tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28675293325446358962024-03-12T19:07:33.131-07:00Called to Love"Above all, love each other deeply,
because love covers over a multitude of sins."
1 Peter 4:8Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.comBlogger241125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-62173842799446233772020-08-19T19:27:00.000-07:002020-08-19T19:27:51.325-07:00The Kindest Possible Action<p style="text-indent: 48px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I exist to sit in my apartment and listen. Doors slam. Max starts yelling the alphabet outside, unceremoniously starting with the letter C. If the fan is on and the TV is on and if I try very hard not to be able to hear anything, it’s almost as though there isn’t screaming coming through these thin walls. The screen door slides open, slides closed. Sirens pass, though fewer than I’m used to. Doors slam. The neighbor downstairs who coughed through the past fourteen months is quiet now, just as a respiratory pandemic is affecting the whole world. A cat buzzes. A sigh. Doors slam.
<span> </span>No one knows where we are going. The future has always been amorphous and unplannable, but never like this. Everything is up in the air. No one knows who they will be. Nothing has ever felt like this.
Will we get the privilege of looking back on these days with gratitude to the place we eventually make it to? Or are things only going to get worse, and this will be looked back on as a blessing?
<span> </span>I exist to sit in my apartment and fear.
<span> </span>There is so much rage hand-in-hand with apathy. There is crushing sorrow strolling beside laughing fits. There is benefit of the doubt tangled up in resentful accusation. I want to be better than this, I think. I am proud of the work that I am doing, I think. I forgive myself, I think. It’s okay to have bad days, I think. I am not doing the best I can but.
<span> </span>I am not doing the best I can but.
<span> </span>I exist to sit in my apartment and turn over in my head the phrase “things could be worse.” It is not a consolation but it is a comfort. It bobs up in between empty distractions. A wisp of cigarette smoke climbs in through the window, and you can’t help but breathe deeper, and feel gratitude and heartbreak and elation and devastation. I never got that tattoo because I think I will probably never be brave enough to do anything ever in my life, but it still exists within me, this concept.
<span> </span>You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.
<span> </span>I am grateful for the happiness of these months. It is so stark against the backdrop of terror, panic, spirals of instability. The joy is so bright. It is unignorable. It rolls over and holds me as I lay in bed. It brushes against my cheek as I give up on crossword puzzles on the patio. It drips down my nose underneath my mask as I walk on the shoulder of the highway. Tears are more often just below the surface than I am comfortable with, but often they are sparked by the absolute positivity that I am where I am supposed to be. That things could be worse, and would be worse, and this life was found by luck and work and choices. That these people, the ones who matter, the ones who don’t slam doors, are the people that I would trust with almost anything. The ones who will call me on the phone even though they know I hate it. The ones who will always return a text, ranging between the most frivolous of sharings and the most devastating of emotional realizations. The ones who are capable of being kind.
<span> </span>And maybe we’ll never all be together again, and it will never look the way that it did. But we will find new ways to look. And we will find new ways to be happy and grateful with each other. Grateful that these paths continue to cross even through all of us simply sitting in our apartments and existing because that is the kindest possible action.
<span> </span>I’ll send you a picture of my cat. And you’ll send me a picture of your cat. And those pictures of our cats scream louder than anything: I LOVE YOU AND YOU MATTER AND KNOW THAT EVEN THOUGH THE WORLD IS NOT DOING A GOOD JOB OF TELLING YOU THIS THAT IT IS STILL TRUE AND YOUR BEAUTY IS IRREPLACEABLE AND LIFE WOULD BE DARKER WERE IT NOT FOR YOUR EXISTENCE AND I COULD NEVER TELL YOU HOW THANKFUL I AM AND I COULD NOT BE THE PERSON I AM WITHOUT THE PERSON YOU ARE.
