i've been writing in my journal a lot. i felt like i might put a little of it out there. i will preface it all by saying i am drinking beer at 11am, and Frightened Rabbit is playing as my soundtrack(y'all need to listen to them, specially 'backwards walk' and 'old old fashioned').
i don't think i've posted poetry before, but i do write a lot of it, so here goes:
something about traveling always makes me want to write. i must confess i don't feel as capable of literary eloquence as i used to.
no matter how many times i do the drive between whis and vancouver, it still hurts me a little bit, it's so beautiful. i could wax lyrical about the power of nature and the insignificance of man, there is grandeur in this way of life etc... maybe there would be music playing; orchestras and soundscapes...
truthfully i am a collector of beautiful things and this view is just fucking beautiful.
it makes me think though, of how all things and people have their perfection, and how perfection is just so subjective. makes me realize that hey, even i might have moments of perfection. maybe i should occasionally give myself a break, take a breath and kick back, ignore the impulse to explain and excuse myself for everything i do, say or think.
of course it's pretty easy to be this enlightened with such a view.
what i am thankful for:
my arms and legs
the open-endedness of all this
my optimism when it comes to love
my middle class white heritage giving me the chance to spend time on this self-indulgent bullshit.
the chance to move on from what i've managed to learn. the chance to learn more.
and also, i am thankful for turkey, and microbrewery beers.
in a sleepy Oregon town
and decisions days away.
America, all your money looks the same
(me with my handful of dollar bills)
making shapes out of hands,
my accent stripping me bare
in bars where
i'm a novelty
(i had forgotten how strange i sound)
and to my ears, America,
you are anything but.
jokes landing me in the middle of
accepted and nowhere.
i ache from participating;
soccer, Thanksgiving, movies in bed
with longlost cousinfriend
a kindred spirit; her buttons also undone
and lost altogether
the world pushes us,
we push the world
(and i demand: be. less. demanding.)
i pin on my lost cause label
and wander the town.
but you're either late or my watch
runs early, in a sleepy Oregon town.
nothing on me.
you're sugary sweet
my brain has you dead and run over
before i even know how you taste.
so i'll take what i've got
and spread it helplessly across the countless
hands up helpless, like
the endearingly-put shrug of someone
focused on those other than themselves.
the lesson learned is selfishness
spelled F.U.C.K Y.O.U.
you're drunk and dancing
and the band has a banjo playing
we're all drunk and filled with lies
i'm aiming for clever and sophisticated
but just barely pulling off wasted
and you're all i ever wanted
so the filler is me learning the waltz,
in my memory it's slow motion
and i look happy and beautiful
nothing hurts in the morning.
nothing that small could ever hurt me.
nov 27, A.M.
the year becomes a little blurry 'round this
point, the purpose and
the step-by-step of progress
smudged and inky, held up as mess
in your little hands.
the people you meet,
and their plans for themselves, in a broader
less, or more sense
the people you've met
and their plans
stack up quickly and quietly
a peaceful and imposing threat towards
your disorganized state-
your own stacks of papers
getting blown about
your careful filing system
emptied of its alphabet.
28 NOV, PM
i'm not made of stone, nor apology
and i might stumble a little
over the words, and the spelling
or the delivery (i cleared my throat, but nothing),
you stand careful and motionless
i stand and
aim just shy of forgiveness
my eyes drawn to yours just that little bit
i'm not made of stone,
and you my friend are a quiet and perfect trifecta
can we be liars together, making a whole
alphabet of exceptions?
if you would say yes
just the once
i would be able, more than able
to quit with the futureless daydreaming
to settle myself, write the novel.