Tuesday, May 27, 2014

soon to be new years eve

a little me

On Saturday I turn 33.

And I'll tell you what. I am so proud and excited and ready to be 33.

How quickly year of the leap becomes year of the land.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

ever the archivist

This is my last weekend living in Pittsburgh. Initially I expected for this to be a very late/early morning Saturday excursion with much debauchery in various parts of the city. But nah. I went way too hard on Thursday night and paid for it all day Friday and some of today. Instead of painting the town any sort of farewell hue, I am indoors drinking Gatorade and setting my alarm for an early morning. I did some more packing and started quite a large archiving project--exporting my Livejournal entries month by month to my drive. I've thrown away so many handwritten, hard copy poems both finished and unfinished--the amount of words alone in trash bags right now is enough to make me hide my face. The incredible number of sentences that remained silently sat upon for years...no more. I am both proud and slightly dizzy.

The placing of objects into boxes and the clearing of space has been inspiring. That need to share/overshare everything flew the coop some time ago--certainly a product of aging as well as the increasing speed of technology. That need, as I call it, has changed. I'd rather explore that feeling within my writing much more than I care to explore it on something like Facebook status. Speaking of Facebook, I found myself tickled ridiculous with realizing that I am friends with people that wouldn't even bother to say hello to me in person. Maybe we all have a column of this type checked, but the more I give it thought the more it bothers me. It seems...pointless? Or kind of like sticking your foot in to wedge a door open that should be simply closed. Or flinging a door open to a room that you honestly have zero interest in. Us humans are funny like that I guess.

See? This moving business, man. It will shake your brain UP.

Renee and I had the word inksister tattooed on each of our hands--mine is my on my wrist and in her handwriting, and hers is in mine. The ink means so much to me, as it is a part of her I get to take with me from here on out. Likewise a part of me can always accompany her. A bit of protection, a lot of inspiration, so much heart. Everything I need for a proper exit.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014


I am sitting among my possessions, few and stacked lopsided by the door. An overflowing carload for a long weekend trip to Ohio. Once a year my old hometown holds a garage sale extravaganza(their word, not mine) for one weekend in May. The entire city grinds to a halt. I'm going back to move some things and hopefully sell some other belongings. I'm looking forward to a pile of podcasts and the open road tomorrow.

There is no more preparing for transition. This is transition. We are now in the meat of the verb. Sorting, discarding, boxes. I took apart some furniture yesterday and the act felt very bittersweet, as if my clothing rack was the very last strand holding all of this shit together. Abacus has a new home(oh how I have cried about her absence--so many, many tears). Every room is in its own disarray. Yesterday, Renee and I had the word "inksister" tattooed on our hands--the word is in her handwriting on my wrist, and it is in my penmanship on hers. Indeed, I am running out of time here.

I want to write so badly lately but can't sit still enough to get the thoughts down. Also there is a lot of emotion and I worry that sitting down with a pen will just bring me to more tears. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. But I'll never know because the worry keeps me from even trying. I keep telling myself to get through this move and then I can sit in front of a piece of paper for as long as I want.

I see Jon in roughly 40 days. The distance has been getting to us both this week. It's funny how much something like being held or a kiss on the forehead or a shared in-person laugh could change your day or fix a mood...but it's true. I know it now, because we do not get to have those moments. The things two may take for granted in a same-city relationship. We are both patient and strong and doing our best. I believe in myself, and I believe in us. So waiting will have to do. We're pretty damn good at it at this point.

So, those are things. Perhaps I will get to sit down and write some poems soon. Or maybe my days will be all packing and lifting heavy objects for a while. I stare at my journal often and quietly apologize to the empty pages waiting for me there. It's a very emotional time...leaving this place after 13 years. I have so many thoughts that maybe it's best right now not to think, but only do. Be all action and get through it, reflect on the other side. This is a time of moving on. So move I do.

Friday, May 9, 2014


Today was a day when the distance was great, and every mile between me and my love counted itself loudly. It is a matter of patience and time, but today I hated time and I was not patient.

But it's alright. On the other side of this there is a door and it is open.

pittsburgh letter 3

Dear city,

There aren't words for the missing of.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

pittsburgh letter 2

Dear city,

We have 5 weeks left together. I will be back once in June and in September, but the real number is 35 days. Boxes are being packed--today I attacked the writing room while sipping strong coffee, the kind strong enough to make my hands shake and the heart buzzed more than beat. Bookshelves are empty. Slowly I'm whittling things down.

It's always bizarre to pack up a life. I have lugged so much of it around with me. And bits of you, dear city, cling to it all--the things I keep as well as what goes to trash. You are in every stitch of clothing. You are nestled in the tread of my bike wheels. You are all over the pages filled with words--you are the words, the running pen I wrote them with, the yellow in however I folded it.

It is strange to feel both sad and relieved to leave you. My heart isn't here anymore and you get that--you can tell in the way I navigate through your streets or talk myself out of yet another social event. I've been both safe and bored here. Trust me when I say that keeping you in my heart means leaving. If every seven years we are different people then you've had two of me. That's more than enough.