Why moving on is hard

World, please forgive me for the following post. It is easily the most girly, angsty thing I have ever written. My apologies, but I've just been laying in this hammock all day and this is what laziness breeds.



Moving on is hard because moving on means admitting that you were wrong. Moving on says, hey, I'm really happy without this other person even though, at one point, I thought this person was the root of my happiness. Moving on acknowledges that someone is happier without you and that their happiness is greater than your consistency. Moving on means tearing up a schedule that you thought worked for you, it means living without a schedule for a while. Moving on says that you wasted time that you thought was well spent, time you cannot get back. Moving on is hard because we all try to make decisions and jump to conclusions that we think are right and it's embarrassing when that is not the case.

But, then again, what do I know? I've been wrong before.

Waves

Today, I was told to relax. I took a few naps in a few different locations, but, never having been one for sleep, I decided to leave my snoozing family. I tied my hair up, turned on Death Cab, and headed down to the beach. Much to my surprise, I found the sand to be black and untouched. With the exception of some local fishermen, the beach was empty but breathtakingly beautiful. I walked about a mile east, away from the fishermen, and sat down.

At first, I turned down my music and tried to synch my breathing with the crash of the ocean's waves, eyes closed. The water would crash and I would inhale until it was silenced, at which time I would exhale, trying to set the oceans undertow to a predictable rhythm. But, the current is unpredictable and soon I became short on breath. It was a peaceful 40 minutes, but "Stable Song" was reaching its final key change and I felt foolish for trying to simplify the ocean into inhales and exhales.

So, I stood up and turned on Fleet Foxes' self titled album. "Sun it Rises" hummed and I walked to its familiar pace. Not knowing what else to do, I turned a pirouette. And another. And another. By the time "Ragged Wood" began, I was twirling and leaping and prancing towards the water. Eyes still closed, I danced. Alone on the beach, I was the only movement on that still landscape and that made me feel important. For the rest of the album's duration, the beach was mine to dance on at a pace I could control. Eventually, I opened my eyes. I was dizzy but, rather than looking at the horizon as I have always been told to do, I looked down at my feet. The black sand held imprints of their movement, casks of a dying dance. I smiled because I had left my imprint on this beautiful beach.

But, then the current picked up. The waves crashed, unpredictable, and covered my feet. The water was a familiar warmth but when the undertow pulled it away, the divots in the sand were filled.

I thought I might be mad; the ocean took the reminder of my dance away with one wave. It left me standing alone on this still beach, the only movement was the slowing beat of my pacing heart. But, the beach is unpredictable and so much bigger than any movement, any thing, I can give to it. How could I ever think otherwise? Being small enough to wash away is beautiful, but only half as beautiful as the things that are big enough to wash me away.

The view from seat 18A (a window seat)

I saw busy streets become curving lines become traces of civilization become nothing at all. I saw the sunrise over Midwestern farmland. I saw the alto-stratus ceiling become the walls and then the floor, white and fluffing. I saw brown of desert sand become white with falling snow. I saw the snow itself, each unique flake, some of which clung to my window. I saw mountains small as anthills, and eventually thought nothing of them. I saw a thousand shades of green blend together into a blanket of uniformity. And I saw boxes -- proof that humans believe they control this all.

I saw the sun set over an unfamiliar scenery, maybe Mexico; who knows? I saw Orion from above the clouds that blocked its view to most. I have never been closer to the moon, big and full, and yet I have never felt so small. I saw clouds glow with orange, illuminated by lightning. I could not hear the thunder. I saw the ocean become the sky and struggled to make sense of a horizon. How could two things, both seemingly endless, have such a definitive border?

All the while, my mother slept, dreaming of being home, walking our dog down the same familiar street. All the while, my stepsister read, consumed in a land, magnificat and fantastic, that will never exist. And, when we landed, I decided that no dream or fantasy novel could ever be more surreal than the world we live in, the world I have only began to see.

What psychics taught me

Today, I went to a psychic. Not because I necessarily believe in the supernatural, but because it was on my bucket list and because it sounded like a fun idea.

The woman who told my fortune was middle-aged and had a calming voice that made me want to believe her. She told me about my health, my love life, my conflicted soul. It was great and I loved every quirky minute of it, but, I 100% acknowledge how bull-shittery she was. I mean, this woman doesn't know me and even if she did, what gives her the right to think she knows when I will marry or die or move away?

But, there is one thing she told me that took me by surprise. It was in the context of my romantic life at the moment (but she made it very clear how applicable the fact could be to my life as a whole). Her beady eyes struggled to hold gaze with mine as she said, "you need to let the past be past."



So I will. The people who drained so much of my time, the worries that bogged me down, the memories that consumed my thoughts, they are in the past. But I- me as a person- I am the present. And I want to live NOW. So I will.

The present is so great for me right now. I am happy and healthy and surrounded my happy and healthy people. The moment I am in right now, 10:23pm on Christmas Eve Eve, is wonderful. My smile feels as big as the park I am sitting in and I could not ask to be a luckier soul. Why would I waste any time with the houses or the cars or the people on the streets I drove down to get here? What matters is not what I past, but where I ended up. And that is right here. And that is all. And that is great.

The ironic part, I think, is that this woman is a fortune teller. Her job description screams the peripherality of the present, urging her customers to worry about the future. And I will. I will worry about the future when it becomes the present and then what is present now will become the past and I will let it be past. But, really, the future is dependent on how well, how quickly, I can move away from the past.

Overspoken

I wish that I could think a thought
And leave it there to be.
To have an idea and wrap it taut
To keep inside of me.

I wish that I could swallow words
And leave them on my tongue.
To breathe in what I'm thinking,
Let it expand inside my lungs.

For words, I think, improve with time
And wisdom grows in silence.
Thus the loudness I live is but a crime
And my insight breeds no prowess.

