalk, and she felt lonelier than ever. She wanted to write a heart-wrenching, hand-wringing, tear-jerking, earth-shattering poem about it, only she couldn't; it would be dishonest. Her feelings were not so violent. No, she was still upright, walking, healthy, happy, almost. There was simply a melancholic weight that had settled in the middle of her chest, and it sometimes made it hard to sleep. When that happened, a cup of hot, chamomile tea usually did the trick.  But sometimes, the blues struck her hard. Nothing saps happiness out a girl's heart faster than the blues. She felt lost. There seemed to be a thousand directions she could take, but none of them led to the horizon, and all seemed to end in a downward trajectory, plummeting straight to the earth. There were only two people in the world she wanted to talk to about it. The first, He was quiet. Well, maybe not quiet so much as vague. The other, well, he was the reason for the melancholy. She couldn't talk to him. It seemed that she would have to be patient with her introspection until she could find some answers.
This, however, made her sigh. It's hard to be half-way lonely for a very long time.

Enough

It's a little scary
To post something about
God.
Omnipotent
Just
Merciful
Kind....

It's intimidating because I can't even
Begin to scratch the surface on
This character.
There's some feelings of                      inadequacy
swirling around.
But then I recall a story within a story.

There was a woman who                      reached out
To touch the hem of His robe.
He turned around
and made her whole.

In this confusing world of virtual and real
Where it's so easy
For one to be wounded so
Deeply,
I sometimes forget that
All that is needed is for me to                reach out
And He will heal me.

[ ]

Once again, it was a brisk, fall morning, and she felt alive again. Only this time, it was different. The spark was late this year. The air didn't start to breath with her until it was nearly October. Nonetheless, she enjoyed the prolonged warmth that came with the extra days of a waning summer. However, on this particular day, she ran down her front porch steps and headed to her morning class. She rounded a corner and saw the fish-bowl school building sitting atop a nice, grassy knoll.  She tried to think of a more descriptive word for the hill than 'nice', but decided against it.
     "It's perfectly alright to call it 'nice', because I've already called it a 'knoll' and that's eloquent enough. We can't be too flowery with our language now, can we?"
She wasn't sure who she was talking to because she was alone. It didn't matter though, because just then, she looked down and saw the chilled fall breeze dance around her loose, purple shirt. She felt very bohemian.
Later that night, she sat in the new chair at the kitchen table, again by herself. She thought about how she preferred her old, busted chair, and a man she had seen who had two prosthetic legs.
     "That must be what it's like to not have words." she thought quietly to herself, "You must just feel broken inside, with no way to fix it because you don't have words."
She was saddened by the thought, and felt sorry for the broken man and the crippled chair. She didn't know if she would see the chair again, or where it went; probably to the dump, and there was nothing that poor chair could do about it. She knew she'd see the man again. She thought the next time she did, she might ask him how he'd feel if he didn't have words.

In No Particular Order, The Top 10 Most Potentially Romantic Lines by Jessie Forbes

"I am, at this point in time, a dreamer trying very very hard to be a realist."

"I am still raw, and rejection would be a bit too much for my poor, young, foolish heart to handle."

"I’ve never been good with goodbyes, and this one is particularly difficult since I really don’t know if I should say it at all. But maybe, by some miracle, I’ll never have to."

"I wish you joy, and if there is anything I can ever do to help you find it, please tell me."

"I am tired of riddles and it would be an incredible relief to simply know that there is some part of me that fits in with you."

"You make me laugh. You make me smile, and you make me feel worthwhile. More than that, you make me feel comfortable being alive in the same way the sunshine does when you step out of a cold church building and into the afternoon light."

"You have worked your way into the corners of my soul, but I’m still trying not to give you my heart. I must say, it's proving very difficult"

"There's something beautiful about trying to listen to your head when you know all along your heart will win out. It's a paradox really, because the logical thing to do would be to not waste time with reason in matters such as love."

"The entire human imagination couldn't explain how I feel. It's a bit dangerous, really."

and last, but certainly not least,

"You warm my heart like a Snuggie on a cold winter's night." 

