Sunday, April 27, 2014
(Katniss)
My eyes do not quickly meet with yours. I'm not sure what it is,but it keeps me closed. I don't smile easily, on days like this. I don't mean to look down on everyone, but I do; maybe just to feel better. I'm angry. As soon as I'm alone, I feel it in my chest, this energy that makes me want to yell. I want to hit the wall so my hands bleed. I played to a song I always listened to "back then," when I was dead. "I don't feel it anymore." he sings. But now I feel it. I'm reminded of lying on the ground, fighting so hard to breathe, shutting down the anger but wanting so badly to cry. Did I really cut myself to that song? The song is beautiful and I connect with it so well. But those memories are terrible. Some parts of my story I want to erase. He says I'm safe. I won't go back; I can't. It's impossible. Why is it that I still want to drink? I want your presence, and I look for it in so many awful places. So today, here is me. Black jeans, brown boots, sailor shirt. Please meet me in the scribbled writing, as I sip my coffee, meet me as I feel both strong and hurt. I think about Katniss. I like her a lot and I think she knows the feeling. I feel like I belong to no one.
(Real)
I am fully aware and in this moment. But is it real? I remember the colors in your eyes, each speck and fleck of life, each thought that pauses and decides not to emerge and be seen. But I see everything, each piece of pain; it matters much, it's real and not pretend. I am in this present, in the light of every thought and dream and every step of this damned journey. Suddenly I remember every tear and each drop of sadness. If you opened up my eyes, I would be blinded by that light, that light I've seen through pine trees, softly dousing the morning in amber, bouncing off of green waves, the light at sunset and dawn. But sometimes it's far above me, and I swim beneath, moving in slow motion towards the hazy gold. I can't breathe yet and my lungs are burning and I'm not sure if I've ever breathed before.
Monday, April 7, 2014
(Surface)
I would love my words to be right at the surface, ready to speak, clear and collected like a river. But sometimes they are tangled up or stuck behind walls, underneath broken bricks and rubble. All of my favorite curses and obscenities are faithful, they are the wild dogs that wait at the door and come flying out at any moment. They are not always bad intentions, but maybe a bit wild. The days I feel like an open wound, it's all I can do to look at you and not break. Some days I feel disconnected from myself. I sit here with a striped sailor shirt and my foot drums to a song stuck in my head. I want to tell you. I want to say all the things, but I can't. They stop on my lips. They tangle up and I try to explain my life and my family and how it is all tangled and tied up inside. But there isn't much I can say without exposing my heart.
Redding, CA Sept. 2013
On the cement I sit here and try hard not to think. The floor is cool beneath me. I wish I was wearing shorts. I wish I felt more alive. My thoughts are battles, conversations, storytelling; bearing witness to me and my rambling life always, retelling this story that is still developing. I sit between painted metal walls, an earthy brown color. The door on the left is blue, and the door on the right is green. The wind is engaged in this quiet moment, it is anticipating but peaceful. Breathe. I would rather do something. Relax, I tell myself. I recite and refocus and am frustrated because I am 'doing' not resting. The goal is to not do anything, but to just be.
In the rugged scene in front of me, I see movement. The gardener, bending over in the distance, pulling at the weeds. What the hell is motivating her? What is growing in that garden, that makes her want to come day after day, to work on it? Her curly haired grandson yells her name. His little figure is wild and so small against the sweeping scape, the backdrop of wrinkled hills and mountains, the tops meeting a light sky. It's beautiful. I live by the mountains, I remind myself. This detail is one that is always riveting. It shocks me every morning. I sigh and roll my eyes at life. I feel it again, the anger that gives me energy. I would rather punch the damn walls until my heart breaks open. I growl. My bible is flopped nearby, where I threw it. I hear footsteps nearby, softly echoing on metal walls. If someone comes around the corner, I don't know what I'd say, I realize. Oh, I am just sitting here. Angry. Did you hear me growl? Want to join me? I want someone to talk to. Sometimes I laugh at the state of me, at my frustrations and awkward prayers. But sometimes laughing is painful, like crying.
