Dee

I'd like to say my words have all been saved up in my head for when I come back, but I think they must have fallen out of my ears or something.

I've got nothing.

However, I have found that there are plenty of someones to welcome you back to this time of night. Which is not something I would expect. How fascinating.

-rae

'Stead

"Not too quickly," said the tortoise to itself, finally making it's way home and growing nervous.
"Take your time," said the tortoise's creator as he took a step back and considered the obstacles ahead. "I'll be here the whole time."

-rae

it don't mean--

I feel as though some of the stuff I dislike,

                                           such as Disneyland and Christmas music and children's books

, makes me seem like an anti-happythings kind of person.

But I'm not

-rae

Caatacomes

These tastes in my mouth. Very.             Quite.

Quick.

What I say I leave 

awful remnants--all awful tastes in my mouth 

and all awful feelings.         .

I am not mean not 

shallow

I would not believe I were selfish. Infact

fact

, , I'm this & that & accepting & compassionate and

                        careless 

so perhaps that could b---

perhaps That's The Problem.

o maybejustmaybe!!!just I forgot how it feels 

being b  b      b

                                                  l

                                                                u

                                                 

                    e.

-Miss Anthropy

Even for Odds

There's plenty to write.

      Consider....consider writing about
                 __what my throat feels like drinking ice water and then brushing my teeth
                 __my growing discomfort with my diminishing interest in school
                 __my recent obsession with crossword puzzles
                 __my eagerness to clean the house tomorrow
                 __feeling that I'm losing my grip on the last remnants of real!
               
                             the clock ticking and echoing in the room
                 __the clock in my room ticking the night on
                 __the clock just tick-tick-ticking away

                 --my heavy eyelids------       -----         ----           ---                  --                         -

-rae

Aftermath

When I'm this cold
My knees and my scars turn purple.
My face, white.

I see honeycomb veins across my stomach when I lift my shirt. I let the bottom of my computer warm the chilledsmooth [marble] skin.

Soon, my fingers will move more painfully.
I will move more deliberately,
The whole world will slow down, conserving energy.

I'm gonna eat as much as I can in the next week or so
and then I will hibernate, probably.

-rae

The Beckson

            I've started having dreams again. I believe this is because I keep a dream journal. The moment I wake up, I write down whatever remnants are left in my head--be they a description, a summary, a dialogue, etc. And I mean whatever is left in my head. It's not your quintessential dream journal, but everything I read hours later is surprisingly intelligible.

            ...more or less:

Utah has been deemed dandy. The second dandiest state in the nation. 

(First recorded)

______________________________

From sponges to cruises to concrete steadied flags. 

(First lucid dream. It was a virtual reality game. I played it over and over again and woke up exhausted.)

______________________________

I slowly took apart his art piece, aptly named, "What the hell is that thing."

______________________________

"Birth your baby into the arms that will cradle it for the rest of it's infant years! The Baby Holder! WARNING: RECALL."

______________________________

I love fruit. I always have. But there's no way I'm getting on that death trap. 

______________________________

If a dollar bill has 100 calories, will a 5 or 10 dollar bill have the same, or 5 or 10 times more?

______________________________

It was a wonder that a joy so young could produce such horror.

______________________________

I would not draw on a wall if it possessed at all the small perfections of it's genre.

______________________________

Granted, I'm never in a private place, but I can always manage to find some peace and quiet wherever I am. Damn it all... I hate minimun wage.

______________________________

The swearing ceased and we were finally able to get some sleep, curled in blankets that Justin made. As sure as those bones in the crawlspace were my father's, we saw that cemetery flash before our vision. This wasn't our home. This reality we've seemed to trap ourselves in was honing in on every nightmare we could imagine. If only my sister would answer the phone, I may be able to find a constant that would snap us out of it. I've never been so horrified in my life from the things I've seen tonight, and I just want my family back.

            

            That last one was from a few days ago. It's the longest snippet I have recorded and came from the most terrifying dream I've ever had. Hands down. I'd never be able to go to sleep if it weren't for the fact that the aforementioned Justin was a friendly mummy. That made afghans for us. For which he claimed my mother knowingly took credit.

            He made things a little whimsical.

-rae

peace

i feel it in my bones

in my throat like a dryswallowed pill without ache

it just has mass
you know?

some substance

accomplishment

i could even deserve it

youre as vain of a bitch as I am a son of a bitch      he said

and thats ok

because

i feel peace

where its like waltzing

-rae

The museum

Here, darling, I beckon without talking. Come look at this one.

