Friday, August 29, 2014

bring it on

Welcome to Friday.

I'm sitting in the coffee shop, listening to Liquid Skin. I never listened to much Gomez, but I know this album. I tie it to a time: the time before anything really happened, when anything could have happened. First year of college. First year of getting on stages, driving miles and miles once a month to do so. Hours and hours spent listening to 97X as road bent and glowed the only way a road at night will glow--my 55 mph through space(even more Star Wars-seeming if it snowed).

Anyway. Some of Liquid Skin is in there, baker's string.

The summer is coming to a close. Labor Day weekend pulling up to the front door. I rode some bike trails with my father this week, and ground below cracked and shushed on our wheels--leaves on the path already. My niece is back at school--somehow this little being is in 2nd grade. She likes when I wait at the bus stop with her in my robes and leopard print slippers. If one thing is out of place, she notices(if my hand is empty, she'll say "WHERE is your cup of coffee?!").

I'm ready for fall. Crochet needle is out.

Here, a bit of my summer.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Sunday, August 17, 2014

green means go

I am writing again.

It is pouring out, busting seams--I'm building rafts and making dams as quick as I can, but, let's be honest about the dams: I'm terrible at building them(sort of on purpose). Despite the violent-seeming nature of it, the act is one of fragility and tenderness. Fingers barely feel the keys, each sentence the thinnest layer settled stacked on bone of marrow. So, violent and gentle. The writing and the world both.

Cue the selfmade playlists and google documents. Cue hours spent in coffee shops I now have to drive to(thank you small town--how I miss my Biddle's right down the street from me). The miles are worth it.

Thursday, August 14, 2014



my tongue
in none
where cup
was, lunge
of space
by culprit hands
how elixirs
dented roof--
note unsugared roast,
dark dots
of sea

how time
and dust
our pause in porcelain
little skin lifts
cut, forgive
her faded

on sideways
our gutted O
full of soap
her mouth




me oh my oh




Wednesday, August 13, 2014


Letter from Humphrey Bogart to Lauren Bacall. J sent this my way and it is everything.

Monday, August 11, 2014

In the atlantic

Today I promised a whole lot of things to the ocean. In her, I drifted, sun and salt in my eyes letting the waves take me in between bouts of resisting. I reminded myself: this place is a beast. A constant beast, here even when I leave, when it snows, when it am in pain or angry or sad. This is what I think when I need calming, a gentle reminder of consistency, of nature. She rules all.

Everything I promised I will keep. They are both little and massive, and I will live by them to the letter. In the ocean I floated, recognizing both the light and the heavy that is existing. I felt bold and petrified out there, the slightest thing in a big ol body, yet still within the only body I've ever known. I let myself feel bizarre, wild on all my thoughts.

I recognize that I am at a very, very crucial point. Heavy on the very. Facts and stats aside, I feel like a tree whose roots have buckled sidewalk and warped nearby roads. I'm growing and ruining the nice things set into place around me. It's a pleasing thing, this peculiar sprint of growth. In destruction comes release.

Today i told the ocean and in return she held me and frightened me. I rose to meet every wave save for one I didn't see, and while looking down she slapped me quite good along the head. I watched swells of her build in the distance, her edges fizzing on my limbs after passing through. I want to be you, I thought to myself. All the water in me should be this brave.

I don't know what it means to write this here, but I am ready to be who I truly am, and this means letting go of a lot of things I thought meant something. It means I no longer spend time building excuses for my heart. It would be nice if I could convince myself(and others) that I have always been the sort that has been good to herself but I have not been kind nor fair. There's always been some reason to hang onto the rotten, and Now I don't have time to make up one. I don't have time and I don't have energy. I'm exhausted with being awful to myself. Something has to change if I want to stay above the water.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

on the run

Dear Egypt,

I miss you.

Today the missing reared its head, a full week after my return. Jet lag alone took me that long to shake. I'm always surprised by the reality of having to adjust after hopping so many time zones in a day. It's a real thing, this jet lag. For whatever reason I return convinced I can beat it, find the loop hole, grit my way through it early. Once again, sorely mistaken.

I wrote a letter to Renee today detailing little things about visiting during Ramadan. How your streets emptied then filled depending on position of the sun/moon. I wrote three pages and still left out so much. Maybe the missing started the moment I sat down and tried to capture you in sentences. I could spend days describing it and I would still miss something.

And J. Oh the reams I could write on the missing.

I cried hard into his chest the night before I left. I pressed my nose into his neck and hoped to lock in the smell of his skin. I tried to memorize that heartbeat beneath my ear, fingers plotting out terrain of limbs. All those things I grew used to were going to be gone again. It was the "again" that made my heart ache. We've done this before, this parting thing. You are a fool if you think it gets easier. I couldn't sleep that night because I didn't want to sleep. Sleeping meant the night progressed, and a progressing night brought morning. I thought this and consciously resisted. Eventually I drifted for a couple hours before the necessary 4am wake up time.

The drive to the airport was quiet, dark--I stared out the window and watched the buildings fly by the roadside, traffic light at such an early hour. All of the buildings with piles of satellites jutting from their rooftops. The end of Ramadan, groups of young folk still awake and swinging legs from roadside barriers.

The trip back was fairly good to me--despite a 2.5 hour delay in Paris. I came back to America on a gigantic Airbus of these bad boys:

This massive mode of transit made the NYC to Cincinnati plane feel like a child's toy. My sister and dad picked me up and I felt drunk due to 24 hours of next to no sleep. I talked nonstop on the drive home, then crashed into bed with ringing ears and twitching appendages.

Since then it's been a fog upon a fog.

I'm coming out of the fallen cloud, though. J. and I found our routine again--daily calls after he gets out of work. We talk every day and I am thankful for that. Sometimes I feel like I can offer nothing conversation-wise besides proclamations of how much I miss and crave his company. Some days seems to be so full of missing. I smile at the ring on my hand often, which might sound silly or like I have cartoon hearts for eyes but I don't care. Our love is tough, for sure, but it also renders me wonderfully mush-like. I'll exist both stone and velvet.

I am happy. I never thought I could be one to claim such a statement but goshdamn it's true.

More soon. Right now it's off to bed for an early morning tomorrow. Dad and I are flying to Florida to visit my aunt and cousin for a week. Part of me wishes I wasn't traveling again so soon after returning from Egypt, but the rest of me wants more movement. I unloaded my suitcase only to repack it, and I could in fact get used to that.