The footsteps fade away. I lay down and take a slow, deep breath. The pavement is cold and reminds me of Raven. Smooth and comforting, somehow. Staring upward, I see the roofs from the left and the right, stretching out to meet each other. They cover a lot of the sky. My eyes are wide. I see the chain linked fence, and the edges of the roof like puzzle pieces pulled apart, like some ground broken by earthquake, like I want my ribs to crack open and pull wide apart to let some grace in. The sky is blue and bits of white clouds are flawless. I wish I could paint like that. It would probably take forever to mix the white and blue, so it would be just right. Maybe I can only see a small piece of this great infinite painting. I bet there's so much more. I know it even as I lie on the cement with such a small view of the vast ocean. Either way, I believe in the blue that swallows the black.
In the rugged scene in front of me, I see movement. The gardener, bending over in the distance, pulling at the weeds. What the hell is motivating her? What is growing in that garden, that makes her want to come day after day, to work on it? Her curly haired grandson yells her name. His little figure is wild and so small against the sweeping scape, the backdrop of wrinkled hills and mountains, the tops meeting a light sky. It's beautiful. I live by the mountains, I remind myself. This detail is one that is always riveting. It shocks me every morning. I sigh and roll my eyes at life. I feel it again, the anger that gives me energy. I would rather punch the damn walls until my heart breaks open. I growl. My bible is flopped nearby, where I threw it. I hear footsteps nearby, softly echoing on metal walls. If someone comes around the corner, I don't know what I'd say, I realize. Oh, I am just sitting here. Angry. Did you hear me growl? Want to join me? I want someone to talk to. Sometimes I laugh at the state of me, at my frustrations and awkward prayers. But sometimes laughing is painful, like crying.
The footsteps fade away. I lay down and take a slow, deep breath. The pavement is cold and reminds me of Raven. Smooth and comforting, somehow. Staring upward, I see the roofs from the left and the right, stretching out to meet each other. They cover a lot of the sky. My eyes are wide. I see the chain linked fence, and the edges of the roof like puzzle pieces pulled apart, like some ground broken by earthquake, like I want my ribs to crack open and pull wide apart to let some grace in. The sky is blue and bits of white clouds are flawless. I wish I could paint like that. It would probably take forever to mix the white and blue, so it would be just right. Maybe I can only see a small piece of this great infinite painting. I bet there's so much more. I know it even as I lie on the cement with such a small view of the vast ocean. Either way, I believe in the blue that swallows the black.
Montauk, NY Sept. 2012
The wedding isn't for a week, and there are really no wedding preparations me and Nat could help with for a few days. Exploring the island with Luke, walking on the beaches and running down the sand dunes on the North shore, I see he is happy here. We're staying with Gramps and Gran Webb, where Luke has lived for six months now. After a cantaloupe and bagel breakfast, me and Natalie walk to Montauk, to the little shops. I buy an iced toddy and we head to the beach, where the sun is bright and hot. I start playing in the waves and Nat laughs at me when the riptide swallows my sunglasses forever. Great. I owned them a whole ten minutes. We lay like lizards on the warm sand, gratefully soaking up the rays after a long winter.
After a few hours, we go back to help Luke start moving his stuff, packing it into his giant white Ford F-250 and Ashley's little blue Subaru. They are moving into a little cottage in Amagansett, by the church they'll be married in. The trees are tall and the grass is short and soft. It sits on the the corner, a quarter mile down the street from Indian Wells beach. He keeps texting me. He wants to talk. I kick my sandals off and shake them wildly so the sand falls out of the treads and from underneath the straps. My blue shorts are dry now. They are Patagonia, which means they're expensive, and cool, I guess. I bought them on sale so I don't really care. I put on my orange Camp Barnabas shirt Nat gave me, which now has been to both the West coast and East coast. It's a bright orange. Not hunters orange, but more of a neon peach. "Give me a few minutes, I gotta get out of the house first." I send.
I grabbed more coffee from the kitchen and went outside to walk. The driveway is painful and bumpy on my feet, which have been babied and smoothed by the white Long Island sand. I'm holding a little white mug of reheated coffee. If you asked, I would say no, I don't like him, and I don't care and he hardly knows me. But even then, I smile when my phone starts vibrating. It plays a drumming sound and I wait four rings before I answer it. I sit on the curb for a few minutes and we chat, then I make my way down the private street, where it dead ends and the tall, tangled bushes part into a doorway. The gap leads to the tennis court.