I crave a silent demeanor
Where I speak less and learn to listen.
Unnoticed as a meteor
It's the quiet who really glisten.

But still I'm here, writing down
Words I wish would go unspoken;
And thinking about the things around
That my words have left broken.

A very general list of apologies

I'm sorry that I forgot to wish you a happy birthday. I'm sorry if I didn't pull my weight in our group project. I'm sorry I'm late and I promise it won't happen again. I'm sorry that it happened again. I'm sorry that the gift I gave you wasn't as good as the one you gave me. I'm sorry that, when you passed me the ball, I kicked it to the other team and I'm sorry that that cost us the game.

I'm sorry I speak too much and out of turn. I'm sorry I tell the same story over an over. I'm sorry I so desperately seek attention and steal it from people who deserve it more. I'm sorry for being loud, obnoxious, and shrilly. I'm sorry you feel the need to put up with that.

I'm sorry I wasn't there when I should have been, when your heart was lost and your hands unheld. I'm sorry I lied and I'm sorry that I will do it in the future. I'm sorry I didn't work hard enough, that hours were spent elsewhere when they should have been spent helping you.

I'm sorry for not being thankful enough, for taking everything for granted and expecting what I do not deserve. I'm sorry I keep taking when I should be giving; I'm sorry I will never be worthy of those things given to me.

I'm sorry that I am not brave enough to speak up. I am sorry that you waste so much time worrying about me. I'm sorry for wasting the thoughts you should have had.

I'm sorry that every breath I take steals air from someone else. I'm sorry that I am alive and you are not. I'm sorry I am half as good as you would have been.

But, more than any of that, I am sorry that I even made this list. I am sorry that I feel the need to apologize and if that worries you. I'm sorry for hating my mistakes.

Plans for the nonexistent future

So, right now I am in North Carolina with my mother. Seeing as this is a trip centered in a college interview and my mother and I have little else to talk about, the majority of our conversation has been spent planning for the future. We have discussed where I want to go to school, what type of person I want to room with, where I want to live, everything. Being stressed with the nearness of plans that always seemed so distant, my response to my mothers never ending questions has been "it doesn't matter, mom, the world is going to end in four days." And so, eager for order, she begged me to walk her threw how I will spend my last day on earth if it does come this Friday. So here it is, world. My plans for Friday, December 21:

I will wake up early and make myself chocolate chip pancakes. I will play guitar for an hour, piano for an hour, and finish any uncompleted homework. I will watch the rest of Pride and Prejudice and cheat on my Advent Calendar to see if I won the Danish Lottery. I will pull out my bucket list, regret every day that I wasted on things not on that list, and tuck it in my pocket. Around 10 am, I will get on my bike. I will find the people I love and tell them I love them. I will find the people I wronged and tell them I am sorry. I will find the people I wish I knew better and tell them exactly that. I will then locate the burning pit that will have emerged in the ground and jump in before I can watch any of the previous listed people suffer.

And that will be that.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

The irony in this post is that, a few hours ago, I was planning on blogging about how things were going so great and about how I was anticipating a turn for the worst. I was going to tell myself how foolish that was, that I should live in, and just be happy with, that seemingly incorrigible bliss. I was going to tell myself that this poem, the one that I memorized at a young age and used to justify my pessimism, might actually be a lie:

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.


And now, here I am. Stricken with bad news but spared many of the details. Here I am filling in the gaps in my knowledge with tragic hypotheticals. Here I am, sad about and helpless towards a situation I can do nothing about but would give everything to change. Here I am, surrounded by leaves, realizing how I took so many flowers for granted. And here I, feeling a wonderful and peaceful dawn rising into a sickly and blinding day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Hey, at least I have this smile.

Today was great. My mother was working late and, although coming home to an empty house is not an unfamiliar experience for me, today I realized that I actually could do whatever I wanted. Instead of working on homework, I spent two hours playing piano. I spent one more playing guitar with three hilarious and talented girls. The next two and a half consisted of one of my favorite people and I getting ice cream and stargazing at Prospect Park. And it was great and I am so happy. Sure, I have mountains of work to do, but instead, I am going to eat some Twizlers, play some more piano, and go to bed early. Today will not be controlled by work.

But, that does not mean that today was not productive. In fact, the progress I made today is much more measurable than in work-heavy evenings because I am actually SMILING. If I fail my math test or have to play catchup tomorrow, that will suck, but at least I will have this night to remind me that school is such a small portion of who I am.

And so, I wonder, is it the things that I do or the things that I do not do that make me most happy? Was today great because it lacked stress and rules, or was it because it was filled with music and ice cream and stars and friends?

And here I am, again, segmenting the great from the terrible instead of integrating them. If I could be half as blissful as I am right now, if I could be half as unhappy as I have seen myself be, I couldn't complain.

Pacing

Today, I left my tutoring job at 7:08. I hand't been home since 6:50 am but Midtown Athletic Club's yoga class started at 7:30 and I wanted to get there before all the mats were taken. En route, every stop light felt like eons and the soccer moms in front of me seemed to think driving 10 mph below the speed limit was a good idea. All I could think about from behind the wheel was how stressed I was and how badly I needed yoga tonight. I merged off of 83 onto 55th and pulled up beside a green pick up truck. 7:19. I swear I have never seen this light red before But now, it seemed to be making up for lost time. I glanced to my right, towards the green pick up truck to see if the driver had taken any notice to me - he hadn't. Feeling rushed and alone and too busy to be moving so slowly, I screamed. The light turned green and I turned left. I hit an additional 3 stop lights and 2 soccer moms before finally pulling in to Midtown's parking lot. I cut off Ryan Adams mid chorus (something I rarely do), yanked the keys from the ignition, and ran inside. I had forgotten my member ID so had to waste an extra 14 seconds confirming my legal name. I bolted to the locker room, replaced my cowboy boots with running shoes, and whipped my hair into a bun. I hurried into the studio and took my seat by the back with three minutes to spare.