A Love Sonnet of Sorts

Which came first, the cookie or the cake?

Be careful of where you give your
Love, because I am enchanted by
The Chase, and you may find yourself experiencing
"The Alliterative Morte D'Arthur",
and that would be a real shame
if you thought it a waste of time.

Dialogue

What do you say when you're at a loss for words; when the words are stuck, "like honey on bread"? (That's for you, Stevens)
What does it mean when the words that come out in English mean nothing at all, and the easy ones in Spanish mean the most?
"¿Cómo estás?" 
How are you? How. Are. You. How are you in your own existential state right now? You exist, you live, breathe, talk, laugh, cry, shout, roll your eyes, etc. How is it?
When you walk down the street under the brilliant sun, how are you?
When you sit on a park bench and throw away your brown, jagged apple core, how are you?
When you heave a sigh, and feeling chagrined, put your head in your hands, how are you?
When you stare at the broad convexity of the T.V. screen, and let your mind be sucked away for a brief hour, just to relax, how are you?
When you are folding laundry and the house is quiet, and you say to yourself, "Self, boring is nice", how are you?
When you've got a bizarre thought, and you feel so satisfied writing it down, how are you?
When your mind is full, your heart is open, and your eyes are too, how are you?

I know how I am when I sit in my living room in the small hours of the night, and my soul feels thinner and folded like the paper pinwheels above the front window. Pinwheels are noncommittal. Each spoke is gently rounded in half, without a crease, making nothing about the pinwheel permanent.
Interestingly enough, it's that indecisiveness that makes the pinwheel spin.

I'm like this pinwheel. My loss for words is like that gentle curve of the paper. If I express something, the paper creases, and the spinning stops. Sometimes limbo is a nice place to be. There is hope in the in-between, like there is wind in the looped paper, and it keeps the momentum going.
The sad part is, you'll never know, in limbo. What was I going to say? You'll never know, because then the pinwheel won't spin and I can't say meaningless English words to you again, and meaningless words are better than no words at all, right? Words with no substance are at least words, and maybe one day I can find the right words and string them together in just the right way, that they'll shake the foundation of the mountain you stand on, and topple it into the coursing river of reaction below. If I do that though, there is no way of knowing whether or not you will climb out, sopping wet, on to my bank of the river.

That's why English is hard. When you talk, what does it mean? Words are words are words are words are words and

dialogue can be cheap.

Fourth Person

"The better option." she quipped as she smothered French cheese on her baguette. In all her self confidence and nonchalance, she didn't quite know how much she would be missed in the coming weeks and months.

"Just friends." he confessed as he tossed a dart that buried itself in her chest, just off to the left of her heart. It wasn't enough to kill her, but the doctor said it would take 8 weeks to heal.

"I was just basking in all the genius." She remarked to her friends as she laid in the greener grass across Walden pond.

There's another character here; the recipient all of these statements.  With hands in her skirt pockets, she stands quiet in a lost road with hunched shoulders. What hurts her more than these words and the scenarios they are packaged in, is knowing that La Vita e Bella. She's a Swede writing Spanish poetry, and she never did quite have a chance in Italy. That leaves her with a heavy weight in her stomach and a dry taste in her mouth, because having a hope disappointed when there really was no hope to begin with is the hardest thing of all.

Now, she is simply stitching up the hurt and miss inside her. She shows her pain in the form of cheap poetry, so common it's as ubiquitous as a stubbed toe. She fills in the holes of her heart with streaks of rain against the smouldering sunset, making the sky look like inverted light rays.  Slowly, she straightens her spine and raises her chin an inch to look up from the dusty path on which she stands.

She looks up to find that God is standing there in front of her. Their eyes meet and a small smile starts on her face that almost reaches her eyes. She parts her dry lips and a whisper escapes them.

"Glory."

Shout Out to Shug. 

A Sunday Kind of Thought

I have never truly desired fame or glory. I only long to do good.
I don't want the praise and adoration of "the world", because how can you measure an entire planet's approval? And besides, you'll never get it.

I simply want to rest on a Sunday and feel closer to God than I did on Monday.