The court is pale green and faded brick red, warped and washed out by east coast weather, and the lines aren't very white. Gramps built it in the '70's. It's surrounded by the wall of bushes. I sit on the smooth ground for a moment, but I can never sit still while talking, so I pace like a tiger and throw an old tennis ball at the chained link fence. I ask him about his interview and we talk about coffee and the new job and his trip to Cambodia and how he might go to New York with Yvonne next year.
I try to describe how surreal and romantic it is here, the cottage with wooden shingled siding, the church with the tall ceiling and wooden pews, the family here, the white beaches and wild hurricane waves. How everything is a little back in time and in a bubble that is both sweet and priveleged, detached from the rest of the world. I throw the ball and it bounces back to me and I throw it again. I keep missing the fence, so I have to crawl through the thick, thorny bushes bushes to fetch the damn ball and he laughs at me and has such good responses to all the dumb things I say. He knows when I roll my eyes, even though he can't see me. "I wish I was there!" He said. And I realize- I wish he was here too.
After a few hours, we go back to help Luke start moving his stuff, packing it into his giant white Ford F-250 and Ashley's little blue Subaru. They are moving into a little cottage in Amagansett, by the church they'll be married in. The trees are tall and the grass is short and soft. It sits on the the corner, a quarter mile down the street from Indian Wells beach. He keeps texting me. He wants to talk. I kick my sandals off and shake them wildly so the sand falls out of the treads and from underneath the straps. My blue shorts are dry now. They are Patagonia, which means they're expensive, and cool, I guess. I bought them on sale so I don't really care. I put on my orange Camp Barnabas shirt Nat gave me, which now has been to both the West coast and East coast. It's a bright orange. Not hunters orange, but more of a neon peach. "Give me a few minutes, I gotta get out of the house first." I send.
I grabbed more coffee from the kitchen and went outside to walk. The driveway is painful and bumpy on my feet, which have been babied and smoothed by the white Long Island sand. I'm holding a little white mug of reheated coffee. If you asked, I would say no, I don't like him, and I don't care and he hardly knows me. But even then, I smile when my phone starts vibrating. It plays a drumming sound and I wait four rings before I answer it. I sit on the curb for a few minutes and we chat, then I make my way down the private street, where it dead ends and the tall, tangled bushes part into a doorway. The gap leads to the tennis court.
The court is pale green and faded brick red, warped and washed out by east coast weather, and the lines aren't very white. Gramps built it in the '70's. It's surrounded by the wall of bushes. I sit on the smooth ground for a moment, but I can never sit still while talking, so I pace like a tiger and throw an old tennis ball at the chained link fence. I ask him about his interview and we talk about coffee and the new job and his trip to Cambodia and how he might go to New York with Yvonne next year.
I try to describe how surreal and romantic it is here, the cottage with wooden shingled siding, the church with the tall ceiling and wooden pews, the family here, the white beaches and wild hurricane waves. How everything is a little back in time and in a bubble that is both sweet and priveleged, detached from the rest of the world. I throw the ball and it bounces back to me and I throw it again. I keep missing the fence, so I have to crawl through the thick, thorny bushes bushes to fetch the damn ball and he laughs at me and has such good responses to all the dumb things I say. He knows when I roll my eyes, even though he can't see me. "I wish I was there!" He said. And I realize- I wish he was here too.
Orick, CA 2013
We made our way on winding roads, north of Big Lagoon, to the redwoods. I drove again. I love driving. I would rather be in control, I guess, and I'm pretty sure I'm a better driver than anyone else. We started the morning in Trinidad, at Beach Combers Cafe, where me and Sabrina bought two coffees and shared an overpriced bagel. After deciding to drive north, we were restless and excited. The feeling of driving along the coast, mist rolling in, waves crashing below, is unbeatable. We passed by the little shops that sold everything made of redwood; earrings, furniture, giant wooden bears. Finding the trailhead took a few wrong turns, but we made it and I parked the car and we leapt out like dogs out of the cage. Skunk Cabbage Trail, the sign reads. The still air smells wild and woody. The sharp smell of spruce reminds me of Ben's guitar, and I can feel the wooden vibrations and hear the harmonics of bronze strings. That guitar was stolen along with my car, I remember. So many reasons to be mad at myself.