Using words would ruin it all, so holding hands will have to do.

Ignore the arduous conversation around us----------------------------

It's so fascinating, I cock my head.
It's so beautiful, you squeeze my fingers.

---------------------------slowly turning into curious footsteps.

It's really too bad for these folks, for they don't see what we see;
They just can't seem to take their eyes off of us.

-rae

[ Hello ][ Goodbye ]

...-------------A mere coincidence

?--------------Purposefully

?!-------------To unravel a carefully collected composure

!!!-------------Torment

||__-||_______________________________________________________________||__-||

A reminder that someone is still thinking about me.

A reminder that someone hasn't forgotten about me.

An assurance that you certainly haven't forgotten about me.

||__-||_______________________________________________________________||__-||

A common affinity for a classic American poet? 1923 I--IX--II--III

What you will, 'Miss Anthrop[e][y]

Forever,

-rae

Loose

And then again,
she considered,
Suppose that look--the smallest shift of expressions--suggested that he may be sorry about it all.
She dwelled on the possibility for a moment.
Then she turned the lamp off and fell asleep immediately, leaving the thought to hang alone over her head while she slept with sensitive skin.

-rae

It's early for nighttime

            I twist on the floor until my back cracks. Satisfied, I let my limbs go limp and feel the pain shoot through a body that doesn't feel comfortable with relaxing quite yet.

            Those glow-in-dark stars really bug me and I forgot to take them down from the ceiling when I was cleaning. Now I don't think I can stand myself up let alone stretch my arms that high to reach them.

            It's not that I mind the crickets--they're really relaxing. The problem is that they don't go with the clock ticking by my ear. Well, they're just the littlest bit too fast so that it sounds like they're both in unison for a few seconds until----- ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' __''__ '- ___'- -____________'_______-_--'-_-_'''_ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ ' _ '''_--'"_____'_"-""_____--

            My eyes blur as the contacts slip away.

In my mouth I taste chocolate kisses.
            On my mouth, the other kisses he left behind.

"...I have good things happening right now, but I don't know where I'm going with all of it...if I'm even going anywhere at all," said the tortoise, uninspired with it's simple, shallow routine.
"I have an idea of where it's taking you--what it's preparing you for--and I don't think you're going to be disappointed," said the tortoise's creator, smiling knowingly and helping the tortoise re-organize it's bookshelf for the fourth time.

-rae

___

_- --   ---       ----and then he mused to himself, "How ever so [         ]-ly we live through it all."

Memoirs of the Provo City power outage of July 10

July 10, 2012

11:16 PM

I was alone in the apartment when the power went out. As I headed towards the front door, I had only my dark form in various mirrors to keep me company until I found Levi and Mollie walking towards me on the second floor balcony. We survey the scene before us: although it’s just as dark inside as it is outside, many have migrated outdoors to the patio or the front lawn. Everyone seems to have been searching for candles. Flashlights. Matches. Lost Roommates... The air is filled with the light from cars and the previously thought useless strobe app on the iPad.

11:20 PM

Relieved to have found the security of my friends, we chat casually about when the power might return until an explosion in the mountains sounds through the valley. A few screams, laughs, and cheers follow. They may be fireworks or something more sinister, but the theories go flying anyway. Mollie concludes that this is one of three things. Maybe five. For convenience, I have compiled a list:

--Zombie apocalypse (not likely)

--Terrorists (not likely)

--Alien experiments (statistically more possible than terrorists...but still not likely)

--Armageddon (Levi's idea)

--Transformers (robots in disguise)

           

            11:32 PM

A few more have joined our gang at this point: Riley, Kirsten, Craig, and that judgmental kid that frequently creeps by our window to name a few. Hannah has returned from Smith’s as well. Together, we try to figure out when chaos will likely ensue. We come up empty. There’s really no way of telling with these kinds of things.

11:46 PM

            Text tones sound throughout the front lawn of the apartment complex; last minute attempts of contacting loved ones becomes a priority as none of the phones seem to have been able to charge adequately before the incident. About ten minutes ago, Hannah and Kirsten decided to go to their cars. They haven’t returned yet.

           

11:50 PM

That pimped out golf cart keeps driving past us, and I’m tempted to throw water balloons at them. Police lights are also seen, but we hardly believe there’s much that they can do about this situation.