The Honest Prayer of a Moth

"There never was a moment in my life when I felt so in the Presence as I do now. I feel as if the Almighty were so real, and so near, that I could reach out and touch Him, as I could this wonderful work of His if I dared. I feel like saying to Him, 'To the extent of my brain power I realize Your presence, and all it is in me to comprehend of Your power. Help me to learn, even this late, the lessons of Your wonderful creations. Help me to unshackle and expand my soul to the fullest realization of Your wonders. Almighty God, make me bigger, make me broader!'"    -Kate Comstock, The Girl of the Limberlost,  by Gene Stratton Porter

Blech

I don't know what to think.
Talking about boxes and dog-ears is confusing.
It seemed liberating at the time. Metaphors do that, you know. They express emotion that can't be expressed directly, so it feels like emotional freedom when you share a metaphor.
But you know, after too many metaphors I've simply become a dog-earred ball of string and clay that's been put in a box and hung on a tree by a string of my own literary making.

^The above is a paradox, but don't think too hard about it.

8, but rotated 90 degrees.

I saw a young father playing with his toe-headed daughter out in the grass today. It made me glad. It made me glad because of families, and the fact that people still believe in them. It’s an awe inspiring idea, families. When you get married, you link the rest of your life forever with another person’s and you are both aware of it, both inspired by it, and both a little overwhelmed by it, because you consciously perceive at least a portion of what is taking place. 

When you have a little child, a little toe-head girl, or dark haired boy perhaps. You are completely, utterly, and irrevocably linking your life with the entirety of another human’s life for eternity. Every step they take, mistake, and laugh and tear they shed from day one is now somehow a part of your life, whether or not you are present when they occur. 

I simply suggest that we make it an effort to be there for as many tears, laughs, smiles and mistakes as we possibly can.

Happy Birthday, Harry Potter

August... August is the sneakiest month. Everyone enjoys July too much to give August a thought until it's already here.

August - August. I've completed one rotation on the unicycle of adulthood, and I have to tell you, I nearly fell off a couple of times. It was a year of first tries and second bests. I'm hoping I can make this a chiasmus --

Second tries and first bests. First best.
No one really ever says first best. Probably because "first best" connotes that  there is a second best, and no one bothers with second place.

We live in a cut-throat, darwinian society, so people tend to forget the runner up.

For example: At a party, there is a plate of rice krispy treats, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. The plate of cookies is always the first one empty.
Well, as far as I know, and even though that may not be a lot, the caloric value of a rice krispy treat is essentially the same as that of a chocolate chip cookie.

I've been told by God that we're all of infinite worth. I'm going to take Him at face-value, too.
So basically, we're all a walking chiasmus of first tries and second bests, soon to become second tries and first bests.

And it's ok to say first best, because that implied second best will be first best soon too, and their second best will be first best, and on and on in an infinite cycle of inversion and conversion.
August can be the sneaky, second-best month of stair-step chiasmi.

Astonishment

"We are all on the brink of miracles."

"Miracles are a matter of perception."

-Perhaps we are all on the brink of perceiving miracles?-

Boxed out

I've been put in a box.
I've been folded neatly and put away.

It's funny how when you store away people, they have a tendency of leaking over the top and out the edges of the drawer.

You know what's funny? I put you in a box.
I stacked that box in the top shelf of my closet.

I don't really like to take it out and look at it too much.
Honestly, I don't need to because you've leaked out and over the box and off the shelf and have somehow snuck yourself into the pockets of my jeans and I find you there when I least expect it.

Stick me

The white, fiercely clean walls and the smell of antiseptic are only in my imagination.

I took a few steps into the dark, and they say that when you do that, it's faith.
Did they ever tell you that faith was scary? Because I'm terrified.

They say faith is the opposite of fear. I beg to differ.
Faith is something you choose despite your fear.
And let me tell you, I'm terrified.

The first and last time I had my blood drawn, I passed out.
And started jerking, seizing up.
It surprised me, but funnily enough, I wasn't scared.
Everyone else was terrified.