The trees tower like giants, tall things that barely breathe or move; just grew up thoughtful and watching. The spruce are light and the lines on the redwoods run up and down the trunks. There's a hushed feeling. Everything is huge and the forest is dense with lush, green ferns, and dripping stones and soft earth. There is this feeling, different from any other forest. A reverence. Reverence...maybe that's the wrong word. That makes me think of pastors and funerals and stuffy churches. But this reminds me of the cathedrals in England, and stained glass church in Wales, and the little church where Luke was married in East Hampton. The ancient woods worships in silence.
We ramble and stumble across roots, crashing through forestry to taste and touch and see. Our violent voices break the silence, to laugh and sing our own songs. My sandals stomp the ferns and I try to be gentle as I cut off the path. My pants are soaked from my knees down, the condensation is heavy on the green. I make my way to the monumental trunk of a once-giant tree. Climbing inside, my feet are cushioned by the thick rotten layers. It's earthy reds and browns smell strong and the rot and roots tangle in a complicated beauty. I think of my human heart and the heart if this giant. I run my fingers through. I love the feeling of dirt and decomposing wood. Roots. Deep, layered, messy roots. This rotting thing is hollow in the center, surrounded by a crumbling wooden wall, breaking apart by time and the tearing feet of wayward explorers. I tie a thin root around my wrist. The outside is strong and beautiful, and probably invincible. It hides the inner disaster well. "This is your heart," I hear. "You will learn to love it." These words make me cringe. Back to the path.
These words keep running through my head. We stumble along and count mushrooms and Frederick quotes eccentric movies and Sabrina laughs at me when I trip. I accidently crush a snail with a sickening crunch and yell, "Holy shit!" which shatters the silence and again and we all laugh. But I get tired of conversation and speed up.
When I'm far enough ahead, out of sight, I begin to run. I need this alone time. That burning anger begins to fuel me and makes my chest hurt. Like I am full of cracks and jagged edges after an earthquake. And what is my heart? A rotten tree trunk? A mess of roots, that are ageless and decaying, yet still growing? I run along the path and begin to hear the soft roar of the waves. Through the green I see glimpses of white sky. I take off my hoodie and hang it on the trail when it forks, marking the way. I reach the slope of skunk cabbage, which the trail is named for, and hurry down the tiny switchbacks, reaching the sand. I'm afraid I won't make it. I'm afraid I'll screw up again. I'm afraid I will break what little trust I have with people. Will I have anyone here? Will I be my usual independant self, or am I too needy now? If you asked me I would tell you I'm fearless. I don't normally feel afraid. I don't feel very much anyways. But I am full of fears, and most of them are probably irrational; worst case scenarios or fearing the past will repeat itself. "Do you trust me?" I hear that question, that horrible question god has asked me for a year and a half now. I'm not very good at trust. Trust is wild, I think. Trust expects the best. But fear expects the worst, no matter what has happened, no matter what trust has proven. These thoughts tumble in my head, this argument with myself is never ending.
"Fear is unattractive." I hear it clearly. I've never heard that before. I've never thought of that before.
I take off my sandals and my feet touch the sand. There's not much on earth quite as wonderful and relieving as running towards the tide. "There you are, my friend." I sigh. What I love about the ocean is it swallows all your thoughts and words. Maybe that's how God is, a ferocious sea that covers all the terrible and smooths all the rocky pieces into small painted stones. "Fear is unattractive. It doesn't look good on you." I hear it again. I'm sick of it, I decide. I'll leave it here.