11:59 PM

            I yell over the porch asking who is going to step up as leader. One girl scoffs and asks what we would need a leader for in the first place. The rest of the group agrees with her and carry on with their game. They've rejected my idea. Even though I feel like it’s my responsibility to inform people about the possibilities of mass hysteria, I have never had the heart of a true leader. I couldn’t handle a crisis like this. I suppose she and the rest of them will figure it out soon enough.

12:03 AM

            Riley, not impressed, returns home. As he departs, he walks tall. I haven’t realized how much of a friend he’s been to me in the past few weeks, and I fear that this may be the last I’ll ever see of him.

            12:17 AM

            Hannah and Kirsten update us on the survivors at an adjacent complex upon their return. It doesn’t sound good—people peeing off of roofs and setting the lawns on fire… The insane have officially run rampant. It’s only a matter of time before they begin looting our apartments. To relax, we sing songs with the guy that’s playing guitar. This attempt to calm down becomes increasingly difficult, especially with that person with the water gun shooting us down every few minutes.

            12:27 AM

            It seems as though Levi has stepped up to the plate; A leader in him has come forward. He takes inventory of our supplies, namely the items required for molotov cocktails. Unfortunately, those are not a legitimate possibility as we are still in need of a hose to siphon out the gas from someone’s car. And of course, none of our cars actually have gas because we’re in college and we’re poor. 

           

12:35 AM

It’s been over an hour. Hope seems bleak, especially when Mollie makes a comment about all these people reconnecting, until their limbs start disconnecting. (She was particularly set on this being an experiment conducted by aliens.)

12:37 AM

The power has come back on. Everyone is returning to their apartments and picking up where they left off. I, alone, remain outside, determined to finish these memoirs and to answer the following: What did this reveal about humanity? My mind is exhausted and I decide to mull this over later. Now, it’s time to get some shut-eye. It's been a long night.

The next morning--Conclusion

To be honest, I am still not definite on what the power outage was supposed to tell me. Perhaps it was simply to present to a part of the city the opportunity to let our vices go for one hour and get some fresh air. Maybe it’s embarrassing that we need an excuse like this to leave our air-conditioned, electricity-buzzing caves to interact with real friends and sing Tenacious D and scare the ever living out of ourselves, but if a reason is necessary… until the next power outage, my fellow tenants.

-rae

It crumbles

            Not quite ready to go back to my apartment, I find myself walking into the cafe that I work at. I sit at the bar and look at myself in the mirror: I can't stop slumping over the counter, but my hair does look better than I thought it would for being tied in a giant knot.

            "Are you hung over?"
            "I'm not old enough to drink yet."
            "Then technically you're not allowed to sit at the bar."
            I take my sunglasses off. "Can you get me something to eat?" My co-worker goes to bring me the biggest salad we have. With all the things I ask to be left off of it, I know it's just going to end up being a big bowl of lettuce with bacon bits on it, but it's the biggest salad we have.
            I turn my head a little to peek at the guy sitting at the other end of the counter. He's already looking at me and I look at him full on now. He doesn't look away, but I realize he's actually watching his server behind me coming with his eggs benedict.

            "Are you hung over?"
            "I was out late last night. And I'm sick."
            "I probably can't swing by with getting you a coffee, but I'll bring you a drink." My other co-worker leaves and brings back a soda.
            I see the Sloans sitting in their usual booth. Mr. Sloan, short and fat with his dark crop of hair, flip-flips, cargo shorts, and hawaiian shirt; Mrs. Sloan, exotic and threatening with her weathered skin, dry hair, wedge heels, and giant rings. Whenever I'm working, my boss disappears for at least twenty minutes to go and schmooze with these regulars. I wonder if they're important people or if they've just managed to make a name for themselves here.

            "Do you need a towel for your forehead or something?"
            My boss laughs at himself and fills the rest of my glass with water before leaving. The server who brought me a drink comes back with a pain killer and sets in on the counter. I take it but my soda's too watered down to drink anymore after that.
            "Are you okay?" she asks.
            I yawn. She starts rolling silverware.

            The first server comes back with my salad and I leave a dollar on the counter for her before I leave. I salute them both goodbye and then wave at the Sloans and my boss sitting together as I walk outside. They look, but don't wave back

            Before I put my sunglasses back on, I look in the bag at my food. I forgot to ask for no bleu cheese. It's going to take forever to pick it all out.

______--_-____________________'__

-rae

I'd like to--

There are too many souls out there that I will never meet.