<span> </span>There could be a morning when we will wake up, and it might be because of a slammed door or the cat demanding acknowledgment, and it might be because the sun is out and we’ve slept enough and the peace is too great to sleep through any longer, and we will reach for the phones that we always reach for automatically and there will be joy in the world. There will be good news for someone and good news for another one and good news for an acquaintance who has quite frankly always been a little bit rude but deserves good news nonetheless. And there will not be a moment that whole day where the crushing spiral of panicked everything descends. That morning could exist. And we will deserve it when it comes.</span></span></p>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-60339407568905155412013-02-09T19:36:00.002-08:002013-02-09T20:07:44.226-08:00EkphrasisSometimes your mind spills. I don't know if you think I can't feel you, sitting up there, running your hands through your hair. Your sighs are deafening.<br />
<br />
Something about the moonlight brings imaginings to life. The first time your mind brushed against my face, I thought the apocalypse had come. Jolting up in bed, fists clenched in front of my face, eyes closed as though that's the way to meet one's doom. Nothing more touched me, but a persistent rustling. I squinted one eye open. Your room -- our room -- was a snow globe of leaves. I was halfway out of bed to shut the window when I saw it already closed. You sat on the edge of the mattress, white skin gleaming in the moonlight, head bowed, breath deep. I touched your shoulder. It was warm. You murmured something and the leaves moved a little slower.<br />
<br />
Some people sleep walk. Some sleep talk. You sleep summon.<br />
<br />
The next night, I lay rigid, overly-aware of your back pressed against mine, eyes wide open to the dark expanse of my room -- our room. Waiting for you to move. Waiting for something to happen. You barely shifted all night.<br />
<br />
You had me fully convinced it had been my dream. But it happened again. I woke to scales slipping across my cheek. Peeked open my eyes. The moonlight again. My room an aquarium, filled with air and goldfish as long as my arm. They dove in and out of dresser drawers, following the currents of our breath, spinning in torrents around your head, still bowed. You sat. I pretended to sleep.<br />
<br />
I tried to tell you once, but the pancakes had just come to the table and you seemed more concerned with your syrup than tales of moonlight. I let it go, drowned it in tea.<br />
<br />
Are you lonely? Last night was thunder clouds and wetless drops pounding into your room -- our room --, blue from the moonlight through your curtains. Fireless lightning. Noiseless thunder. Like a scream under a pillow, under the water. Spilling.<br />
<br />
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<br />Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-87015944061588671152012-09-03T16:10:00.000-07:002012-09-03T16:10:44.442-07:00Imitating KerouacSo on an island when the rain falls down and I hide in the ancient shadow-borne cloisters hearing the cold, cold wind rush through the strait and feel the deeply tangible weight of an unfathomable history embracing years and places beyond my imagination, and all the feet treading, all the pilgrims praying in the immensity of it and in Seattle I know that the strangers will ignore one another in the city where they let strangers ignore one another, and tonight the sun'll stay up so late, and who would have thought the fire could be that white? the solsitce sky will be fading and dimming its brightest shades over the wild ocean, which is blue but never black in a way that blesses the earth, lightens all lands, reflects off the sands and shines on the waves, and everyone, everyone knows that the days are only going to get shorter from here on out and there's nothing that can stop our spinning, I write you a letter, I even write you a letter that can never be sent, I write you a letter.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-60825170342534090242012-06-03T00:23:00.003-07:002012-06-03T00:23:38.381-07:00one. or the other.I figured it out.<br />
<br />
I am either completely and utterly enamored with every single creature around me all at the same time. Except one. (Calm down. It's not you. Well, actually, it might be this time, but cool your jets: it changes). And that's the limit; there always has to be that one person who is not allowed to be a person. That's the balancing point. And it's not fair.<br />
<br />
But the other alternative is completely and utterly loathing the thought of even footsteps from anyone else on earth. Except one. (That one is you, all the time, each time. You deserve it: to be my Person). And there's something comforting within that. Because -- who knows why? -- for some reason, I still get to receive love in the midst of my inability to be a person. Which is more than I deserve.<br />
<br />
They're isolating extremes. One person to hate. One person to love.<br />
<br />
All those years of begging not to be lukewarm paid off. Apathy is the enemy.<br />
<br />
Well, except toward that One.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-82587656327230716182012-05-15T12:30:00.002-07:002012-05-15T12:30:54.022-07:00because you are.Cleaning my room. Found a journal from last spring. There are a grand total of eight entries in it, spanning from March 20th to May 15th. It's a chronicle of the dissolving of my faith. So interesting to look back on.<br />
<br />