I take off my beach shirt, more of a rag, really, and tie it on a driftwood stick. I plant my flag in the sand. Sabrina and Frederick have caught up by now, and we take off our clothes and walk out into the swirling currents. I gaze out to sea, and I'm happy to be here with these two. My necklace feels cold on my chest, and the Pacific water is absolutely freezing. I read the necklace again: "The only thing stronger than fear is hope" it says. What on earth. I don't think I've read it more than once. It never really sunk in. Olivia gave it to me the day I left.
Wandering on the shore, we gather sticks and colorful stones and shells and some pairs of shoes to wear. I flew my flag and my fear into the crashing waves and we turned back. Up the dune, onto the trail, through the woods. We make up songs about bears, and when the sun comes out, it streams through the branches and still laughs at me when I say, "Holy shit!" I need better language for such beautiful, stunning things. And we keep stomping through, half clothed and half crazy. I feel better. Like it's easier to breathe. This band of scoundrels, it feels like we're still kids. And regardless of what people say, we're neither lost nor found.
The trees tower like giants, tall things that barely breathe or move; just grew up thoughtful and watching. The spruce are light and the lines on the redwoods run up and down the trunks. There's a hushed feeling. Everything is huge and the forest is dense with lush, green ferns, and dripping stones and soft earth. There is this feeling, different from any other forest. A reverence. Reverence...maybe that's the wrong word. That makes me think of pastors and funerals and stuffy churches. But this reminds me of the cathedrals in England, and stained glass church in Wales, and the little church where Luke was married in East Hampton. The ancient woods worships in silence.
We ramble and stumble across roots, crashing through forestry to taste and touch and see. Our violent voices break the silence, to laugh and sing our own songs. My sandals stomp the ferns and I try to be gentle as I cut off the path. My pants are soaked from my knees down, the condensation is heavy on the green. I make my way to the monumental trunk of a once-giant tree. Climbing inside, my feet are cushioned by the thick rotten layers. It's earthy reds and browns smell strong and the rot and roots tangle in a complicated beauty. I think of my human heart and the heart if this giant. I run my fingers through. I love the feeling of dirt and decomposing wood. Roots. Deep, layered, messy roots. This rotting thing is hollow in the center, surrounded by a crumbling wooden wall, breaking apart by time and the tearing feet of wayward explorers. I tie a thin root around my wrist. The outside is strong and beautiful, and probably invincible. It hides the inner disaster well. "This is your heart," I hear. "You will learn to love it." These words make me cringe. Back to the path.
These words keep running through my head. We stumble along and count mushrooms and Frederick quotes eccentric movies and Sabrina laughs at me when I trip. I accidently crush a snail with a sickening crunch and yell, "Holy shit!" which shatters the silence and again and we all laugh. But I get tired of conversation and speed up.
When I'm far enough ahead, out of sight, I begin to run. I need this alone time. That burning anger begins to fuel me and makes my chest hurt. Like I am full of cracks and jagged edges after an earthquake. And what is my heart? A rotten tree trunk? A mess of roots, that are ageless and decaying, yet still growing? I run along the path and begin to hear the soft roar of the waves. Through the green I see glimpses of white sky. I take off my hoodie and hang it on the trail when it forks, marking the way. I reach the slope of skunk cabbage, which the trail is named for, and hurry down the tiny switchbacks, reaching the sand. I'm afraid I won't make it. I'm afraid I'll screw up again. I'm afraid I will break what little trust I have with people. Will I have anyone here? Will I be my usual independant self, or am I too needy now? If you asked me I would tell you I'm fearless. I don't normally feel afraid. I don't feel very much anyways. But I am full of fears, and most of them are probably irrational; worst case scenarios or fearing the past will repeat itself. "Do you trust me?" I hear that question, that horrible question god has asked me for a year and a half now. I'm not very good at trust. Trust is wild, I think. Trust expects the best. But fear expects the worst, no matter what has happened, no matter what trust has proven. These thoughts tumble in my head, this argument with myself is never ending.
"Fear is unattractive." I hear it clearly. I've never heard that before. I've never thought of that before.
I take off my sandals and my feet touch the sand. There's not much on earth quite as wonderful and relieving as running towards the tide. "There you are, my friend." I sigh. What I love about the ocean is it swallows all your thoughts and words. Maybe that's how God is, a ferocious sea that covers all the terrible and smooths all the rocky pieces into small painted stones. "Fear is unattractive. It doesn't look good on you." I hear it again. I'm sick of it, I decide. I'll leave it here.