I don't fret over the ones I will probably never see again.

Instead of e x  p   a    n     d      i       n        g, I condense.

I rid myself of

clothes

- - - -pictures

- - - - - '-souvenirs

       but never books.
And I miss my love.

I wake up in the middle of the night to write down the last details of a dream and when I read it the next morning, it says, "The acts have not yet come down from where the dogs have placed them."

My wrist is in some serious pain and I wonder if it's because I push myself off my bed--off the floor--so often now.

I sleep in now and it's uncomfortable and time consuming, but I'm just. so. exhaus...

_________--_-_______________'.'.?

I wonder if and when happiness and simplicity became overrated.

What a waste.

-rae

Like Crows

I love the future.
I love technology.
I love that I can see my best friend's face who is in another continent.
I love that I can call my mom for help when I'm lost in the mall.
I love that I can find out what movie I heard that song from.
I love Google and Wikipedia and Twitter and IMDB.
          Except for the blasted Kindles that essentially killed my beloved bookstore, I just love it all.
But please, let the kids always have a lemonade stand.

-rae

The Sage's Query

Last summer, there was--as much as online bird guides have been able to tell me--a sparrow. I don't know the exact time it would start chirping, but I remember lying in bed and waiting for it. I could pick it out of it's several other buddies because it sang the same song every morning.

I'll admit--hearing the same tweet approximately 420 times per hour started out as tedious, but I eventually paid close attention to the pattern.

There's something special about this bird I recall musing.

It was only a week or two before it quit it's perch when winter neared that I was able to put a name to the pattern. The bird would chirp frantically for five seconds, then sing the same three notes, then the intonation of a last fourth note would rise significantly. Immediately after, it would lower it's pitch and slow down, asking the same four note question.

I'm home again, but only for the weekend. Instead of that old bird waking me up every morning, it's awkward distant cousin shrieks, "Soot soot--TRILLLLLLL!" at me instead about three hours into the morning when I'm already awake.

Though the old bird's incessant pondering made it nearly impossible to go back to sleep, there was something to be said about it's diligence; it would ask the same question every morning, over and over again, until it decided it was time to accomplish whatever important tasks birds have to do all day.

The question could have been one of those difficult one's that no one can really answer. It could have been a fairly simple question, just being asked in the wrong direction.

There are endless possibilities to the meaning of the last four notes--ranted in a frenzy the first time, but then solemnly reiterated soon after...

It scares me to think that the bird might have given up. After waiting too long for an answer, it moved on to a completely different life. It could be asking the same question somewhere else, hoping the right person will finally hear, but I really wish it would come back and continue it's questioning where I can hear it.

It could help me start asking again too.

Beloved

She closes her book and looks up from his lap at the ceiling. He closes his book, too.

Her eyes glaze over, and a numbness begins to expand from her chest. He offers to take her wherever she wants.

"A cathedral," she tells him.

"Sugar, anything you wanna do."

They don't talk on the way, but he laughs at the quails crossing in front of the car.

He lets her sit alone. He circles the chapel and looks at the art while she sits on the second row to the far right.

Her eyes are fixated on the pulpit and she is unable to look at any paintings. After a long while, he sits behind her and presents the same offer as before.

"Back home," she tells him.

"Sister, anything you wanna do."

They don't talk on the way, but they hit a green light at every intersection.

He closes the front door and notices her looking out the window. The sunset is blinding and lights up the damp kitchen. He steps in front of her and is silhouetted from behind. She takes his face as he presents the same offer as before.

And she shakes her head.

He takes one of her hands and holds it out. He pulls her close and sways them from side to side.

"Lover, anything you wanna do."

-rae

*White Shoes--Conor Oberst

A Pattern Forms

Sometimes on nights like this--

when I've shut myself up in my dark room,

when my only company is Miles and Coltrane,

when I lie on my bed in my uncomfortably hot clothes,

when my eyes are grateful! for nothing to look at,

when my heartbeat slows,

though my mind finds some peace,

still,

I can't help wondering.

"Why do we care and invest and hurt all the time? Why do we do this to ourselves?" asked the tortoise, analyzing the sequence of events that led it here, now thinking them shamefully small.

The tortoise's creator knew that these things mattered to the tortoise--as trivial as they may seem to anyone else--and after a long moment, said,

"Because we can."

-rae

this is The Best i can do

Okay...okay. Write Something good. Just write Something.