And    then,    for  an  hour    and    fifteen  minutes , everything    was  still.  I   found  my  "happy  place",    modeling  it    off    of    postcards    from    Olympic    National    Park.    I     closed    my    eyes.    I  could    hear    my    heart    beat.    And    it    was    steady.

I    left    yoga    feeling    calm.    As    usual,    I    decided    to    end    my   day    at   Prospect    Park  (all   good   days   end   at   prospect   park). I    sprawled    myself    out    on    top    of    the    hill,    exhaled,    and    looked    at    the    stars.          Namaste.

And then my phone rang. My mother was looking for me. I had not seen her in 30 hours and she probably had questions to ask and orders to mandate. Plus, I had yet to start my homework and had promised a friend I would help her with an essay. I drove back home, enjoying my last few moments of silence.

And now, as I am sitting upstairs, I realized I still have my shoes on. And how dumb is that? Three hours ago I was near slumber and now I can't even find time to take off my shoes.

Why is it that we segment out chaos and our tranquility rather than integrating them? I feel like I am always in such a rush to relax. Just finding time to unwind is exhausting, and once I get there, I lose my breath in an exhale.

Maybe, being calm isn't about yoga or Prospect Park. Maybe being calm is about red lights and soccer moms. After all, they too are begging us to slow down.

Arial size 10

Isn't it weird that this post and the one before it and the one before that will all be published in the same font? No matter how far my emotions scatter, the words that describe them will always be typed in this same, clean, sans sarif type face.

But the thing is, I am not feeling sans sarif right now. Not at all. If this was hand written, it would be messy and inconsistent. My T's would curl up at the bottom and I would likely switch between cursive and print depending on the length of the word. It would be illegible and wrong, but at least it would be my own.

Instead, these words that I am creating are being translated by a machine into the same, lifeless font. This is the font used in paper back books, on my prescription medicine bottles, and on my best friends blog. And although I am none of those things, to the reader, we are indistinguishable. To the reader, I am just another faceless set of fingers typing in Arial size 10.

Typography has taken my words, my original thoughts, and made them all the same. Typography knows no difference between a nervous mind and a laughing soul. Typography sweeps away the mess and makes my sentences clean, it ignores my typos and my stutters. Typography has made me lifeless, predictable. And that is not okay.

Things I'm thankful for

As ashamed as I am to admit it, I overshadowed my own thanksgiving with fear and anxiety. So here is a list of things I forgot to say I am thankful for. After all, thanks should be given on all days, not just one Thursday in November. Either way, better late than never I suppose:

I am thankful for every person who has come into my life. Every friend, family member, teacher, neighbor, or passerby has shaped me into who I am, and for that I owe more than just a thanks. I am thankful for my mother, my father, and the fact that, despite their differences, they both treat me undeservingly well. I am thankful for my brothers, for the inspiration they have planted in me and the rivalry that continues to grow. I am thankful for the girls across the street, the ones across town, and those across oceans who have listened to me and advised me and somehow still believe in me. I am thankful for the patience, care, respect, and poise of every person in (or once a part of) my life.

I am thankful for each and every bone in my body, even the broken ones (erstwhile reminders of "carpe diem's" gone wrong). I am thankful for the wisdom teeth I have yet to pull, the hair I often yank, and the toes I crack to carelessly. I am thankful that I have been given a body of decent proportions but equally as grateful that I have to work to maintain it that way, that laziness reaps no prize.

I am thankful for the house I live in, the security of solid walls and the comfort of consistency. I am thankful for the jar of Nutella in my cabinet, the silverware I will consume it with, and the washing machine and garbage cans that will cover up the evidence. I am thankful for the gadgets I thought I needed but more thankful for the realization that I do not need them at all.

I am thankful that I have the capacity to know seemingly everything, both physically and environmentally. I am thankful for the books, the music, the colors, the numbers, the factoids, the lessons. More than any of those things, I am thankful that someone saw enough in me to teach me those things.

I am thankful for the trees, the grass, the mountains, the stars, the ocean, the fish, the birds, the flowers, the pigs, the lakes, the weeping willows, the sand, the glaciers, the deserts, the seas, the creators, the moon, the canyons, the butterflies, the waves, the sun, the wind, the weeds, and the colors of them all. I am thankful for everything bigger than me, for the things that remind me to love being so small.

I am thankful for my luck, for the experiences that are available to me and not to everyone. I am thankful for the things that just went my way. And, for clichés sake, I am thankful for the things that didn't. I am grateful for the lies I wish had never slipped and the truths I wish had been lies. Each maltreatment, each bump in the road, each hardship, thankfully, has thought me something important. I am thankful, though, that the bumps are just bumps and not mountains, that they have always been small enough to see past.

But, more than anything, I am thankful that the list does not end there. I am so thankful for a never ending and ever expanding list of reasons to give thanks.

How I've avoided this moment up until right now

It is 3:27.

I woke up at 3:00 am this morning; I had a terrible nightmare. I managed to get another two and a half hours of sleep before I woke up for good around 5:30. At 7:00, I went for a bike ride. It is beautiful out today. I got home at 9:00, showered, and went to the gym at 10:00. It was pretty crowded there so I had to wait a while to get on the machine I wanted and didn't leave until noon.

When I got home, I took a shower and made myself a sandwich. I then took a long, long nap and tried to think about tomorrow, when today will be yesterday.

I woke up around 2:00 and started to get ready for dinner, trying on every dress I own to find the one that would best cover up all the stress-eating that is likely to occur. I decided on a purple one that I bought last January in Paris (without the belt) and tied my lucky red bandana in my hair.