From April 16th, 2011. SPU Women's Retreat at Camp Casey, day after the Day of Silence.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If you could hear this wind<br />You would weep.<br />Not because of sadness<br />Though you're almost sure<br />Your heart is more cracked than not;<br />Not because of happiness<br />Though you'll say that "yes,<br />It's happiness;"<br />Not because of God<br />Though the air rips tears<br />From their places.<br />No. You'll weep because<br />You are.<br />With cheeks wind-bitten and<br />Lips chewed up;<br />With skin peeling off your palms:<br />You'll shake<br />Because you feel.<br />You'll breathe<br />Because you live.<br />You'll leave<br />Because you're cold.<br />But you'll weep<br />Because there's nothing more<br />(And nothing less)<br />That you can do<br />To be.</blockquote>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-64226043247019858422012-04-24T12:42:00.002-07:002012-04-24T12:42:46.196-07:00Make Me StoneI write to run. When the words stop, I am too much. <br />I sit in this hard-backed chair, surrounded by strangers and their stories. <br />I watch them read and work and study and be. <br />They leave and arrive. <br />I sit in this hard-backed chair, surrounded by strangers and their stories. <br />They are unaffected. <br />They leave and arrive. <br />I am affected. <br />They are unaffected. <br />I want to mean something. To me. To everyone. <br />I am affected. <br />I feel so much. <br />I want to mean something. To me. To everyone. <br />I do not know where my worth is found. Is it found in you? <br />I feel so much. <br />I want to feel. I want to feel. Make me stone. <br />I do not know where my worth is found. Is it found in you? <br />I watch them read and work and study and be. <br />I want to feel. I want to feel. Make me stone. <br />I write to run. When the words stop, I am too much.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-50446600953773986222012-04-11T01:49:00.002-07:002012-04-11T01:54:38.780-07:00But complaining is much more fun!Good things happen. The sun did not die today. You did not drown in the bath. The bus – though it may have been late – eventually arrived and transported you somewhat miraculously at your destination so you did not have to walk or wait for your neighbor to drop by with her covered wagon to wagonpool with you and her horses are notoriously distractible so surely the bus was faster.<br />
<br />
Good things happen each second of each day. You did not just develop gills; thus, oxygen enters your bloodstream via your lungs and you continue living as these words sit on the page.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh, but these are commonplace things. They aren’t good things. They are just things.</i><br />
<br />
You are too hard to please, my friend. You say that continuing to live is commonplace? Do not blame the world for a lack of goodness when you are bored with the entirety of your existence.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-13762916008547484222012-03-03T12:02:00.001-08:002012-03-03T12:02:25.684-08:00a rant about dishwashersIt’s funny, the ways we all see the world. How we travel around in little packs or by ourselves, claiming independence. How are we all so different? You would assume, with the vast number of people you’ll run across in your life, you’ll eventually find someone who overlaps with you in all the same ways: someone who drinks as much tea as you do, or who organizes their dishwasher the same way, or who would rather be by themself or be quiet or play a game or who is just the same as you. Someone who is a slob six days out of the week before panicking and disinfecting everything in sight. Someone who loved surprising people but hated being surprised. Someone who didn’t know how to deal with their life all the time and so hid behind smiles and nice thoughts and all the distractions the world can possibly dish up. You’d think another person just like you would exist, because wouldn’t that be nice? I think it would be nice or reassuring or something to know that someone else works in the same way. Because when you’re in your head being your own person, sometimes it’s a lot easier to see all the similarities that other people have that you’re left out of and feel very, very by yourself all alone lonely. And it might help things make a lot of sense if someone could say, “No, I understand why you do these things, why you make the choices you make, and say the words you speak, and go the places you walk at the pace you pace,” and someone who it would just be ok to be you with. Because none of us are right or wrong, but it would be so nice to not have to keep that reminder in your head all the time, not having to compare things, just to be able to be; that would be so nice. But we’re here and we’re people and not really sure who we are and the only thing we have to sort of check in on ourselves is the people around us and trying to keep track of what’s going on through the lens of comparison. And that’s the worst. Ugh. I don’t want to be wrong or right anymore. Those things aren’t important. I just want to be me and have that be enough. I don’t want to be competing with anyone anymore. That’s as clearly as I can say it. Because this competition is exhausting and there’s no gain at the end of it, either way. There are no victors or losers, just a bunch of very exhausted people who have come out on the other side of all this bickering and comparing and competing with an even greater lack of knowing who they are, doubting more and more what they’re supposed to do with their lives or who they are or what anything means any more. <div>