Write Something.

Anything.

anything.

i think it was Bukowski that said it's bad to not write Something when you should, but it's worse to try and write Something when you can't.

Or maybe switch that.

My Mom has been GOading me to write, and it was finally enough when she texted:

"You need to post. It's been a month now. I need a fix. Do it now please."

The Thing is, i've really been meaning to write Something for a long time, but i've drained myself of all Brilliance in the past Month of Posts.

i'm coasting```' ' ' '''~~~~~~_~~~~and i'm hydro p l a n i n g .

i've learned an unfortunate Thing about myself: i rather like feeling Anger. i think it's because it's so there and present and...well, feelable. Unlike Numbness.

Not!!! like Apathy.

Mama, i'm sorry. But trying is much too much right now.

i'd like to assure you that it will be worth waiting until i can write Something of Value,

But 'Good [ [ [ somber] ] ] Evening, world.'

-rae

He passed four months in resolving to lose no more time in idle resolves.*

I'm sitting on this awful, cheap couch

drinking the tea that I bought and forgot about until tonight.

I bought it for a change and to make myself feel better:

To feel wealthier,

like my bank account doesn't have a leak in it somewhere.

To feel prettier,

like I'm not wearing my old paint shirt again, or that my hair

hasn't been tied in a knot for the past week.

To feel classier,

like I'm not drinking it from a two dollar mug in a messy

apartment with dim lighting that makes me squint.

To feel healthier,

like I don't live on all the cliché college foods.

To feel smarter,

like I haven't seen any of my midterm grades yet.

I bought it to feel peace, because Indian tea could do that.

I'll try anything to get the line on my forehead to diminish so my friends will stop asking me what's wrong--to want to be with my friends in the first place instead of staying in to clean the kitchen on Friday night.

I shouldn't feel so indifferent about secluding myself, and maybe it won't happen tonight--maybe not even for a week or a month--but I will get better. Eventually.

Tea can't do more harm than good, can it?

-rae

*Samuel Johnson's Rasselas

waity

i missed my turn on the way home

and i kept driving

until i knew that i was getting too lost

i want to be deep and think of a

pretty way to say thats symbolic

of

exactly where my life is

heading now

but i cant

just like

i

can't

say

any thing

else.

-rae

It swallows me whole

I think that there's a certain beauty in handwriting--the way that everyone dots their i's and j's in their own order or has a unique way of constructing a k (by far the hardest one for me...) It's a most subtle movement that differentiates it into something that will always be your own creation, whether or not what's actually being written is original.

My handwriting looked like chicken scratch. Only a few months ago did I resolve to practice my penmanship whenever I had free time, mostly because I was determined to make it distinctly mine. Identifiable like my dad's all caps or enviable like my mom's elegant script. I ended up resurrecting cursive back from the third grade where the rest of the world left it. Who did I know that used it let alone could write a z with it?

So I took cursive and I wrote the living wits out of it. But I've realized that being able to look back on my notes in school was something of a necessity so, in no time at all, I've changed it again with a disturbingly low amount of difficulty.

It's unsettling because, among the many things you can learn about a person, I think there are three that say absolutely nothing and a whole lot of everything at the same time:

3. the shoes they are wearing

2. their favorite pizza toppings

and 1. their handwriting

I'm pretty confident about my boot collection, and I'm convinced that pepperoni, green peppers, and onions are the best pizza toppings in the known universe...but shoes and pizza have nothing on handwriting. I liken it unto a person's fingerprint; it is that telling and personal.

Because my handwriting is constantly changing, who's to say that I won't randomly develop a liking for Tom's or that I will no longer find pineapple and olives on pizza to be completely abhorrent?

Weeks ago, I loved the dark loops and density of my cursive, so why do I now prefer this wide and faint writing instead? From where have I pulled the patience that allows me to give each letter deliberate consideration?

I could be fooling myself because I'll always be cursive at heart... or maybe, even further back, I'm truly chicken scratch.

This handwriting might not even be me.

Maybe I don't have one particular style.

Maybe it's the change itself that says it all.

-rae

P.S.--Happy Valentine's Day! How lovely it'd be to see your handwriting on a love note.

Bonus points

I was thinking the other day: because beauty is so subjective, what if someone had absolutely no perception of what beauty was? What if this person had no cultural paradigms, no bad or good experiences, no friends or family influencing them. What, then, becomes beautiful to them? I'd like to think it would be simple things like feeling their body move or watching someone's facial expressions change, but I really can't know.