It was 2:45. I went downstairs to take some Advil. My mother asked me to help her with some cooking so I did. Around 3:15 she told me that my dad would be here any minute and I should take that silly bandana out of my hair. I laughed. She was serious.

I went upstairs, found my way to my bathroom floor, and sat down. I looked up in the mirror at the bandana in my hair, grabbed my nearby Wilco scarf and clenched it in hopes of fighting back tears. It didn't work. It is now 3:39 (my dad is 39 minutes late) and I on my bathroom floor in tears. My stomach feels like a deflating baloon and my hands are shaking so badly that I am relying on autocorrect to guide me threw this blog post. I wrapped my scarf around my ankles to keep them from kicking the cabinet in front of me and I feel more disconnected from my body than ever. I've sweated through my purple dress and I know today is about being thankful and I am but I selfishly cannot get my anxiety-stricken mind to think clearly. This moment, the one I've joked about and assumed was still days away, is here.

And I am scared.

My own.

I'm not your story to tell
I'm not your product to sell
I'm really my own
More than your stepping stone
I am an independent cell

I'm not your word to define
Not your piece of thread to retwine
My triumphs aren't yours
Nor are faults, cuts, or chores
If I make a mistake, then it's mine.

So here I am begging you, please
Cure me of your smothered diseases
I'm not who you've made me
My soul's absentee
And I'm losing my own subtleties

We all scream for...

Let's talk for a little bit about ice cream.

Ice cream is easy. There are no bones to pick out or sauces to dip or fat to cut around. Really, you don't even have to chew. Or use silver wear if
you don't want to. Even a baby, toothless and naive, can swallow a spoonful without fear of chocking. Even easier, I believe, is the joy that comes with the company of ice cream with friends. Ice cream is harmless.

Ice cream has no rules. There are no tough choices to make, no rules to remember, no "bake at 350", or "not microwave safe". It loves to share, to be plopped on top of a brownie pr swirled in between flavors. and speaking of flavors, they are countless. Whatever you could substitute ice cream with has been made into a flavor of its own, ready to mix and match and blend. Be it as a drink, a topping, a fruit, a nut, a sundae, or a main course, ice cream comes that way. Ice cream is versatile.

Ice cream is an icepack. It's signature coldness mending a swallow heart. When we are sad or sick or lonely or bored, ice cream is an endorphin. and when we finish the carton(s) at home, ice cream is everywhere, easy to find. Ice cream is cold. What would it be otherwise? A sticky, useless mess.

Ice cream. I'm a big fan yo.

Three things from tonight

1. People always say that you don't know what other people are going through and that everyone is more sad than you would expect. Well, I think there are a lot of people out there who are more happy than you would expect.

2. Good people find each other. And that is great. And that makes me so happy.

3. I have the best friends.

Joy in my nothings (home base)

Tonight I am feeling
A 'something' for sure
A break from the 'normal'
And 'same', so secure

Tonight I am feeling.
And that should suffice
But beyond that I'm thriving
In life's different slice

It's exciting, this feeling
It's bright and it's warm
Still this fuzz and this shinning
Are the least bit my 'norm'

But tomorrow I'll feel,
It's safe to assume
The old 'normal' and 'same'
Where I usually loom

For, always we return
To our comfortable ways.
Emotions we remember
Overtaking our craze

So, when the sun rises
I'm ashamed to admit
I'll be back to my 'nothing'
And my 'something' will quit

But, If joy was my 'nothing'
If bliss was my 'same'
Than I'd be happy to return
From where I once came

Good things come to those who wait

This weekend, I was blessed with a trip to Arizona where I stayed in a palace with fifteen other royally genuine human beings. The generosity that I witnessed and the laughs that I shared deserve a blog post in themselves, so instead of trying to encompass all of the greatness I experienced this weekend into one post, I will focus on the one thing that I cannot stop thinking about: stars.

The universe is a fucking huge place and, although the majority of it is empty space, it is filled with uncountable amounts of stellar objects. From the hut tub I was lounging in last night, the dark sky was busy with stars and planets and nebulas and specs of dust, all bursting with energy and shining it down on us.

The best part of the night sky, for me, is that the longer you look at it, the more stars become visible. As your eyes adjust to the darkness and blur the chandelier's glow into peripheral yellow blobs, what looked like a slice of emptiness becomes filled with brightness. Sure, Deneb and Capella, and Venus will be bright the first moment you look up, but it takes some time to notice Pleiades and the other unnamed stars. Over time, the sky will turn from a wall with chipping paint to a speckled lady bug to a tribute to Seurat's pointillism- its emptiness unnoticeable beside things that shine.

And so now, back home in a light polluted suburb, the night sky will be dark. But, I know, if I wait long enough and aim my focus with confidence, even the most empty sky will hold something shining.

Who uses a compass anyway?

Today I put on an old pair of shoes and was forced to remember all the things I felt when I first wore them.

I got these shoes in the height of middle-school angst and I was sad. More sad than I feel comfortable sharing on the Internet. And that sadness led to a bucket full of insecurities that I hid behind nonsensical commentary and dozens of rubber bracelets. I hid behind shouting and being goofy to mask the silence I felt within myself. It was an unexplainable and unavoidable sadness. Tying up the laces on these old Steve Madden want-to-be skater shoes brought me back there. In these shoes, I cannot help but feel as flat as the soles I am walking on, as flat as I once felt. Furthermore, if it is so easy for me to relapse to the sadness I once felt, am I even happier at all? We are only as good as our lowest points and I can still feel just as low as I once did.

In old shoes, each step forward is like two million steps backward.

Luckily, however, I have new shoes now. And although they are no Cinderella-glass-slipper of a perfect fit, these shoes suite me better. But I cannot find it in me to get rid of my old kicks, or, for that matter, anything that reminds me of the unhappiness I once felt. And sometimes, like today, I am tempted to slide back into my old shoes because they are well worn in and easier to walk in.

