ok, yes, i made a mistake. i'll admit that i spoke too soon. not quite a mistake, but definitly a set back.
have you ever avoided words simply because you couldn't spell them and you were too lazy to look it up?
i do that all the time.
im not particularily fond of car alarms going off at 4 am nor am I particularity fond of still being awake at that time either.
im not sure how i feel about knowing every move the guy upstairs makes and im not sure how i feel that he hasn't yet realized that our apartment isn't sound proof.
i don't like when girls wrap thier too tanned legs around the boy i love's torso nor do i like that he doesn't stop them.
i'm not totally comfortable being around too many people at once which i think some would call a social anxiety.
now, for a list of good things since i know brad will probably say something about that as he has in the past.
sorry, i got nothing. nothing but a deep rooted excitment for this saturday.
just in case.
i'm losing my mind.
i can say there are a lot of things that have survived my many changes. things get lost, or forgotten or left behind. there wasn't enough time to move it, or room in the car. there was a suspecting roomate, or friend, or even, friend of a friend. there were selfish lovers and greedy party goers. my favorite black rimmed glasses. a yellow dress that clung to my skin like the smog clings to the mountains. limited edition lipglosses, shallow as that may be, or a favorite hardcover [you hardly ever buy hardcover, serves you right.]
clothes, bookshelves, olive green dishes now shattered at the bottom of some unassuming dumpster in van nuys. books. pens and in one sad regretful case, a doberman puppy with a panache for ruining your shoes. home made curtains. a pair of black leather high heels scuffed to an almost unrecognizable shade of gray.
but never the pictures. never the words. or the stories or those simple things that you can easily transport, virtually weightless, pressed flat or curled up and tucked away in your head. a memory. one in particular. a black and white close up of entwined hands that you pulled out of a tantric book years ago. one that was sent to you on accident from a book club. one you had to hide between your mattresses for fear of them being discovered by the adult authority at the time. pin holes in every corner. scotch tape stuck to the back. this 'memory' has seen white walls and green walls and red walls and pale baby blue walls. once it was in a bathroom, a hallway, a bedroom. it has been through 3 break-ups, one, particularily bad. it has said hello and goodbye to a handful of friends and watched silently as others came and went, not quite important enough to earn the title friend or lover or even the gritty 'enemy'.
it something you take. words spoken in tones that you will never forget. looks you've been given after said words were uttered and may or may not have hurt someone/made someone laugh/caused someone to cry. memories boiling up years later. a song she was singing. a book he was reading. a movie he made you watch although you fell asleep in the crook of his arm his hair still smelling like music and beer. it's a smell which you find more important then a plate, or 350 thread count sheets, although, those were pretty nice. you decided you actually do miss those. its the deep rumble of a laugh getting thrown at you on sunset blvd or a shreak as someone holds onto your dash on the 405 and asks you how you're not dead yet. its the tough soles of your feet from running through beachwood canyon. its near misses.
its a note on a post it that fell out of a book that you loaned to whats-his-name almost 2 years ago. its his handwriting, almost illegible. its you reading it and smiling because you understand why he drew a turtle. you understand and no one else does becuase it is your memory, not theirs. a memory you've carried over 7 state lines and through 2 birthdays, 4 lovers, 2 funerals, a life altering realization and a new year in a new city with new people who don't know about turtles on post its.
its yours and its ok that it will always be just yours. there is not price on it and no buyers remorse because try as you might, its not something you can buy, even if money does or does not buy happiniess.it really doesnt matter anymore.
i like to make things. its true. so now i have this gigantic apartment in the middle of the city and instead of actually doing anything with it, i just draw pictures of the way it should be.
a giant elaborate bed in the middle of nothing. it is missing one key piece and no, its not the damaske.
one week, you're wondering what the point of anything is and the next week you're getting offered an actual career that makes you happy. something you are more than good at. to be wanted and needed is always a good feeling.
as much as i try to live everyday without him, it becomes increasingly hard to live through things that were meant for him. is it believable that a girl would be content with herself? why does everything think that because i wear too high heels, or shiny lipgloss of have long eyelashes that i want to fuck?