When I was little, I was as scared (if even, more) of everything as I am currently. (Did that sentence make sense?) I would have a dream, get scared, and run into my mom and dad's room. I'd stand by my mom's side until she'd wake up and ask me what happened. After I explained, she would tell me to go get a drink of water and go back to sleep.

See, I knew that she'd tell me this every time I went to her. So why did I keep going back? I know the answers and I know what I need to do, but for some reason, I just have to ask.

Haven't you ever wanted a coffee shop to know you by name? You walk in, greet a few employees and other regulars, then have your coffee ready for you within minutes without having to order. You'd talk about current events, new books, and how foggy it is outside, then leave a random bill on the counter before you walk out. There's no responsibility to see these people outside of shared coffee, and everyone is satisfied with that arrangement. You simply enjoy each others company.

Mad Men told me that conversation is an art, and even though small talk may just be doodles, it's still brings me joy to know that we don't have to have a deep relationship to relate to someone else;

we talk because we can.

-rae

Two Hundred

When I made this blog, I had a misconception about satire.

Save maybe a few negligible posts about elevator outlets and emergency feed knobs, this blog has never been what I now know to be satirical.

What I read in my literature class makes me feel small for wanting to write satire

witty like Twain and Bukowski,

or gracious like Pope and C.S. Lewis,

or bitter like Heller and Golding.

Palanhiuk, Bradbury, Orwell...

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we're blindsided by Swift.

I turn my eyes up to the mountains. I don't see them as I used to; I'm learning that they're probably the most insecure part of this area. I'm expecting the worst and am frustrated that everyone seems to be preparing for the best. My irrational fears occupy my thoughts, as they are wont to do.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until our city sinks into the ground.

Underneath the mountains is the other end of my building. My side is reflected in the glass so I can't actually see into the lobby, but I can imagine someone else doing the same thing as me. We're looking into each other eyes and don't even know it. Maybe that's why I feel unsettled.

Eye contact does that to me. The real, 'I am looking at you' eye contact.

It electrocutes me; it's oppressive and invasive, but I can't just let go. When I somehow finally manage to tear away, I'm tingling with the memory of it and all I want to do is look back to see if I exaggerated the sensation.

The moving sun makes the opposite room more visible.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we realize that no one is looking.

I really should have called it 'coffee-flavoured thoughts' or 'coffee-flavoured musings.'

Where are those careless observations? That bliss from 200 posts ago?

I still don't write satire, and though I write far better than before, I can't help but consider the cost. I'd never actively seek out the influences, but I will confess to taking advantage of them when they do come.

I write in a room of mahogany, with bookshelves for walls and echoes for company, where I can see the dust in the air because the sun is blaring. The chair I sit in is so uncomfortable that it makes my back ache for days after, but that's the cost for using the room.

I imagine what I must look like from the doorway--a chair, a lamp for nighttime, a side table with clear liquid in a clear cup.

All are dark forms against the bright window behind me.

A silhouette

and a shadow.*

I endure sitting in the chair because when I get up to stretch and look back on my writing, it's illuminating.

I am aware.

-rae

*Plato's Allegory of the Cave

Thanks to Mad Men...

Mayakovsky

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

-Frank O'Hara

The wine of error

It's this taste that makes me lose my appetite.

It's this room that makes me dance in August.

It's this book that makes me guilty.

It's this color that takes me to the ocean.

It's this time of night that makes me disintegrate.

It's my mind that I can't take anymore.

But it's the cold that disquiets me.

-rae

See here.

When I was diagnosed with ADD, so much was explained: the frequently missed (and NEVER completed) assignments; the bizarre ability to be occupied by my own thoughts for hours; the moments when I'd simply not hear what anyone had been saying for the last twenty minutes.

But one thing I've never understood is something my dear mama calls my "hyper focus".

I don't understand how someone who is very clearly an Avid Day Dreamer can enjoy spending hours doing the same, monotonous task such as ripping paper into even squares, or copying paragraphs from textbooks.

I don't know what possesses my mind to make it believe that mastering a rubix cube, memorizing world countries and capitals, or, more currently, the periodic table of elements is without a doubt amongst the top of my priorities. (Let alone FUN).

It does take a different form though.

In my senior year of high school, there were three things I wanted more than anything:

•To be in the top a cappella choir,

•To be elected into student council,

•To be accepted into a certain university.