<br />We have to stop attacking ourselves. But no one has taught us how to live otherwise. <br /><br />See? Right there, that’s the excuse that will kill us eventually. The moment of but I didn’t know any better, this is what everyone else was doing, and on. We see what’s wrong, maybe we even recognize that we need a solution or – bite your tongue – figure out what a solution might look like. But we won’t. Because that would mean acting against what we’ve been taught for our whole lives, since the dawn of man. We’re begging for survival at the cost of happiness or peace or internal stability. We have no idea what we’re missing, so we continue on, trudging up the hill, against all reason, because that’s the only thing we’ve ever been taught. Or even if we haven’t been taught it, that’s the only thing that we can see and so we cling to it, desperate to fit in, to be what the others are, because even if we’re all miserable, at least we’re miserable together. Because – who knows? – the alternative could be worse. And that’s something we’re not willing to risk, while we’re all clinging on to the cliff face with bleeding fingers and scratched-up faces, even when the smooth path, with handrails and informative signs, is only meters away. Because it could be worse. And if no one else is taking that path, it must be. Because who would choose pain and hardship and comparison and diminished self-worth when the alternative was so easy, so close this whole time, unless the alternative was actually a lie? Because we’ve all been lied to our entire lives. The truth doesn’t mean anything anymore. We’re all just telling stories, again and again and again, until the plots all run together and the characters sound the same, and the words get shorter and shorter. And you’d think eventually, two people would end up with the exact same story, when the words combined the same way. But we all have our little differences, and the letters don’t line up perfectly, like mismatched cups on the top rack of the dishwasher.</div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-77660526572344390602012-02-07T17:09:00.000-08:002012-02-07T17:09:22.694-08:00walls<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Brick. I smack into you. Again. Again. You would think I would learn. But maybe that's learning? Looking up from the mud, from the ditch, from the dust at the base of you. Face stinging, hands bleeding, legs aching and shaking. Because I will crash and climb and fall and look. And never stop looking. Maybe that's the best part. Don't look back. Don't look down. Just up. Over.</blockquote>
I looked into writing internships today. Maybe I'm starting to take myself seriously. Maybe. Mostly I'm desperate to prove you (all of you) wrong. This is not just default.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-12334020648251777452012-01-11T14:16:00.000-08:002012-01-11T14:16:34.724-08:00"because God" || "because reasons"this because that<br />
obligation<br />
rules<br />
wants<br />
needs<br />
<i>maybe she's the mad one instead of him</i><br />
familial relationships<br />
God as parent<br />
<b>reason</b><br />
understanding<br />
mysteryAnnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-23061118703606154682011-12-23T00:32:00.001-08:002011-12-23T00:33:03.635-08:00it's the holiday seasonThere are so many things that could come up, so many questions that I have the wrong answers to. I know that they're not the wrong answers, don't get too concerned here, because I'm learning about myself and what I think and the world and people and how to do life and be a person and I don't have anything figured out at all but I think that's probably a good sign, but my answers will be wrong to them. And I don't want to cause a scene. I don't want people to be hurt. I don't want to have to defend the things I say or the way I act or the beliefs I do or do not hold. I just want to be able to be me, to be the screwed up, anxiety-ridden, scared, doubtful, uncertain little person that I am every day, and have them say that that's ok, and that they'll still love me. Because I don't need rules. I don't need to hear what's right and wrong about my relationships or my future or my faith or my views. I just need you to love me. Because that's what family is for, isn't it? I'm so scared of judgment. Maybe because I know that so many things, so many of these wrong answers will lead to so much disappointment from all of them, over on that side, on that team. How have I fallen so far? How can they bring me back into the light, back into the fold? Where did I go so wrong?<br />
<br />
I don't feel wrong. I'm not a disappointment. So please don't be disappointed in me. Christmas isn't supposed to be scary. But I can't get away from the scenes that play themselves out in my head of shouting matches, of interrogations, of everything wrong. Dread. Fear. Shaking. I don't know what to do other than be me.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-42622535888580580032011-12-07T15:49:00.001-08:002011-12-07T15:55:55.832-08:00i'm probably procrastinatingSometimes I wonder what I could do with all the space in my brain that's taken up with lyrics to worship songs.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes I don't know the difference between profanity and prayer.</div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-50360084785960842132011-12-04T12:37:00.001-08:002011-12-04T12:41:35.260-08:00DanceBecause there is one color here and that's brown, or sepia if we must be specific, which we must because when you are stuck for words, get specific -- details, details! There's the life in your words -- and it's where the light falls that matters. You see skin and legs and muscle and pointed feet. In the darkness, clothing and hair bleeds into background, into nothingness. But it's in those midtones, the in-betweens that don't have names, but it's probably ok not to put a label on everything, that things get a little fuzzy. Hands blur together, fingers touching or not touching, faces obscured, out of focus; shouldn't they be the focus?<br />