Today, I'm heading backwards.

Sweet simplicity

Right now, I'm sitting at Prospect Park waiting for my friends to join me. We just left Denny's where a rather comical waiter, D'Mitri, made me a spontaneously personalized milkshake of white chocolate chips and strawberries (if your wondering why this conbo is so exciting, check out my blog post entitled "Happiness: as sold for $2.00"). I have a copy of my favorite poem in my pocket and the shapeless clouds are shading my eyes from an unusually bright full moon as the swings carry me higher than I remember them ever taking me.

Milkshakes, Denny's, Prospect Park, poems, clouds, stars, swings, smiling faces, and amiable friends. This is all I need.

How to carve a pumpkin

Think about it all day. Tell a bunch of people who shouldn't care. Leave tenth period running. Get to your car. Beat all the traffic. Ignore the people waving at you. Drive.

Get to Jewel. Walk around. See no pumpkins. Feel concerned. Remember that pumpkins are usually kept outside. Look foolish walking past the cash registrar empty handed. Check outside. Notice the parking cars. Notice the smoking employees. Notice the talking teens. Notice no pumpkins. Return inside, foolishly. Ask Costumer Service for a pumpkin. Hear that there are no more pumpkins. Drop jaw. Leave store. See friend buying ice cream. Realize you need ice cream too.

Drive to Daily Scoop. Look at ice cream flavors. Chat with chuck. Buy a single scoop of pumpkin ice cream. Answer, no, you have not yet carved a pumpkin. Realize that you probably will not. Pay. Leave.

Get back in car. Drive to Prospect Park. Climb to top of hill. Eat pumpkin ice cream. Wish you had a real pumpkin. Weep. Lay on hill for a while. Feel stupid. Realize you are probably too old for pumpkin carving. Call mom to tell her, anyway. Finish ice cream. Go home.

Drive to Oakbrook. Touter girl. Notice the jack-o-lanterns in her window. Count she has two. Remember you have none. Think about asking for one. Shake it off and quiz her on Vocab. Drive home.

Open garage door. Notice mom is missing. Call her. Hear that she is in Lombard. Ask why. Realize she is buying you a pumpkin. Realize you have the greatest mother in the world. Feel too excited to get homework done. Wait for her to get home.

Help carry pumpkin inside. Wash it off. Lay newspapers on table. Think about reading them first. Decide not to. Ask mom to cut off the top off the stem. Grimace as the knife gets very close to her hand. Open pumpkin. Smell memories.

Notice it is quieter than you remember. Grab two huge bowls. Place gunk in the larger one. Weave through to find seeds. Stick them in the smaller one. Get hands messy. Talk about things that are also messy, her friends divorce, your friends sickness. Wash hands. Look at the bowl with seeds. Note that there are fewer seeds than you remember there usually being. Realize that usually there are more pumpkins. Recognize that there are usually more people to eat them too. Wish there were more people this year too.

Let mom handle making the pumpkin seeds, she is good at that. Realize that you will have to be the one good at that someday. Be thankful that you still have time. Carefully plan out the face. Draw two triangles and a square. Ask for help with the mouth. Watch mom start to carve the triangles. Ask to give it a shot. Do a sloppy job. Act embarrassed when mom tries to take pictures. Smile anyway. Smile bigger when you see her send them to grandma.

Finish carving eyes and nose. Dislike your work. Ask mom to carve the mouth. Admire her precision in carving teeth. Laugh when half of teeth fall out in trying to extract excess gunk. Remember that this used to always happen. Remember you used to always laugh.

Want to show your pumpkin off. Carry it into the front room. Make room by the window. Suggest you name the pumpkin. Get distracted in looking for a candle. Find a candle under the kitchen sink. Place it inside of pumpkin. Jokingly sing Chanukah song as mom lights the candles. Note her cross necklace. Stop singing. Realize she is still humming along. Never name the pumpkin.

Listen to her question, are you happy with it? Smile. Nod your head. You will be.

Still spinning

We are all spinning
Always twirling
Though it is common to deny

The earth is spinning us all
Slowly
Around an orbit we've always know

We all stumble
On a familiar pair of sea legs, loose
Unfit for this spinning world

So unbalance becomes steady
And to spin feels still
When it is all we've ever known




But I am now spinning
Quicker than usual
On an orbit I control

I am shaking
On worthless legs
Unable to keep up with a new pace

I am flying
Through my childhoods twirls
Around and around, faster

It's a game
But it always ends
Spinning slows to still




And when I get off
I will, we will be

Spinning, still

It's raining everybody!

How could you not make time to dance in the rain?

The unstarted homework, the unanswered texts, the unfinished conversations, the uncleaned mess, these things will all still be here when clouds pass.

But the chill of each raindrop, the thrill of predicting the next lightning bolt, the bliss and serenity of dancing and drinking and standing and thinking in the rain, these things will blow away as suddenly as the storm came on.

So, go! Go outside, right now! Dance! Sing! Stand! Make a fool out of yourself! Your "responsibilities" will be there when you return, but will not follow you outside (that, I think, is the best part).

I refuse to take another raindrop for granted.

What will last will last

Will I last or will I be
Gone before another sun?
Will I live to see the caught set free?
To find out who is really me?
Or will I parish before I'm done?

Memories, they fill my mind
Of all the good times that have past
Of nights so sweet and hearts so kind
Once my whole world, now left behind
Certainly, they did not last

And if those things so beautiful
Could crack without a noticed tear
Than will I ever remain whole?
Or will time always take its toll?
All will be gone but at least was here

Maybe, I don't want to last
For when I think of all that might
Colors, wind, rivers, light
Fall and spring, day and night
Things much larger than their height
I know I'm just a shadow cast
And that I'm not big enough
To want
To last.