Within the past few months, I've become conscious of a problem: a mutated form of tunnel vision.

I think tunnel vision can be a great quality for some people: you see what you want, there are no other options. Therefore, you do everything required to reach the end of that tunnel.

But my tunnel vision mutation not only switches off, but completely disconnects the helpful reminder in my brain that says, "consider your options."

When I essentially failed to reach all of my goals, I was absolutely lost. I searched for a fall back, but there was none that I was satisfied with because I hadn't constructed any "worst case scenario" detours in my tunnel. The only exit had closed, and I was trapped in the cold and the dark without any food or books for the long trek back to the beginning.

This focus literally exhausts me. I put so much energy in the mere act of wanting something, let alone in the steps it takes to achieve it.

But 'wanting' isn't the right word.

I didn't want to be in student council,

I needed to.

I don't like learning completely trivial information,

I have to.

And I don't simply fall for someone,

I throw myself off of a cliff and then fall. Hard and fast.

It feeds on my thoughts.

It eliminates my other goals.

It numbs my reason.

Now, I'm sitting here, almost wishing that someone would zero the counter, just so I can start over.

So the smoke that was coming from the end of the tunnel of what I knew to be a brilliant bonfire will stop choking me, and seep into my clothes and furniture instead, reminding me that there was a fire. That there was warmth.

Maybe a better reason for letting the smoke permeate my mind would be to remind me that getting so high off of my hopes leaves me with virtually no one to blame but myself when I come back down.

But I know myself too well to believe that would work; Instead of turning back around the other way, I entertain the notion of waiting to see if the end of the tunnel could possibly re-open--that I might restart the fire once it stops raining.

-rae

My face is too hot.

The rest of my body is too cold.

An icy parking lot

A wooden sealing, sculptures off hands

And soft, blue fabric.

A window shade that could be hiding anything disintegrates to a floor of expensive rugs and reveals exactly whats supposed to be on the outside: the outside.

Nudged persistently by an unwannted aid, I fall into unconsciousness over my bedspread.

I grow colder

On the map

There are a lot of options on my bookshelf:

Mark Twain

C.S. Lewis

Some fact books about civilizations, metaphors, and the etymology of words

The Time Machine

A French Book of Mormon

Peace Like a River

Fahrenheit 451

and an atlas-that's the most tempting.

But I know what I really need to read: Confessions

It's not like there's an underlying reason why I don't want to read it, I've just always had this thing with books: I read the first chapter, and even if I love it, to get through the rest of it is very rare. For example, Peace Like a River took me about four tries until I finished it, and it became my favorite book.

I knew I was going to like Confessions when I picked it out of a few other options to read for my class. I just didn't know I'd find something like this within the first few pages:

"Have pity on me and help me, O Lord my God. Tell me why you mean so much to me. Whisper in my heart, I am here to save you. Speak so that I may hear your words. My heart has ears ready to listen to you, Lord. Open them wide and whisper in my heart, I am here to save you. I shall hear your voice and make haste to clasp you to myself. Do not hide your face away from me, for I would gladly meet my death to see it, since not to see it would be death indeed."

I mean, isn't that beautiful? I thought so, too. Anyone could be saying that and you'd believe they were sincere. I could be saying that.

That's all I wanted to share today.

And with that, I sat myself down on the couch to enjoy jeopardy and a handful of pepperoni.

-rae

Mind over Matter doesn't apply

It became surreal from the moment I realized I wasn't going to sleep tonight. When I realized that yesterday and tomorrow were the same.

I'm wearing different things today. Different boots, different jeans, different jewelry. What I'm not wearing is a coat. If I were poetic, I'd say that I didn't wear a coat to school because I need to feel the cold. To know that this was my body and that it exists. My red skin would be proof.

In literature, we're discussing Vanity with a capital 'v' and learning about how it can be a good thing. A gift from God, even.

God.

Vanity.

I'm surprised by how tired I'm not. Every single one of my senses seems overstimulated. I'm not spacing out consistently, but when I do, it's for a good chunk of time. I can't remember where time goes.

Every movement is graceful.

I'm waiting for my class to end so I can go back. I don't know why. Maybe because I don't know what else to do or maybe because I'll remember that it's a dream and move on. After all, I have no proof. When I get there, I keep looking for some anyway.

There are people here, and that makes me uncomfortable. Almost self-conscious. I sit down on the couch facing the mountains and find solace in the fact they're there. I can see them. But I close my eyes, and then they're gone. A new city could be there now, or a tsunami. Blackness. I open my eyes and they exist again.

