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[02 Jan 2008|01:39am] |
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My only hope for 2008 is that I have the strength to get through it.
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[02 Dec 2007|11:03pm] |
The dirt gave way under my bare feet, and I sank to my knees on top of the mountain, at that deserted overlook, and stared out at the valley below me.
Elevation: 3,570 feet.
I breathed deep. The air was thin, crisp. It was clean and unfamiliar. The dirt was cold under my palms as I leaned down, stared down the steep drop, spiked with whithered trees, leafless, the illusion of death strong as winter approaches, but I know under the graying bark there is green. Under the graying bark, there is green and it is alive and waiting and breathing, like me, but is it gasping, like me? Is it crying out, like me?
whisper words of wisdom let it be
I felt my shoulders begin to shake first, and I sunk lower into the earth, into the peat and dried leaves, and I inhaled as deep as I could again, inhaled and closed my eyes, hoping for composure, hoping for the strength to pick myself up off the ground and walk back to my car.
It came hard, suddenly, forcefully, knocking the thin breaths out of my body. The smell of his skin, the taste of the wafer in my mouth, the feeling of a lie, the way the wood pressed into my knees as I knelt before that twisted Jesus, the voices - salvation we are salvation - the teal of the carpet, hands clasped together, squeezing tight - i'm here i'm right here don't be afraid that's jesus that fear is jesus - the feeling of nothing, the desperation of wanting everything, the nagging guilt, the insufferable silences, the choir echoing into the vast space [could it save a wretch like me], a frowning stained glass apostle, the thrill of fantasizing about him while sitting in the pews, while kneeling next him - that's okay she's unsaved a nonbeliever tsk - pressing my wrists together, hiding my tattoo, wondering if this feeling is peace or nausea.
mother mary comes to me speaking words of wisdom let it be
Liars, sinners, fakers, takers. Angels, mothers, saints, givers. And me. Standing there, amongst them, unsure, standing next to him, unsure, straining to hear what they heard, straining to feel, to hold my hands up, to receive the word, to hear the call, to submit to the plan.
But there was nothing.
I'm back on top of the mountain, kneeling in the dirt, the wind gentle on my face. I heard nothing at first,and then the wind whispered like he did, like a lover instead of just a boyfriend, flush against my ear, violating my space, knowing I wouldn't protest. I lifted my eyes from the dirt, from the all the browns, the leaves and the fearless beetle by my pinky, and I looked towards the white sky, the sun bright and unwavering as it painted the bumpy horizon orange.
God is a crutch. Jesus is for stupid people. Religion isn't real.
Then how could I want it so bad?
and in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me
I was above the world, knelt at its edge, and I was alone. Just me. Me and you, I thought. You have to hear me now. You're going to hear me now. There's nothing here to muffle me, nothing here to fight with, nobody else asking for help. Just me.
I screamed.
Can you hear me now?
I listened for the answer. A smattering of startled birds lifted from the gnarled trees down the slope, black against the white for only a second before they were gone, stark and jagged. There was nothing. I felt nothing by the damp soil finding its way under my fingernails, under my skin, and into my veins.
Poor little lost girl. There was a rustling of leaves nearby. I turned my head, looking for the movement, but there was nothing. I was unable to squint at the sky any more, and the tears were steady. I was begging now, could hear my heart screaming against the inside of my chest, and I was begging for the feeling of finality, for the feeling of ease and peace.
There was a moment when the wind was strong, felt like it was coming straight down onto me, pushing my shoulders closer to the ground. Then the pressure was gone, easing off my back, and I swear I swear I swear there was a hand. I swear there was a hand and there were eyes, boring into my back. I turned, startled, scared, thought I was the only one on top of that mountain, embarrassed - had they heard me begging - but there was nobody there.
Poor little lost girl, on top of a mountain, looking for salvation in all the wrong places, in all the wrong people.
Days later, I lifted myself up but didn't brush the dirt from my knees. Let them see. Let them know. Let them know that I fell to my knees. Let them know I turned my head to the sky and let the sun wash out my face. Let them know that I tried. Let them know that I'll keep trying. Let them know that I will not be confined. Let them know that I will find it. Let them know that some day, I'll have a beautiful life.
there is still a light that shines on me shine until tomorrow let it be...