this isnt the case.
i have been reading more than i should. the great gatsby. chi. 1oo years of solitude. lolita. its a wonder i am not covered in paper cuts. instead. my skin grows increasingly paler. my hair increasing longer. my body, increasingly thinner.
i am unrecognizable even to myself. no wonder he is hesitant.
noah held my hand in the dark water and told me to close my eyes.
we are arm lengths away and i see no sign of him letting go.
close your eyes and just imagine that every building is gone.
there is no concrete. there is no hollywood sign.
there is no baby crying for its mother of dog barking for its food.
there is only you and i and the water and this realization.
noah never came too close.
i probably shouldn't even admit this. keep your mouth shut. there will be consequences i'm sure. be honest you keep saying. are my words not at all believable to you? my mouth is pure and white and fresh and not at all tarnished by lies that you tell.
your lies, not mine.
here's a lie. i love you. here's a truth. i don't. i may have said it enough times for you to believe me. i may have tricked even myself. maybe. maybe not. not it just feels like a marble rolling around in my mouth. cold. hard. transparent. i hold it there. curled in my tongue. clanging up against my perfect white teeth.
i don't know what is real and what is not anymore. did i ever feel the way your skin feels? did i ever run my fingers through your hair? were those lips really ever on my fingertips. my lips. the back of my neck.
but your side of the bed is still warm. occupied by you although you are thousands of miles away, occupying the other side of a different bed.
now i have the freedom to splay my legs out. now i have an excuse for stealing all the pillows.
for some reason, i feel like doing some damage. don't send nudes to someones boyfriend and not expect for us to fuck your life up and send them to your girlfriend....
its like the way the smell of an onion can stay on your skin for days. i can't get rid of your smell. not as deep, but moist, intense. it's on my favorite thread bare t shirt, and settled into the white sheets. the ones you said are a ridiculous concept considering the dog and his need for under cover burrowing. your smell is mixing with mine this morning. a sweet fresh warm. it reminds me of your fingers trailing down my back, over the ridges of my spine, the top of my head just under your chin. it reminds me of the way i curl up, my back against your stomach and your long arms holding onto my fetaled knees. it reminds me of driving to the middle of no where, just to get away from the city lights, and points out the stars to me...free mythology lessons. but most of all it reminds me of you laughing into the pillow while my hands search for more spots to tickle. you and the way you say my name. deep and vibrating into me ear right down to my ribs.
i guess maybe its the way in which you say it. a quick hurried 'i love you', words jumbled together so that i have to ask you to repeat yourself. or a slow unconvincing 'i love you'..thick and bitter, swirling around in your mouth like a bad cough syrup.
i guess maybe its the way i don't believe you. not half the time anyway. there are arguments taking place in my head. yes. no. never. during times i should be sleeping, with the empty weight of your side of the bed pressing into my skin.
i guess maybe it's really just the way it's so easy for me to leave, unscathed. boys with longer limbs then yours,[its hard to imagine isnt it?] tell me its ok. tell me i'll be ok.
but what if i won't?
here i'm sitting clawing at the dirt. trying to dig up the mushrooms that grow wild on the property and not doing a very good job. i have little piles everywhere. under the weeping willow. next to the wooden fence i helped build 3 summers ago, some of the paint still globbed in places. the skin on my thighs has that rippled affect you get when it's pressed into grass for too long. or gravel, but in this case, it's grass, freshly cut and giving off the sweetest smell. the puppy keeps rearing up on his hind legs and pushing agains my back, sending me almost head first into the tulips that have shown up over night. the sun is starting its decent into the horizon, first making its treck through the evergreens and oaks that line the yard. and i dig. i dig while johnny cash sings from the outdoor sound system. while the dogs lap up water from ceramic bowls. while somewhere, a neighbor trims their lawn. i dig until my fingers are sore and the dirt has made its way under my red fingernails and into the creases of my knuckles. i dig until the sun starts to disappear and my mother calls me in. still hunched over, legs splayed out from beneth blue fabric, back hunched, dirty hair hanging in my eyes, my toes anchoring me into the soft earth.