<br />
No. Body becomes movement becomes shape becomes art. Take a picture. Snap a memory of something you wouldn't remember without film and a lens because it'd be lost in the storm of moving limbs and thrown bodies. Because we're all moving too quickly to be seen. And you take a day, a moment, a class, and say explain it to me. But you're can't -- you can't -- because the moment the words leave your lips they are sour with age, expiration. And the subject is spinning away, blindly, like a top from a string, crashing into everything, speeding instead of slowing. Never stopping. Never still.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-78319043296884624092011-12-01T23:15:00.001-08:002011-12-01T23:21:51.879-08:00billboard broadcast excerptsShe is lovely and wonderful and very capable of loving people and I just want to broadcast that on a fucking billboard that takes up the sky to people. But that wouldn’t make her believe it.<br />
<br />
I don’t know how to say any more clearly that, “I love you so much and you are not a burden. I want to know you and I want to hear about your life and listen and hold you whenever and however much you need."<br />
<div>
<br />
You feel so much. That means you’re alive. That means you’re a person.<br />
<br />
I need you to be you, and that’s the only thing, and you are fantastic at that.</div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-84236558661581753622011-11-07T20:57:00.000-08:002011-11-07T21:00:24.459-08:00if we could just talk about me for a secondSo, this blog goes through seasons of Anna-sometimes-has-artistically-vague-writing-spurts-and-needs-somewhere-to-word-vomit-here! type writing, and this may or may not have been one of those.<br />
<br />
Sorry.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I thought I'd take a second to update those of you who care at all a little bit about my life and what's happening right now (literally, right this second):<br />
<ul>
<li>I'm drinking tea. Decaf Earl Grey, of course. Without milk, because I'm out. It's really a pity.</li>
<li>I'm turning 22 next week. That sounds a lot older than 21 in my head and it's a little scary.</li>
<li>I'm graduating from college in five weeks. That's a lot less scary.</li>
<li>I live in a house with ten other women.</li>
<li>The only reason this is ok:</li>
<ul>
<li>I have my own room.</li>
<li>Also, I love them.</li>
</ul>
<li>I'm dating Joel.</li>
<li>I like him a lot.</li>
<li>I'm doing <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank">Nano</a> again this year. Current wc: 12,022/50,000. I'm right on schedule.</li>
<li>I'm kicking my sister's ass at scrabble.</li>
<li>I'm listening to a playlist called "songs to throw yourself at."</li>
<li>I'd rather be sleeping almost all of the time.</li>
<li>I have almost nothing that looks like faith or God left in my life at this point.</li>
<li>I am utterly and completely content with the above statement.</li>
<li>My mug is now empty.</li>
</ul>
Weirdly egotistical post is weirdly egotistical. I'm finished.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-58625321490390674612011-11-03T16:59:00.001-07:002011-11-03T16:59:06.456-07:00that time of year<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">he came to a fork in the road. he picked it up and kept walking.</span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-48886643696262438762011-10-25T20:13:00.001-07:002011-10-25T20:14:15.388-07:00typical<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";">because
there are a few moments while I’m breathing that I think just for a second it
would be nice to not have to be an introvert all the time, it would be nice not
to be exhausted by all the noise and bustle and life that’s always
happening.<span> </span>but I’m so stuck inside my
head, I don’t think you understand how that is.<span>
</span>because we all have our own ideas of what’s good and what’s best and
what we need right now and it makes perfect sense (not always) to us and why
can’t other people just understand that but I’m so tired and so tired and so
tired and sometimes I just want to crawl into my bed and not get out for a
really long time and no I don’t want company and no I don’t really want to talk
about it.<span> </span>and I have no idea why I have
so much to give when it comes to some people but others are just the most
draining.<span> </span>and sometimes I don’t want to
be a person any more.<span> </span>I don’t want to
think.<span> </span>let me be Scarecrow before the
trip to Oz.<span> </span>Or Tinman.<span> </span>Or Dorothy when she still thought there was
no place like home but before she actually got there.<span> </span>Because maybe the longing is better than the disappointment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";">there are
so many things I can’t think about because I feel the <b>wrong</b> things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-89597874464150388462011-10-23T19:52:00.001-07:002011-10-23T19:52:05.966-07:00[ ]<div><p>Because this is a perpetual day of silence, with the tape strapped over your mouth to keep from lying, lying, lying. Because to open, to speak, to sing, would be lies. And you are not a deceiver, you will try to reassure yourself every minute of every day. To breathe would be lies. Because no one knows the difference but you. Quell your harmonies. Still your dancing feet.</p>