Guys, my back hurts

I like to imagine that all of the pain I have in my back is a build up of things I have never said. As if everything I held inside of me got pulled out of my mind, out of my heart, and wadded up between my shoulder blades.

I threw out my back four years ago for a sport I loved. Back pain has been a big part of my high-school years because of some of the side affects of the pain killer I take. I've always had to alter things to make them less painful for my back: the way I walk, the way I stand, the way I sleep, the way I face the day. I have my way of doing those things now, and although it is not the normal way, it seems to work for me.

Tonight, my back is feeling especially tight. But I'm so used to it throbbing that I wouldn't know how to stand another way.

This city (ayyeee) is my city (ayyyeee)

I never knew where home was
Until I saw it from the sky
Until reduced to lights and boxes
And I was miles high

Once shaped and shrunken down
foreign eyes can see no hook
Just lights enclosed in boxes
If they even choose to look

But I, I see dimensions
And know what they inclose
My neighbors, schools, and brothers
My world beneath my toes

Till I know another like this
I'll hold it to be true
That when flying from city to city
Home's the greater of the two




(Fun fact: when I first wrote this poem, it was about Chicago being the lesser of two evils. Then I changed my mind.)

Hush

There is something so comfortable about sitting in the silence with my father. Really, I shouldn't call it silence because our house is always filled with songs from whatever album he picked out the night before, but background music has become so familiar in my home that it often blends into silence, so normal that I take it for granted.

Unlike my mother, my dad waits until he is talked to. He does not ask questions or force conversation. That is not to say that he doesn't care or is reserved, because he does care very much and is fairly outgoing. Rather, my father treats words as if they are limited, as if each word sacrifices his ability to latter express an unmade thought. I admire his ability to filter his superfluous or silly thoughts and instead speak only thoughts that will introduce something new

My father's silence is a fresh break from the noise of friendships and the nag of my mother. Not that I don't love both of those groups, but shared silence is a nice reminder that some people love you not for your thoughts, or your humor, or your willingness to listen, but for you. In my fathers silence I hear how he feels about me.

I like to guess what my quite father is thinking, using his music choice as a guide. Tonight, we are listening to The Smashing Pumpkins and my father misses his wife and has too much work to do and needs to fix the washing machine and is worried about his son and probably forgot to get his flu shot again. (Smashing Pumpkins was a perfect choice). But we will never address those things or anything vocally. Instead, we will share this silence and know that, as loud as life may seem, it can all easily become background music.

So, sitting here quietly in the company of my father, I know his thoughts are far off of me. But mine, they are screaming to tell him -screaming to break the silence - that this quite is perfect.

Because soon enough we will get used to the situations we are with and they too will become obsolete, familiarly unnoticed. Maybe I will one day take this silence for granted, but for now,










Hush.

His sun

I have always been a big fan of Chris McCandless. It got to the point where I was so used to worshipping him, that I had lost the reason why. That was until a couple weeks ago when I found a journal I kept freshman in which I had written the following quote:

"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.” -Chris McCandless

And then it was back. I can again give a reason to the annotated copies of "Into the Wild", to the hours of Eddie Vedder on repeat. My idol means something to me again, more than my go to answer on Common App questions. Now, I can't stop thinking about him. I am on a transcendental high and I hope I never come down.

Alexander Supertramp. My boy.

He donated every penny he earned to something he believed in, set his car on fire, and walked into a land completely unknown. He told no one; he wanted no attention, no credit for the path he was treading. And quite a path he did tread. The places he saw and the level to which he admired them is awe-striking. You would think after miles of forest, a tree would be just a tree. But Chris treated everything he saw as a new, gracefully given gift. Even for the months he spent working on the same farm, he constantly moved his bed, as if waking up to the same scene twice was wrong. Each day a new sun.

When I open my eyes tomorrow, I be surrounded by the same, maroon walls that have enclosed me in for the past 17 years. I rarely drive more than twenty minutes in any direction, let alone walk. I know one sun. And for that, I insist that I have only lived one day.

But soon, I will follow Chris's journey (number 24 on my bucket list) and then I will have more days. I will track down every public bench he slept on, every highway he hiked along, every bar he sat in the back of just to sit in the back of. I will wake up where he woke up, each day a new sun. Each day his sun.

Sure, Chris died young. But he died having known more days, more new and beautiful suns, than most of us can comprehend. And for that, I strive to live a life as full as his.

Tickled pink

Today I went to my high school's football game (followed by a hella dope dolla dance ayyyeee). It was a loud night that I chose to fill with only people who make me feel awesome. And I got to dance a bunch, which always rocks.

But the point of this blog post is that the football game was a "pink out" for breast cancer awareness. Don't get me wrong, I am just as passionate as the next guy about finding a cute for cancer, probably more so considering how obviously it is affecting an immediate family member of mine. But somewhere between huddling for warmth and dropping it like its hot, the night became nothing about breast cancer. Yes, I was wearing pink and I dropped my spare change off with donation seeking cheerleaders, but those were thoughtless actions. I left the night no more aware of the disease and no step closer to it's end. Wearing pink got us no wear, it just made us look like we care.

No pink wrist band, no pinned on ribbon, no copy-and-paste Facebook status is going to cure breast cancer. The dollar donations at the check-out counter in grocery store are not going to add up. If they did, than why would anyone ever where any other color? Sure, as a teenager there is not much I can do, but there has to be something more than a color coordinated bandana.


I wish anyone could do anything. I wish this wasn't so out of our control. I wish all of the pink, all of the senseless donations, all of the "make me look good" gestures were genuine enough to be followed up with something productive enough to get my stepmother's hair back.

Honors Seminar in Writing

killed any confidence I had in my own writing. I am also doing toe touches on my back porch.