I take off my beach shirt, more of a rag, really, and tie it on a driftwood stick. I plant my flag in the sand. Sabrina and Frederick have caught up by now, and we take off our clothes and walk out into the swirling currents. I gaze out to sea, and I'm happy to be here with these two. My necklace feels cold on my chest, and the Pacific water is absolutely freezing. I read the necklace again: "The only thing stronger than fear is hope" it says. What on earth. I don't think I've read it more than once. It never really sunk in. Olivia gave it to me the day I left.
Wandering on the shore, we gather sticks and colorful stones and shells and some pairs of shoes to wear. I flew my flag and my fear into the crashing waves and we turned back. Up the dune, onto the trail, through the woods. We make up songs about bears, and when the sun comes out, it streams through the branches and still laughs at me when I say, "Holy shit!" I need better language for such beautiful, stunning things. And we keep stomping through, half clothed and half crazy. I feel better. Like it's easier to breathe. This band of scoundrels, it feels like we're still kids. And regardless of what people say, we're neither lost nor found.
Grandview, MO Oct. 2012
I am thankful for Natalie because she cares about life, about all the little things that make up this adventure,;the flowers and the blackbirds and mason jars and slippers and long walks and short summers. I think she knows that life is a story, and looking back to point out all the beautiful things that made it grand, she'll know she did just what she wanted to. I see it when she gasps and begins to swerve and scream at the sunset, when we're on the freeway and I hang out the window and let my hair down, and all of the sudden she's crying because life is beautiful and I mock her because I love her.
We lived at The Castle, again, and I hated it because this was the second time I was forced to live in that birdhouse. But as time went on, I realized they may be birds, but I was the crazy one. I wanted to live anywhere else, but probably because I wanted to live on the west coast, so nothing would make me happy anyways. Eventually I loved it. Sometimes my love and hate run together. My adventures wash over some of the harder parts of life. We were moved in, but I never really moved in; I kept my stuff in boxes in the closet and I slept on the floor.
One night I was off work and bored and annoyed, and she said we should bike, so I went with her, and realized she was right. I rode my beautiful blue Crusoe, and she rode Molly's little green bike, which was a squatty little bike I referred to as the Toad. It was meant for a short person and had a perpetually low back tire. So we laughed and I laughed at her and she yelled at me and offered to trade bikes. The sun was setting, and we had a little light left. She suggested we get a movie, so we rode to Jackson then to Blue Ridge road, to the redbox up the street and there was nothing, and when I say there was nothing I mean there was nothing. The redbox was decapitated and lying in the grass. Grandview shit. So we kept biking. Heading down Grandview road, the sidewalk is cracked and sinks and is uneven. We sped past a little house, with an old woman out front. All of the sudden, I saw a sea of movement around her, and realized they were cats. She was ten feet away from the sidewalk, and I decided not to yell anything. Or maybe I was just speechless. Why the hell would you have thirty cats? Natalie rode twenty feet behind me, and I waited for her reaction. The gasp. "Hope!" she yelled, "To the left! To the left! Do you not see this?!" I was breathless with laughter. My legs hurt from pedaling and my ribs ached from laughing. I could barely speak. "Yes, I see the cats!" I yelled, still laughing. That poor lady, she must have been scarred. But that's her problem for being a cat lady.
We biked down main street and I was reminded of a night last spring, before Natalie left for camp. We had biked to the Baileys at sunset, on crumbling Blue River road, to drink out of the garden house and say hello. We found flowers on the way, lilies growing behind a fence in front of a little house, by the dog pound. I think sometimes in life the beautiful things need to be stolen and that's that. But this night on main street, we watched the sunset and circled through parking lots and I wanted to go and see Him so we crossed over the highway. Into the green village apartments, we walked through the back wooden gate. It's latch is black and shaped like a shark. I used to live there, but I don't like thinking about that month of my life. Those feelings always kept me from visiting. I had second thoughts, and wanted to wait and see him another day. Nat told me I was afraid, and need to get over the shame and go anyways, but I guess I couldn't yet. We walked our bikes along and argued. When the discussion turned into a fight I was angry, and almost cried which makes her cry so we left.