<p>Because if you cannot speak your honesty, at least do not scream the lies. Be still, appear reverent, while your heart burns with the knowledge that you lie to everyone, every day, by not coming to terms with the very person you are.</p>
</div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-87527229751369361712011-10-05T11:18:00.001-07:002011-10-05T11:19:35.232-07:00mundane stories from everyday life<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div>
<span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;">today</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #888888; display: block; float: left;"> </span><span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;">I used the drain cover in my shower</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #888888; display: block; float: left;"> </span><span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;">as a tiny cage</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #888888; display: block; float: left;"> </span><span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;">to capture and then kill</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #888888; display: block; float: left;"> </span><span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;">a crane fly</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #888888; display: block; float: left;"> </span><span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;">that was trying to touch me.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #888888; display: block; float: left;"> </span><span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;">it was very successful.</span><span style="display: block; padding-left: 6em;"><br /></span></div>
Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-69171020801659937552011-09-12T11:48:00.000-07:002011-09-12T11:48:44.120-07:00other worlds are possible<blockquote>
On the far side of Tarbes, a tag artist had been at work. Funky Chunky Mazee was the signature, and through the French, we couldn't figure out if Funky was saying that graffiti was an art, so in these days when art is a crime, that makes even noble Picasso a beast . . . or if what she meant was actually long live graffiti, the true art, and fuck Picasso that pretentious art world asshole. Funky's second message was clearer: <i>Think for yourself . . . contest the authorities</i>, advised Funky. Hibickina and I concurred with our absent new friend. We were inspired to take the airbrushed ads on the wall behind us in our own inky tagging hands. But the work day had just let out, and there were too many people on the sidewalks, hurrying past each other in high heels and wrinkled slacks. I stood between the rows of glossy ads and the busy people who were inadvertently guarding them. Everyone looked tired or worried and I thought again about the force of fear connecting all of us. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
When we peel back all the layers of pain and distrust and neurotic surface fears, what lies beneath is that infinite primal terror of being stuck forever with no love. We have built our societies on the pursuit of success: traditionally that's meant beauty for women and power for men, although increasingly these overlap. Daily, we see around us the dismissal of the ugly, the weak, the old, the powerless. So we know that one day it could and can and will be us who are dismissed. Whether we have the tools to fool everyone until we are old, or whether tomorrow someone sees our cracks and stains and rejects us, the fear of isolation is valid because all around us are images confirming that isolation is our destiny. Buy your way out of isolation, out of dismissal and anonymity, say the corporations. Try this product, this shampoo, this razor, this cellphone, this car . . . blah blah blah. Buy <i>in</i>. But the billboards of sexy girls gaining the attentions of powerful men are empty promises of reward when below them an old woman sits along at a bus stop. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
Corporations sell us tools to aid our division into leagues of power and beauty. But they lose customers when people start crossing the lines of their own volition. Often stories are the ways that lines get crossed. Stories enable us to imagine how it might feel, for a moment, to be the teller. They show us all the places where we overlap and help us understand the places where we don't. They offer us insight into other times and places, and through their intimacy, they make other worlds real. They show us that other worlds are possible. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
Stories and streets are powerful venues for contradicting the imminent doom of loneliness. The public art we make of ourselves in the street, the languages of our bodies tracing postures and assuming them, the paths of our eyes grazing each other, are either participatory or resistant. Here, in public, we can choose to change our immediate world by remaking our myths and telling our own stories, by remembering how to ask and listen, and by learning to show our most real faces to each other and celebrating them. Show your warts and you defy the very process of airbrushing the truth. Risk smiling at the person sitting next to you on the bus, and immediately the message of isolation is undermined. Not just for the two of you, but also for those watching this unusual event unfold. The moment we notice that we can make fresh choices every minute, the moment we take Funky's advice and think for ourselves, it's easy to see that we're all in this together. Isolation was somebody else's bad idea. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