Pointless blogging: a sure sign that I am an attention whore


READ ME WORLD

Third time's a charm

Plan A:

Plan A was not really a plan
More so, it was a gift
Something handed down to you
From parents who found it useful
Re-gifted with the notion
One size fits all

Plan A was not your plan
More so, it was your order
And it didn't fit you well


Plan B:

Plan B was not really a plan
More so, it was a mask
Something you jumped into
To hide your lack of direction
It hid you well enough
To forget who you were underneath

Plan B was not who you were
More so, it was a leach
And it sucks at what you have left


Plan C:

Plan c is not ideal
More so, they call it disappointing
Something you might regret later
And you can't tell the neighbors
Without their judging "concern"
And I still don't know if it is all a joke
If this is the end of your plans

Plan c is not ideal
But at least it is a plan




I'm starting to become a big fan of Plan C

Tunes for time and why I am really into the 70's

There is no experience that makes me feel more present than listening to music from the past.

Songs I grew up with are often attached to a memory. It is a shame, but some wonderful songs have been soiled for me by terrible memories, and vice versa. They may be modern songs, but they trap me in the past. Listening to these songs, I do not feel the music, but rather the memory.

But really old music is filled with someone else's memories. They are just wonderful songs to me. They do not take me back to the year they were released because when they first became I had not yet. Songs from before me give me the opportunity to be moved by the music, nothing else.

So as much as my mother and father and aunts and uncles may feel when they hear Neil Young and the Grateful Dead and Jackson Browne, all I feel is a wonderful song. And on days like these, that is all I want to feel.

When in Rome

For reasons I will likely never understand, my class voted me onto homecoming court this past week. I have not felt so spoiled in affection and blessed in my time at central and would not trade the experience for anything. I got to meet some wonderful people and participate in things I dreamed about my freshman year. And now that it is over, I am looking back on what just happened.

As warming of a week as I had, I cannot help but realize how much that is not me. I am not, at least I hope, the kind of person who wears a sash around to declare my status. I would never want to hog the spotlight or steal someone else's. I have never felt as vain as I did this week and I hope it is not a feeling I take with me.

And, most importantly, I do not see myself as one of the top twelve most "well respected" girls in my grade, not even close. I could name at least forty girls who's hearts are fuller and kinder than mine, and that does not include the plenty that I have not yet met. Those girls should get a sash, not me. I was honored to be on court, but I did not deserve it.

That being said, I would not change a thing about my week. Sure, this may not be my personality, but if I am given the opportunity to ride around in a fancy car and have people clap for me, who am I to turn it down. The last thing I want is to be pretentious, because I am not better than a typical high school girl. In fact, that is exactly what
I am.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do; when in high school, do as high schoolers do.

I know something you don't know!

Someday, when I have more time (or any time for that matter), I will elaborate on my position as "Switzerland" within my family. But for now, just know that my family is really badat communicating things.

I today I got wind of something that I really, really should not know. And, at first, I thought about how I wish I didn't know at all. I thought if the problem was not present to me than it would not be present at all. Ignorance is bliss, right?

But, just because I didn't know this thing yesterday doesn't mean it wasn't happening. And just because my father and his wife still don't know this thing does not mean that it won't still impact them all the same. Maybe I should be glad that I know. Maybe there is something helpful I can do now that I couldn't have done had I not been listening.

Ignorance is only bliss temporarily. In order to have permanence in our own happiness, we should just stop fucking everything over.




I really need to stop being so vague in these posts. If this was my business to tell, and if I wouldn't be hurting others by being more specific, it would make that easier. (#switzerlandproblems)

An unfinished description of why I love live music

I really love live music.

I love standing among a group of strangers who, regardless of their background, their upbringing, their beliefs, are all experiencing the same thing as me at that moment. I love getting to know the people standing around me; I love watching them become drunk in a melody (or in a literal sense), their faces when they hear their favorite song. I love seeing a shy young musician smile when a fan screams her name, still unused to the attention. I love the quirks that make a band fun to watch, the shoeless pianist, the jam-like encores, and the mountain-men beards.

But really, what I love most, is that when you are watching live music, there is no room for anything else. A show can last four hours but when you leave, you know no difference in the world outside of the venue. For as much that has happened outside, all you will remember about those four hours is music. So, while your friends are at football games and your parents are working on whatever it is they do and someone somewhere is dying and another someone is being born, you leave the show unaware of any of that. Sure, those things may impact you someday, but they haven't yet. We all left our troubles at the door, we can pick them up when we leave if we so choose. For four hours, it is just music. And that is good. That is enough.

Yesterday, my friend and I were front row at a show for a band we love. That meant that the only thing we had to look at for the duration of the concert was the band itself. There were no back-of-the-head angles to avoid and no reason to find a distraction anywhere else. And, although the show was sold out, the 200 other people there didn't matter at all because we couldn't see them or hear them over the energy on stage. They were there, but they meant nothing to me (and I to them). All that mattered us, individually, was how the current chord progression made us feel. And that is great. That is plenty.

Bliss to go numb

It must be bliss to go numb
To feel nothing more
To know that you're living
But not fear what for

It must be bliss to slow down
To watch but not care
Maybe you're moving
But who know's? And to where?

It must be bliss to be less
To count little, to few
Then no one's expecting
A thing out of you


But then what is bliss?
For the numb do not feel
And if you feel nothing
Are you even still real?

It is bliss be living
Though it feels not ideal
If you are feeling bliss-less
At least you can feel

An ode to influence: part two

A couple of weeks ago I posted about the influence people have over who I am when I am with them. As strongly as I believe everything that I said, I left out one very important point for the sake of time. So here, my friends, is the sequel.

As much as others influence me, I have to have the same impact on them. Who people make me is important to defining my integrity, but to define my CHARACTER, I need to know how I influence those same people. Do I make you a nicer person? A happier person? An angry person? Do I make you feel uncomfortable? Awkward? Do I make you laugh? Or at least smile? Do you like who you are when you're with me?

