draft

forgiveness.


Two young, once bruised, stand around in the same room. Mended. Cells have lived and died since then. Hair that boasts no split ends. Socks that match, a newly acquired freckle.


Don Henley’s “Heart of the Matter” is playing on the receptionist’s tiny radio, whose antennae is capped with a corner of foil and a Starburst wrapper. The dentist is two rooms down the hall, drilling. The patient’s skin is green under all of her jewelry.


Root canal rolls out ballet-like.


Your dried flowers were crushed in the move. There was nothing we could do. Mass of blooms the color of rust, husk of stems arranged like broken fingers. They went right to sand.


My love sealed the windows, took on a bitterness. Aorta of aspirin.


Stop it with the licorice gum. Your breath is a headache.


In the lineage of heartbeats per minute there is a valley, a mountain, a million open mouths in paper floors. A floor crowded by the medicine balls that punched through them. A stick, some glue, last rites--I cannot mend it. Call upon the cadavers; we need everyone.

Sam Cooke sings darling youuuuuuu send me and the girls melt like cheddar in a microwave. The regret is a dinosaur ducking through trees, wearing wrinkles in orbit on knees and neck. It is fossilized, studied. It might be wild life and needs protecting. In the post cards on the bookshelf. Distance turns it make believe.

eve approaching

Side note: I just listened to a bunch of Heavy D and The Boyz and it was absolutely wonderful.

Last night I went to spin class and burned both legs to giggly rubber, al dente noodles I wobbled around on for hours afterward. I couldn't help it. Call it inspiration. I felt like feeling it. I pushed myself to the breaking point, until there was no choice but to leave the body. Carried away by all that exertion, pushing against tough bubble of resistance. I tried not to check out mentally. I was thankful for the burn, for the miracle of muscles working together. I love making myself strong. Thankful for my limbs and normal harmony of organs. Thankful for the opportunity to do something physical, to seek out those limits and ever so slowly turn them into rungs underfoot.

I guess, in a paragraph, that's what I love about being and staying physical. That feeling one gets from busting through old limitations. Of being slick with sweat and pushing onward. To hear that stupid little voice somewhere sputtering out another "I can't do this," and then promptly squashing that stupid little voice with my ability to keep going. Even at their most tired, my legs kept rotating the pedals on the bike. Mind shut off, trusted the body. That to me feels like living. When your heart beat is in your ears and you can feel every inch of lung with each breath. It is my sanity. My truest form of meditation is to get lost in the physical. And when I'm not in pain and confined to bed with a migraine, I choose to push my body's limits because I feel blessed for my well moments, and I know those moments are so damn important to live to their fullest.

In 15 days I will be 32 years old. My new year, the real one. 6:40am, boom--thirty-two years. I may have daydreamed about my thirties once. It's hard to say. In youth, three decades was like the unconvincing other universe that might be out there. It seemed risky to believe in.

Yet here we are. Planets away.

What's in store for my 32nd year? That's the question I'm concentrating on currently. I know that the focus will be steadfast on what I love and believe in. I aim to trust myself more, to fill my quiver with as many sturdy arrows as I can. To walk right into what I fear. Some things:


- I faced a giant fear in favor of what I love and registered for The Pink Door Retreat, hosted by one of my favorite writers Rachel McKibbens. Three days of writing and workshopping with other women writers. This is what I want to do. This is what I love the most. I am so excited to continue nurturing myself as a writer. The retreat is in June.

- I would love to do a sprint triathalon(the categories for a sprint are still swimming, biking, and running but all are shorter distances...kind of your beginners triathalon). I'm looking at 8 week and 12 week programs for triathalon training...in the meantime I've been bulking up my time on the bike this week and next week I start a new running program. There's gonna be lots of lap swimming this summer, which is awesome.

