My Blog

write

littleboddah — Wed, 08 Nov 2006 02:21:29 GMT

On weekends I catch up with: sleep, conversations put on hold, things that should be done, eating, dirty laundry, crying, and writing. We’ve had writing weather. Three full days of writing weather and still I write quick entries with little detail. The clouds are low enough that you can touch them. The sky ready to burst at any moment and the wind breathes harsh. I can hear it knock at my window. “Let me in,” the weather seems to say. “Let me in and on your page.” Sometimes I think the weather is masochistic and seeking solace in my sadness. Though it isn’t right to say that I am feeling sad or that I’m feeling anything at all, instead I am indifferent. Maybe the rain is just fighting to give me feeling, trying to remind me of all the times when I would write down every passing though, every passing observation. Stories would walk by in the form of men wearing business suits with clip on ties and nike sneakers and old ladies who talk to themselves about WWII and PeeWee Herman. Even during these grey days I forget them, like I’ve suddenly drained the color from the world. Sometimes, I think that I seem sadder here than I am. Like in order to be happy in the world I have to place all the parts of me that are sad into words on a page. To give one person life I have to kill another. I write a contradiction to keep up with living.

An Idea

littleboddah — Wed, 08 Nov 2006 02:20:16 GMT

Sometimes I think we convince ourselves that other people understand us, because then when we don't know, we can trust they'll tell us who we are. But the truth is, all we do is guess. So for a while I didn’t trust people. I wasn’t convinced that anyone understood me. How could they when I never gave them the chance? And then I met a boy and before this gets cliché and I go on to say he changed my life, I fell apart. “We can work this out together,” he used to say to me. “Don’t shut me out,” he’d go on. “Why won’t you let me love you?” And maybe that is cliché. But, I can’t be helpless. Still I chose him to be one of those people, the sort who could show me who I am when I forgot. So now when I have work to do or questions to answer I can’t give them without wondering what he might say. Because he knows me, or he knows a part of me that I want to exist. And he has written truths about me that I didn’t just as I have written truths here that may only exist in writing. I tend to be whatever I trust in order to survive. I thought that I could protect who I was by keeping it to myself. I trusted silence and chose to be silent and misunderstood. Yet, I exist in so many ways. I am like an ambiguous word like “I” or “nine” or “love.” Most of the time I hold these existences in abeyance; they are distanced away from the idea of myself that I hold. And I hold on to what I must believe in order to remain myself, in order to be a self. I am. And that is a complete sentence. I’m real enough, but I don’t want “I am” to just be my sentence. I want to be something. And in order to be something I have to choose what to believe. We just are, until someone puts some order to us and gives us shape and form. The truth is I am relative. I am an idea. I am guesses. And right now, I don’t know how to take all those guesses, all those ideas and make them exist together.

My wish for you

littleboddah — Tue, 22 Aug 2006 22:50:29 GMT

When I was young, I used to wish on stars, dandelions, four-leaf clovers, and 11:11s; I used to make a wish when driving over railroad tracks, when someone found an eyelash on my cheek, when someone turned the back of my necklace around, and when I blew out candles. I wished and wished for some things that never happened and more things that did. Ive been feeling pretty lucky lately. I like where I am right now and I like my life at this moment in time. Theres nothing I would really wish to change. So now, my wishes are for you. Yes, you. To whoever reads this blog, my wishes are yours. Id wish for you to be happy. The kind of happy that leaves you feeling as though youre wrapped in a warm blanket of contentment and security. The kind of happy that finds you dancing crazily with lots of spins and jumps to the music in your head. The kind of happy that makes you smile just because and the happy that makes you feel as though the sun is shining to catch up to your shine. The kind of happy that makes people wonder if you are sane because they see you smiling or laughing at nothing but life. Id spend the rest of my days wishing for you. Its all I want, really. More laughter and fewer tears. I want to take your sorrow, bottle it up, and toss it out to be with the salty water of the ocean rather than the salty water of your tears. Let it drift upstream, carried by the current away from your heart and away from your mind. Sometimes, it hurts that I cant make you happy. I cant make you less emotional; I cant make you less dramatic; I cant make you less bitter. I can point out the happy but I cant erase the sad. All I can do is smile and be awkward and hope that youll lean on me when you need to. Im here; you know that, right? I hope you know. I know I dont say it enough. Dont ever think that Im deaf to your pain or avoiding your problems or ignoring your tears. All I ever am is a phone call away, a short walk down the street, a supportive typer on the other end of a screen, or an emailed response away. I just wanted to let you know. That Im wishing for you. Im catching clocks and spying on stars just to wish for your happiness. I would be a fairy godmother in the form of a Abby if I could, bestowing wishes with a wave of a wand; I could fit into the lamp of an eccentric genie, granting wishes with the flick of a wrist. I would do just about anything to make your wishes come true. i wrote this a while ago... but thought about it all day today