We went separate ways, she biked on one side and I on the other. We went to bed silent, Natalie in her bed with the white comforter and me on the floor with my orange sleeping bag. Sisters.
We lived at The Castle, again, and I hated it because this was the second time I was forced to live in that birdhouse. But as time went on, I realized they may be birds, but I was the crazy one. I wanted to live anywhere else, but probably because I wanted to live on the west coast, so nothing would make me happy anyways. Eventually I loved it. Sometimes my love and hate run together. My adventures wash over some of the harder parts of life. We were moved in, but I never really moved in; I kept my stuff in boxes in the closet and I slept on the floor.
One night I was off work and bored and annoyed, and she said we should bike, so I went with her, and realized she was right. I rode my beautiful blue Crusoe, and she rode Molly's little green bike, which was a squatty little bike I referred to as the Toad. It was meant for a short person and had a perpetually low back tire. So we laughed and I laughed at her and she yelled at me and offered to trade bikes. The sun was setting, and we had a little light left. She suggested we get a movie, so we rode to Jackson then to Blue Ridge road, to the redbox up the street and there was nothing, and when I say there was nothing I mean there was nothing. The redbox was decapitated and lying in the grass. Grandview shit. So we kept biking. Heading down Grandview road, the sidewalk is cracked and sinks and is uneven. We sped past a little house, with an old woman out front. All of the sudden, I saw a sea of movement around her, and realized they were cats. She was ten feet away from the sidewalk, and I decided not to yell anything. Or maybe I was just speechless. Why the hell would you have thirty cats? Natalie rode twenty feet behind me, and I waited for her reaction. The gasp. "Hope!" she yelled, "To the left! To the left! Do you not see this?!" I was breathless with laughter. My legs hurt from pedaling and my ribs ached from laughing. I could barely speak. "Yes, I see the cats!" I yelled, still laughing. That poor lady, she must have been scarred. But that's her problem for being a cat lady.
We biked down main street and I was reminded of a night last spring, before Natalie left for camp. We had biked to the Baileys at sunset, on crumbling Blue River road, to drink out of the garden house and say hello. We found flowers on the way, lilies growing behind a fence in front of a little house, by the dog pound. I think sometimes in life the beautiful things need to be stolen and that's that. But this night on main street, we watched the sunset and circled through parking lots and I wanted to go and see Him so we crossed over the highway. Into the green village apartments, we walked through the back wooden gate. It's latch is black and shaped like a shark. I used to live there, but I don't like thinking about that month of my life. Those feelings always kept me from visiting. I had second thoughts, and wanted to wait and see him another day. Nat told me I was afraid, and need to get over the shame and go anyways, but I guess I couldn't yet. We walked our bikes along and argued. When the discussion turned into a fight I was angry, and almost cried which makes her cry so we left.
We went separate ways, she biked on one side and I on the other. We went to bed silent, Natalie in her bed with the white comforter and me on the floor with my orange sleeping bag. Sisters.
(Story)
Sometimes I wish all of my bright memories could play themselves out long enough for me to see each detail, to notice each shade of brown eyes, to see each color of freckles on each face, and to feel the wind and the temperature and the sun on my arms. Each word, each unspoken conversation; I want to relive and rebreathe it, to engrave them in my head, ready to be opened at any moment I want them. But they are not. The colors are blurred, and the pain and sadness have blended with the adventure over time, and I see the story bright and smeared with ink. Earthy colors; tree greens and ocean blues, and the kind of golden brown you find in the barley that sways at sunset. They became beautiful, as if the past is all right with the flaws and failure. The hues have swallowed the darkness so it is easy for me to call each day bliss and each year glory. The twisting plot, the suffering piece, the sharp words in the deep sea script. My story is perfect. I believe that. But our hearts take quite a beating as our sailing stories are written to perfection. Looking back, I find walls and chapters that are shut, and I don't remember shutting them. Maybe these stories will unfold, piece by piece, and my heart will open with each page written and word spoken.
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