-off the map</blockquote>
I love everything about this book. Cover bent back, pages annotated with blue pen, Powell's sticker on back. You can borrow it when I'm done.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-5132093232482258462011-09-05T22:05:00.001-07:002011-09-05T22:06:13.248-07:00stampThere’s ink
on my skin that’s fading slowly, a rubber stamp instead of a needle.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It catches
my eye like a shadow,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Like when
you’re driving and the sun comes in through the windshield and hits the “you’ll
need an oil change when –“ sticker just perfectly and casts it onto your body
like a wound.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But this
moves with me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even in the
dark.</div>
Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-82904182402676517882011-08-06T13:41:00.001-07:002011-08-06T13:41:46.192-07:00thoughts on the next five monthsI feel like we're all on this conveyor belt, moving towards the end and we're moving at different speeds, and at graduation we're going to fall off the end, and it's ok because we're not falling off the end off a cliff or anything awful but we just sort of tumble off with a bit of a bump and land in this field. And some people sprint off and hop right on another conveyor belt, and some people wander around a little dazed and then start marching off their own direction. And some people hit the ground running and jump right into a new activity. But I'm scared that I'll tumble off the end and just sit there, paralyzed with fear, unable to move the slightest bit, not sure where to go or what's next or how I'm even supposed to start to try and figure that out. Like, I don't think I can explain how fucking scary this is for me. I am literally terrified. Writing this down is scaring the shit out of me.<br />
<br />
Oh man.<br />
<br />
I've been training my entire life for this moment but in spite of that I have no idea what to do. Maybe it will make more sense soon? Maybe things will fall into place. Or maybe I'm just going to have to be in limbo for a few months and figure that out. And that will be ok, and I'll figure it out and volunteer and see people and interact with the world. I won't be sitting in a dark corner with no one around, rocking back and forth, ripping out my hair, while trying to figure out the answers to life's big questions. I'll still be living. And I'll figure things out. And they're not going to look like plans I would make if I was even making plans so it's ok that they don't and that I don't have plans it's ok it's really ok everything will be well. But I still am scared when I think about those things, a lot scared, and I think I needed to write that down and actually admit that that is how I'm feeling most of the time because people keep asking how I'm feeling about school starting again and then graduating and this is how I'm feeling thanks for asking. I'm so scared. But I know that it's not going to be the end of my life. But I'm still scared. Is that ok?<br />
<br />
Please tell me that it's ok because sometimes I feel so alone in the ways that I feel about things but it so often turns out that we're all feeling the same things about the big things in life but we never share those with each other because we can't see inside of one another and we'll never admit to the bad feelings because for some wicked reason we've been taught that we're not supposed to feel these things even though it's so normal and everyone's feeling them why can't we just be honest with one another for once please?Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-11883560543655923562011-08-04T12:26:00.001-07:002011-08-04T12:26:56.135-07:00sandYou came home, lugging a suitcase full of sand. I said, "This isn't exactly what I meant." You took my hand and told me to stand inside. "Now you can be somewhere else whenever you need." It was better than a snow globe.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-90879812378941382712011-08-02T11:57:00.001-07:002011-08-02T11:58:11.002-07:00pin<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Yesterday you came home to find me clothes-pinning leaves back onto the branches of the tree that stands outside your front door. You love the autumn. You asked me why I was wasting clothes pins.</span>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2867529332544635896.post-20053045254057628282011-08-01T11:21:00.001-07:002011-08-01T11:21:50.638-07:00strangeStrangers are walking past but they're not strangers, they're your brothers and your second grade teachers and your third cousins and everyone you've ever known and they all seem to know each other without knowing each other and without knowing you because sometimes we have to pretend to be strangers, to be detached because we need independence or we need control but we're all the same in our differences and our longing to be known and held and loved without having to admit that we're fractured and flawed and don't have a clue. So we just stand there sometimes, being nudged and knocked by the passing bodies or your mother, your grandmother, your insurance agent, until the ebbing starts to feel like the ocean and it turns out you've accidentally drowned.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01142499982259316839noreply@blogger.com0