There is really no way to know because wherever I am, so too is the you I make you. And that is such a weird thought. It's like, the only shade of you I will ever know is the one that I partially molded. (I could go on a long tangent here about how it should be impossible for us to hate anyone, then, because everyone we know is partly our creation. But I'm not going to do that).

I think the influence you have on others is more important than any intrinsic characteristic when it comes to defining someone as a human being. So, no. Being outgoing or goofy or dedicated or passionate or smart or confident or kind is not what makes you a good person. A good person is someone who can make others all of those things, or at least make them want to be those things. We should be measured by who we make others, what we inspire them to do.

I'd like to hope that I make people the best version of themselves, although that is probably not true. But, as my main boy Jeff Tweedy once said, where would we be without wishful thinking?






Also, the clouds rocked my worlds today

Neigh!

You know those horse buggies in the city, how the horses always have lenses on that keep them from looking away? That's how I'm feeling right about now.

For a while now, I have been obsessing over the idea of something happening that, when I am alone, I realize is absolutely outrageous. My friends can tell me over and over again to stay optimistic about it, but I know how unrealistic the dream situation is.

As if that isn't disappointing enough, I have become so focused on this one thing that I have missed out on so many opportunities. Like those horses in the city, I have been trained to keep my stare in one direction. I have passed by so many things because, distracted as I was, I just didn't realize they were there.

I'm ready to take off my blinders. I want to see the whole picture, not just that one thing that has consumed me. But, at the same time, I wouldn't even know how to start. You can remove the blinders but the horse is still going to look ahead.

That's me, guys! I'm just a blinded horse trying to regain her vision.

Scheduled O' Clock

The thing about clocks is that they are an absolute lie. Time is a product of the human need to schedule. It tells us when we have to be at that meeting and for how long we have to stay at an awkward family dinner. Time, as I see it, is a restriction. When we are always watching the clock, we lose so much of that which it is counting.

We are so caged into deadlines and dates and meetings with their start and end times, that we have no room for individual thought. We end when the cookie timer tells us to end and sleep when we are six hours until our alarm clock will tell us it is time to wake up. Time has tricked us into believing that we need to plan ahead and thus has created a culture of "one day"'s instead of "today"'s- a culture that waits until a schedule tells them what to do instead of doing what feels right. Time gives us moments, but encourages us not to live in them.

But what if we, instead of keeping time, just kept? What if we did things as they were happening for however long they lasted and felt no need to plan ahead. Because a day doesn't have to end after 24 hours. (this is where my earth science teacher would interject, but for rhetoric's sake, we are not referring to earths rotation on its tilted axis, but rather when we feel like we can move on to tomorrow). How are we supposed to believe that time, a man-made unit of counting, trumps human intuition in deciding when to move on.

You don't have time. You make time. You make time for the things you want to fill your life with. Someone once made "time" itself and told us that it would give our life order. Instead, it gave us a limit.

When you live in a world of clocks, oh how time flies.

Rules I don't follow when no one's watching

Silence is golden

Make your bed

Don't drink from the carton

Trix are for kids

White girls can't rap

Don't play with your food

Wear pants

Look both ways

Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot

Don't wear your pajamas in public

No elbows on the table

No socks with sandals

Pasta doesn't taste good with everything

Gauchos are out of style

Close the windows

Stop for 3 seconds at a stop sign

Breakfast before dinner

Chairs are for sitting

Hair: who needs it?

Mine is blonde
And growing longer
Yours is brown
And newly razed
But that doesn't mean
That mine is stronger
In fact, it's yours
That should be praised

For my hair grows
Without restrictions
It sprouts new lengths
With thoughtless ease
But yours, it fights
Through sad predictions
That baldness comes
With the disease

But hair is hair
is hair is hair
I see no harm
If it's not there
And bald is bald
Is bald is brave
I'd trade my locks
For yours to save

Another sappy post referring to how much I like my friends

The toes in this photo are not mine. They belong to a passionate, mature, selfless, and intelligent girl who I am lucky to call a close friend.

When she first sent me this picture, I flared with jealousy. I mean, just look at the picture! She is laying in the back of a blue pick-up truck enjoying the summer sun with a, judging by the shoes, decently attractive boy. I can tell she was smiling when she took this picture and wanted to be where she was. Wouldn't you?

The more I looked at her toes in that blue pick-up truck, the more it became obvious that these were not my toes. More than that, I began to think about my other friends and all the places their toes have been. My friends have been to cities I cannot pronounce, they have changed the lives of people I do not know, they have been indoor sky diving, built houses, won trophies, delivered speeches, flown planes, climbed mountains, ridden wild animals, swam miles, discovered fossils, and set foot on land walked by thousands of people who have also had great experiences. Honestly, my friends are so cultured, and that makes them incredibly interesting.

Sure, my toes are well traveled, but they in no way compare to the places my friends' toes have stepped. And although I would be lying if I said I wasn't still jealous of the experiences my friends have had, I am happy knowing that the people I love have gotten to do the things I would love to do. I may never get to run a marathon, but that is okay because my friend (the one in the blue pick-up truck) is about to do so. I think I would rather have the amazing people I surround myself with do amazing things than hoard those experiences for myself. Not to say that I do not aim to be adventurous in my life, because god knows I do, but hearing the joy in a friend's voice when she tells me about where she has been and where she is going, in my opinion, is greater than having those things for myself. As much as I wish these were my toes in this picture, in that blue pick-up truck, knowing my friend was smiling when she took it equals everything out.

So, to my friends, keep on doing the things that make you all so interesting! I cannot wait to see where your toes will be next. You all deserve to be, and I know you all will be, somewhere beautiful.