I'm going to have my blood drawn again today.
For no other reason but practice.
Someone gets to practice poking a needle in me, only this time, there are precautions.
I'll be laying down, and I won't look at the needle as it goes in.
I should be fine. I'm not really scared.

It's me poking someone else.
That's a little nerve-wracking.
I know it hurts and pinches.
I don't want to pain someone else. That scares me.

I guess I've got to have  a little faith.
Ya, I'll stick a sharp, foreign object in their blood,
But they're not scared.

A little confidence in myself won't go amiss.
Faith despite fear, right?

so Stick Me.

dog-earred

I heard something about chapter books. They said that chapter books were a whole different ball game than books you could read in one go. Chapter books require you to dog-ear the page, (or use a book mark, for all the book-nazis out there) and promise to come back later. This was supposed to relate to people.
So I guess some people you can finish in one go. They are there for a day, or an hour, or a minute and then..........                ............
There are some people that you dog-ear, though. They promise to come back, you promise to come back. Like family, of course. Family sticks around and they usually crop up at least once in every chapter, if not more often than that, until the end of The Book. Friends stick around too, for a couple of chapters, usually. Sometimes it's for a 5-chapter block, or they just trickle in and out every 20 pages or so, and you're never quite sure when they might crop up again, and how they might be different.
Then there's the cameo appearances. The summer flings, the winter romance that ended with Christmas. They're the equivalent of the attractive guy you dated for a few months, and apparently served some sort of purpose in your life's story, but you're not sure why, because you never see him again after the first book in the series.
I think that's where this metaphor diverges from real life. Usually in the tangible world, the people you don't expect to ever see again, you see randomly, suddenly, and usually uncomfortably. The people that you expect to see again at Thanksgiving or at Friday's History Lecture are no-shows..... permanently. See, in chapter books, when a character is gone, they're gone! The cameo-appearances stay cameo. In chapter books, the protagonist sticks around, and you can count on the archetype of that wise old man to hold true. If you go back and look at your diary or whatever, it's pretty clear that's not how it works in life. The one-time people keep showing up, turning into two-and-three-time people, leaving you wondering if it's every truly possible to "never see someone again".  Sometimes the mentor figure isn't there, or they have to leave prematurely, leaving you wondering if there is such thing as consistency and dependability.
So really, chapter books are a risky business. Dog-earring a page is placing your trust and your heart on a line of text. There's the promise to come back, but that doesn't guarantee anything.

Why then, do we dog-ear the page?

Sandpaper

Caviat: I'd like to talk about college. Seem cliche? It is. Do I care? Only a little. I am in college, and that's what is affecting me right now, and so I'm going to talk about it, however self-interested that may sound. However, with some coaxing and a forgiving mind, this silly analogy could probably be read for all ages.

College life is a little like Sandpaper. Actually, it's quite a lot like sandpaper. They rub you down here. They rub off what you thought before. Almost daily you here words like "former misconception", and phrases like, "forget what they told you in school. This is what this particular phrase REALLY means." The expectations are rough, too; expectations from family, peers, teachers, etc. These expectations form the pressure that pushes the sandpaper hard into the skin of your spirit and drags it across. It's pretty harsh.
There's good sandpaper, though. I like to call good sandpaper the day-old stubble of a beard, or in lay terms, "5 o'clock shadow".  Mmmm. You with me, girls? That's the kind of sandpaper that can scratch an itch in your soul when it drags across the smooth surface of your own cheek.
Have you ever dragged a piece of sandpaper across human skin? I did once. It was with my dad's electrical sander. While it was whirring around in circles at dangerously high speeds, I ever so gently placed my fingertips to the spinning sandpaper, just for the experience. Friction is pretty incredible. There was no blood, but even the ghost of a touch to the sander took a layer of skin off of my fingers.
I can't imagine that having your immortal soul sanded is a pleasant experience. In fact, I feel fairly confident in stating that as a fact. It does not feel very good for the human spirit to be sanded down.

