Went to see Blind Pilot last night:

So good. You have no idea. Worth getting stuck in a tornado for.

& with that, happy 28th birthday to me.

If your ghost
says hello
one more time

if the night slips
another switch
of onion grass
into the shocked expression
of a button
gone missing

if the houses
have something important to say
then
tell them
to stop mumbling so much.

i am unanimously tired, the kind of
worn
you can see through
i am standing
in the little finger’s ink smudge blue
a sort of thing
that only happens
when there is a page
pen
and your hand
is really flying—

Found: one red flag near the train tracks, tattered and tough. Picked it up and carried it home.

The color of blood outside of the body. A signal to stop. A warning.

I won’t say I really believe in signs, but this discovery nudged about something.

You know what I’m thinking about right now? Certain/not-so-certain questions about the self, usually found on Meyers Briggs-type tests. Such as: are you more spontaneous, or a planner? Do you function better with routine, or when the weeks ahead look like a row of question marks? Do you prefer roots, or uprooting?

Those are, undoubtedly, the questions that stump me. Part of me says, “well yes–I adore the spontaneous and want nothing less from my life.” And then there is a part of me that packs my messenger bag the same way every morning for my ride into work. The part that feels like a castaway the minute a normal day goes awry with a cancelled class or abbreviated work day. I guess I can only say I’m split, somewhat jagged and only slightly near the middle, on the subject.

Why am I even wondering this? First of all, I feel like I’m wondering about everything right now. Second, I think taking a six week college course is messing with my head. I have zero plans to be somewhere other than “here” during the week, yet here I am worrying about the idea that I could have somewhere to be/go and now I can’t because I have class twice a week. The commitment is freaking me out a bit. I have no idea why, or where this is coming from. It’s sudden that I feel so concerned about this new thumb on my neck. And it is a thumb! It isn’t that big of a deal, really.

Because of this new temporary routine I’m finding myself aching for the spontaneous. The on-a-whim, the never-planned. I’m giddy about the prospect of getting rid of half of my things(at least). On my way home I ride the bike past my street just to have somewhere different to go. I feel hungry for something different, and at the same time I kind of long to disappear. I’m tired yet feel a twinge of the crazy eye(from running on fumes/too much coffee/too many thoughts). My bones want sleep but the dermis boasts mad stacks of matchsticks, and it’s only a matter of time before something rubs hard enough to spark it. An odd mess.

It’s all okay and everything’s functioning, except for the block. The big b-l-o-c-k still putting a big ol’ dent in my general creative well-being. If you are the creative type you might know how this is–the world can present itself as your brilliant oyster but if the creative pistons aren’t firing right then none of it feels far from falling apart. This too shall pass. It will. I have faith in that, above all else. I’m slowly, sloooowly winding down a piece for a good friend and every line added to it is like another deep breath. I’m working through.

And thank goodness for friends. Tait and I met up at the coffee shop yesterday and talked for a bit. His energy and spirit as a writer is so contagious and refreshing. Plus he’s so open and willing to discuss the process. That means a lot right now. I walked away making a promise to myself to journal more, take more time to sit with the thoughts and form ideas, instead of just attacking the page in short bursts of no-direction.

And so I’m babbling. I’m also incredibly exhausted. More tired this week than I have been in some time. I’m staying very active–in body and mind, so I suppose it’s an exhaustion that I can enjoy.

I feel like I’ve been pressing my hands hard against a massive block these days, like I’m trying to shove whatever is between me and the words out of the way. Trying to size up the heaviness, wondering if I can shoulder it aside or find something sharp and gut the middle. Here is my belt full of spoons to dig it out. I sit down with all purpose to write, all senses sharp–there’s even new music to get my fingers twitching. The worst kind of block is the one that comes right when you’re ready to damn near explode. I have so much to say, and so much on my mind. Maybe I’m just stuck on where to begin. Maybe this is a beginning of sorts.

I turn twenty-eight three weeks from today, and this is the first upcoming birthday that I’m nervous about, and kind of scared of. It doesn’t really make sense. As Joel said, on some calendars I could be 800-and-something, and on others maybe I’m just turning four. But here, on this one, it’s 28. It isn’t the number, but the span of time. It isn’t the span of time, but the stacks of memories, the moments, the minutes. All the m’s. I find myself staring a the notebooks, the boxes full of papers, the files–all of these pages with all of these words, and all of them meant something, mean something, might someday. Every year I think about letting it all go. The one thing holding me back is the imagined absence, and what it might do to me(can disposal of creation devastate? I’m convinced). Right now, I might deal better with the empty space. I keep it around like evidence and I couldn’t tell you what case I’m trying to solve. I daydream about typing them all, printing it out, archiving it right. There just isn’t time for it. Part of me wonders: wasn’t writing, the action of, ultimately releasing it? So it’s out there…then do I need to hang on to the proof?

Whenever I feel a block coming on, or I feel like I’m in the midst of one, I usually take that as a sign for me to ease up and focus on the living part a little bit more. Focus on the observations and the interactions, the dialogue. Actions. Maybe it isn’t something I should cut through. Knowing all that, the truth is this: when I don’t write, when I cannot write, I feel limbless. Like I stumbled over a brand new color, or smell or sound, and I cannot bring myself to name it. Like my skin will cave in if someone touches me, or that I might explode if I walk around a certain corner too quickly.

Patience and staying present. These two things will get me through it.

First of all, today is mother’s day. It is also my grandmother’s birthday. Funny thing: I couldn’t tell you how old she would be, if she were alive today. There was always a question about her birth certificate, the actual date of her birth, etc. So I never really knew, or could never really remember the two disputed dates. Anyway. She passed away nearly six years ago and she’s definitely on my mind today.

Mary Ruth, you are missed.

All my best thoughts and warm heart and Scottie Pippen impersonations go to Mr. Wilk today. The smooth jazz tent awaits patiently for your return!