journals

Resistance

The less romantic side of being a creative has a lot to do with resistance. And I realize that I resist almost everything when it comes to the creative process.

But I want to start to try. To wake up and challenge myself to do one thing that stretches me. It doesn’t matter what it looks like at this point or if my writing is any good. I just want to start. To wake up again and be excited about the way the world will unravel in surprise energy.

I’ve spent the last year in fetal position, walking around with a dark cloud attached to my body. Afraid to let go while my spirit has been trapped inside.

Depression steals time. But that’s okay, because the darkness can feed us, too.

I have so much to say and I know it will take time.

Acknowledging resistance is the best place to start.

A Text Message I Never Sent

I know I’m like a weird piece of furniture in your life.

My presence might not exactly be helpful when you’re trying to pack it all away and move into a new space.

I’m nothing practical like a fork or a garbage disposal… And if you’re someone that values utility only then maybe we won’t make it to the next part. But that’s okay, because I want to be heard and really heard, and never thrown away when you move because you never saw me, truly.

I’m sorry for talking like this (although I cringe to apologize) I know you don’t like it, but I am trying to let you in. I know you never asked to be here. But you are and you have been and since you’re moving soon it’s time for me to do the same.

So here is the space you’ve taken up inside my life.

All of these honest words belong to you.

Pins

You took the bobby pins out of my hair and I was undone. You notice the small things that most people don’t, and I never want you to go.

Socks

And I wanted you to care about the hole in my sock that I got at 9:30pm on New Year’s Eve 

And the nothing interesting that happened to me, too 

But you weren’t there and you aren’t here and the movie date we penciled in for the end of the week will go to waste and who’s gonna hold your magazines at the flea and why do we have to be so dramatic all the time

Or is it really just me?

Alone

Feeling

Empty space

Unrequited quiet-dark

2019 is the year

I don’t know what else to say

If ya really wanna know

It scared me away when you didn’t kiss me back

I really hope that whoever I end up with loves books so that he will understand my references to literature and we can lay in bed together and read and have a huge library created from the combination of two individual lifetimes

The Garden of Me

The pockets of this neighborhood are well worn with nostalgia. I walk the streets at sundown and listen to the wind, and the birds, and the volume of the world alive -- cars vroooming down side streets, the leaf blowers familiar racket, children laughing, dogs barking, and the sound of my high-tops lightly trodding on concrete.

And in this outside space - full of so much normal that, sometimes, I forget to listen - I exist so freely, and the dream narrative that runs through my mind becomes something possible to create.

I am fully awake in this fresh air suburbia, and I am writing my own story in the clear blue of my mind. And all the things I want to be, and do, and see are penciled in on the pages of time stretched ahead of me. And I realize now that it’s up to me to place these seed ideas into the soil of my life garden.

What I put into this earth matters, so I’m doing my best to sit in this planting place each day and tend to the precious life that is growing here. I never want to stop stopping to smell the roses or stand in awe of the bougainvillea, because I understand, now, how long they took to grow.

Someday, when I tell my kids these stories, I’ll start by describing the way the sunlight felt as it poured onto the garden of me.