Query: Is it necessary?
This leads to other quandaries on the matter, such as: "If so, to what extent?" "How do we know when we've been 'sanded' enough?" "Is this a form of refinement, or torture, or both?" "Isn't there an easier way?" "Who decides when I'm finished?" "Why would we have to be sanded at all?" "Who thought up of this terrible sandpaper analogy anyway?", and on and on in a vicious cycle of age-old questions that have already been answered, but will forever be posed and reposed in various forms.
So maybe I do know the answer to sandpaper, (it's not 42, that's the meaning of life!) but that doesn't really stop the chafing.

My Bucket List

1. Every day, be more of the person that God would want me to be
2. Learn to fly
3. Discover someone lost to history
4. Open a life-changing chocolate shop
5. Take a bold stance on a controversial topic
6. See the Seven Wonders
7. Save someone's life
8. Solve a mystery
9. Visit the World Fair
10. Climb the Swiss alps in the spring
11. Spend a summer in Italy
12. Leave a mystery for posterity
13. Visit every spot that I have pinned on my travel board on pinterest
14. Learn a new language
15. See Hamlet at the Globe Theater
16. Grab a stranger by the tie and kiss him
17. Drop a penny off of the Eiffel Tower
18. Build a raft and float down the Mississippi River
19. Eat a piece of Pizza on the Leaning Tower of Pisa
20. Spend a night homeless
21. Visit an Iranian mosque
22. Go to Istanbul
23. Visit Tipp City, Ohio: The birthplace of "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too"
24. Join a roller derby team
25. Visit the Atlantic and Pacific ocean on the same day

Bad Habits

Eras: Biblical-Byzantine-Mediaval-Renaissance-Enlightenment-Regency-Victorian-Progressive-Roarin' 20s-Depression-WWII-1950s-60s-70s-80s-90s-Y2K-Now.......

Sins: homosexuality-lying-cheating-stealing-killing-pride-fornication-drinking-drugs-violence-blasphemy-exploiting-destroying-punching-hitting-screaming-kicking-scratching-complaining-swearing............

The list goes on, but the point is: Doesn't Satan ever get bored of seeing all the same sins repeated over and over and over?
We think that the problems we have are today's own generational problems. They're not. They are age-old problems that have been seen since Cain killed Able.

Don't kill Able.

arete

So. It's February. Ever notice how no one ever says "February" phonetically? Then again, no one says "phonetically" phonetically, so why should they bother to say "February" the way it's spelled?

Humans do that too much. They say things they way they are spelled, or play by the exact rules.... But only when it helps them. "The devil is in the details", but only when the devil is beneficial. Every other time we just refuse to see him, because let's face it, he's scary.

Humans also don't do that enough. They don't pay attention to the specifics, or they bend the rules. But only if it suits them. "The spirit of the law, or the letter of the law". In most cases, people would argue that the leeway was for a greater cause. Usually, it's for their greater cause.

So what do we do? Do we start saying "February" exactly how it's spelled, but leave "phonetically" alone because we like the paradox?  Would that fix the incongruities we have between public virtue and self interest?

I'm going to act in self interest right now. I'm going to say "February" exactly how it is spelled, because I like the way it sounds.

Poetry and Bobbin Lace

Poetry and Bobbin Lace
Both are so delicate, to be crafted one stitch, one word at a time.
They are to be treasured and wrapped
In blue paper, and sold at the county fair.
But what happens when Lark Rise pushes Candleford
Into the future,
And poetry contests and hand-made lace are no longer
On the market?
Their value cannot be monetarily expressed anymore,
and the Blue Paper and the Crafted Words
are put into the attic that Minnie cleans so often at Ms. Lane's request.

Why do we write, if not to be read?
Why sew if it shan't be seen?
There are two sides of any craft, the
Seeing and the Doing.
Times change and the seeing of beauty will be lost to many.
But the Doing..... that persists in the heart of the crafter, the shaper, the maker.
Words unappreciated will make little difference in the world 90% of the time.
That's just a fact to be faced.
However, there are the Liesel Memminger's in the world, who craft the words
and then fell a delicate pathway through the throngs.

We do not write, we do not sew, truly, just to be Seen.
It is in the Doing of it that the joy and beauty come.