I lean forward and squeeze my head, trying to keep any more thoughts from getting in because it's too crowded in here, and I see something on the ground. My breath hovers for a moment before I reach down and take it and then look around for someone to laugh with me. The room is getting darker, and the people are disappearing. They aren't here anymore. I can't hear them, I won't see them. Out of sight, out of mind.

I feel the earring in my hand. This is not a dream.

I could be using the stairs, but I'm taking the elevator instead even though I have to wait for a long time. I hear it coming slowly from the floors below, making stops on the way. I close my eyes and run the earring over my lips. The elevator reaches the fourth floor.

And there's no telling what's behind the doors.

I open my eyes--

-rae

There's always one at hand

I've found that "the year in review" is a tradition in the blogging world.

Some of the posts I've read are about positive experiences like marriage and babies and other such items.

There are one's about negative experiences, too, sometimes with the blogger learning from the experience. They've grown, and they know better now. But sometimes the opposite, too.

It's quite a bit late, but, like many other people (I hope) I'm still getting used to not writing '2011' in the date at the top of my papers, so that means it's still pretty fresh, right?

Right.

So, in reference to the late year:

I grew out my hair.

I snatched a job.

I best-friended my best friends.

I fell in love with school.

I laughed with my family until it hurt.

But if I'm to be completely honest, I must say that I look back on 2011 with a significant amount of bitterness.

It would appear that the issues it created metaphorically rooted themselves so deep into the year that there was no way I was going to yank them out of the metaphorical soil before 2012. (Even though the weather has nearly been nice enough to spend one's time gardening.)

The new year has come rolling along without much to say for itself, and I feel the same way towards it. I have not made any goals, nor it, any promises

It's a shrug-and-move-on deal.

Which is grand, because I am quite the accomplished shrug-offer. (Note: being an accomplished shrug-offer, per se, is not good.)

"...but the worst part is looking in a mirror and forgetting that my name and my face go together," said the tortoise, and it shuddered.

The tortoise's creator said nothing and opened the blinds instead to light up the inside of the tortoise's shell until the tortoise came out and drank the glass of water waiting for it.

I might as well be dreaming.

How glorious and bold it is.

-rae

Two more hours

Back to the grind.

Is that the saying?

Another day another dollar.

Okay, I know that one's right.

I've only finished my first class and I'm already committed to having a bad attitude for the rest of the day until I can go home to try and find something to eat other than Nutella and pistachios. And frozen waffles.

I'm sure there's some significance involved with the moment I stopped calling my house my home.

Huh.

Anyways, I'm listening to this song in hopes that the earth-shaking bass will jar me awake. Or shift my brain back into gear. Or just a normal spot for that matter. That'd be excellent.

But it's just making my forehead tingle.

Did you know that the space between your eyebrows is called a glabella? I have some very stubborn wrinkles there. These are mostly from frowning, but also from squinting all the time.

Is it possible for a 19-year-old (and 5 months and 5 days) to have cataracts? What about bad knees? I feel like an old person.

Last night, I was teased for watching Jeopardy every night on KJZZ.

I kind of have an old soul. I know this and I've accepted it. I don't like partying and I like prunes and I enjoy the company of other old people. I don't think I even need to grow old now. I'm already there.

Know that I'm not being an annoying kid who thinks they've experienced all they need to and also thinks they know everything... I'm just scared of getting old.

I'm scared of realizing, 50 years from now, that I spent so much time getting music and money and boots, and I won't like that music anymore or the boots won't fit anymore--no, I'm scared of regretting the time wasted.

I'm scared of The Christmas Story on TBS not airing anymore because all the parents whose lives were like that will be gone--no, I'm scared that the next movie won't be as good.

I'm scared of the fact that I'll probably be calling my old home 'the house' for the rest of my life--no, I'm scared that all my other homes will never live up to it.

I'm scared of not being ready to die because I didn't leave anything behind for the world to remember me by--I'm scared of this mattering.

I didn't mean for this post to turn out the way it did.

"... and I'm not scared of losing my family and friends, I'm scared of missing them," said the tortoise.

"I'll look out for them. And I'm not leaving, so you don't have to worry about missing me," said the tortoise's creator and sat back listening to music with the tortoise and massaging the lines between the tortoise's eyebrows until the tortoise had to get back to work.

-rae