- Doing what feels good. What feels best for me is taking care of this big heart of mine. To halt the bitterness in its tracks by doing something much more proactive and positive. I do not want to be a person that only reacts to what happens. I want to explore solutions. I am fortunate enough to have a roof over my head, all my limbs attached, a loving family, and much time & many resources. Instead of for granted, I desire to take advantage. It's amazing...volunteer opportunities are everywhere. My free time is of much better use if I give it to those that need help. This Saturday I start volunteering with WQED and I'm beyond thrilled.

- Movement. This is open to interpretation. Whether it be out of this city or more miles on my tennis shoes...I have a desire to keep going. To love and nurture and create. To be close to my family and loved ones. To be inspired. More art and less boredom. More space and less clutter. To read more books, to get lost in the woods more, to unplug more. To keep going. To be my own greatest source of inspiration.

More soon. Getting older is still two weeks away and I'm sure I'll have more to say on the subject before then.

briefly

Somehow a week has passed since my last post. I've been wrestling a gnarly head cold for about two weeks. The extended duration of it is partially my fault--I cannot sit still these days. If I'm not riding the trainer then I'm riding to work or playing soccer or hiking in Frick or dancing like a maniac to spotify while my cat watches(I'd like to think her expression is "slightly amused" on these occasions).

Yesterday I had one of those stupid migraines where I'm instantly nauseous beyond belief. I left work early and went right to bed. The cat curled herself around the top of my head on the pillow, no kidding. She always lays with me when I'm sick but this time she singled out my noggin and purred against it until I fell asleep. I woke up at 8pm confused and still achy. Today I'm left with the aftermath, a fogged lens. I feel out of sorts but can't put my finger on it. A threat of panic humming somewhere just below the collarbone. It's there. I'm trying to ignore it.

I have a couple shows coming up and I conjured up all my bravery and sent in my registration fee for the Pink Door Retreat. The idea of attending a three day writing retreat at the home of one of my favorite writers scared the hell out of me. Scared me more than anything, actually. But that fear is the reason I had to do it. I'd never forgive myself if I passed up the opportunity. This is, after all, what I love to do. I'm hoping the retreat will provide me with more direction on my manuscript.

Living, loving, creating, refusing to sit still. That's life these days. More soon, when I'm not so fuzzy.

soc poem on the subject of chronic migraines...


breath wrapped around fist
pulled taut, stolen, yanked clean out
behind drag a lake of blood,
two flutters of mud trailing by
thin ropes still swollen or sighing
body mine and body empty

wherever it is that I go
when i go
completely away
when i sit
below sea level
barnacle-kneed and believing that
emergence involves limb losing
this lake of drill bits
i cuddle up to old bread
i come back a little livid
out of focus
bits of hell still
locked in lash

the vulnerables

Laying on the couch in my little sick bed nest, blanket and pillows and tissues and a cat cuddled up in my bread basket. Just thought about how I used to love it when my grandma would braid my hair. Two braids that I would leave in as long as I could, the crimped bends they created like aftershocks when loosened. I miss her so much. Right now all I want is that moment.

npm: 30

Here we are, last day of April. This will be the last poem for National Poetry Month. Hooray! I made it!

To celebrate, I am sitting on my couch with a sore throat, achy joints and a fever. Hopeful plans to get out for a stroll/fresh air, but we'll see. This kind of sick sucks in spring.

Here is my last poem for npm. However, I'm going to try to keep posting as consistently. If I miss a day, then I miss a day. But this has been a great exercise, for sure.



04/30

a mouthful of mean
and pennies--
a thief
earning
his wings;

our bodies,
hands
of a clock.

npm: 28, 29

Day behind. You'll have that.


04/28:

(haiku)

faceplant and footprint
the ground never looked so good
on our stupid hands




04/29:

bad day

cancel the woods; i don't want them.
take all grass and align the blades
to fence us in--
drain the lake, drink it straight.
lips curled on broken bark
tree teeth tongue mess
suck the highways off my thighs
clean it up
leave the dust