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[01 Sep 2007|01:42am] |
Here's the thing about religion: How do you know? How do you know that me not taking Jesus Christ as my personal savior is going to land me a one-way ticket to the fiery depths of Hell? How do you know that living my life WITH God as opposed to FOR God is such a bad idea? How do you know that God isn't sitting back in his big, comfy reclining chair (because you know he has one) and nodding and smiling to himself because guess what?
He knows. Only he knows. Or she. God knows the truth. Not the Christian God. Not the Muslim God. Not any one specific God. Just God. God knows, and he'll decide for himself (or herself), thank you very much. My belief system is my own, my beliefs are my own and private and I keep them pure, simple, because I don't need complicated things to keep me guessing and questioning. There are already too many questions to answer in my life. I don't want to question the one thing that just is.
So am I a Christian? No, certainly not. I don't identify with a specific religion - too many questions. I see Jesus as one of the men who saved the world once. Whether he was divine, we'll never know, will we? I see Jesus like I see Martin Luther King, Jr. Like I see Janis Joplin. Like I see Gandhi. Like I see Florence Knightengale. Like I see Steven Tyler and Jimmy Hendrix and Bob Marley and Robert Plant. Like I see Dante Alighieri. Like I see any one person who single-handedly changed the world, even just a piece of it, for the better. And that's just me. And I'm allowed that right, and nobody can tell me I'm not.
And I refuse to put any stake into a God who would exclude a good and righteous person from paradise just because they didn't believe in something so insignificant in the universal scheme of things. I won't. I will not let myself believe that that is Heaven, that it's like some exclusive club.
It's not up to anybody to tell me where I'm going when I die. It's not up for me to know. But I can believe, and what I believe is that we're all going to end up in the same place, anyway, just better, and man, won't everybody feel stupid then.
But I won't say, "I told you so." No, don't worry. I'll be too busy playing on the Slip n' Slide with Ulysses S. Grant. You guys are welcomed to play, too.
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[02 Aug 2007|05:31am] |
I felt young and alive tonight, and I'm glad that I'm saying good-bye to summer like this. We splashed and laughed and jumped into the water with our clothes on. We played Marco Polo and smoked cigarettes under an orange moon. We sank into the warm water and I thought of "Nightswimming" by REM and this one, laughing quietly underneathe my breath...
I found a corner and disappeared under the water, closed my eyes, listened to the muddled laughter above the surface. I thought about driving back from Raleigh, everybody drunk and laughing and singing Bon Jovi. Oh, we're half way there.
I thought about him, and how I wished he were there because maybe he'd be happy, too. I thought back to earlier in the summer, when I was filled with hope and lust, when I would blush whenever he'd smile at me, how his smile would widen like he took pleasure in making me nervous. I thought about what he'd asked me - "Do you ever get miserable?" - and how I wanted to hug him, to hold him, to have him hold me, and I wanted to tell him, "Misery loves company." I thought about our age difference and the miles soon to be between us, and I thought about holding his hand. I thought about sitting in silence with him, content and calm, and I thought about steam and foggy windows. I thought about how he'd trace the freckles on my shoulders, and I thought about the conversations we'll never get to have. I thought about the emptiness in his life, and I thought about how I could never love him enough for him to love himself, but it couldn't hurt. I thought about how, if he were here, he'd feel young and alive, too, and he'd laugh with me, splash in the water and dance in the orange moonlight. I thought it'd be nice for him to be happy, if only for a night. I thought, "Man, I wish we'd gone out for that beer." I thought, "I'm going to be 22 in a month, and not a God damn thing has changed." I thought, "I can't breathe."
I broke the surface, inhaling deeply. My friends were still laughing, and I pushed a smile onto my face, swam over to them, and played along. I had been thinking of him throughout the night. I was tired in that sort of languid, lazy way that comes from a little alcohol and a lot of laughter.
The sky, black like trouble, black like cancer, above my head, twinkled with stars. The orange moon was sinking, and I thought once more of him: I should've kissed him. Damn.
I didn't mean to say what I said. When he said good-bye, he told me to behave. I said, "Oh, I will. And you. You..."
"Don't go crazy?" he asked, then laughed.
"Yeah," I said. "Don't go crazy."
But what I wanted to say was, "Call me if you ever want to talk. I'll listen."
I should've kissed him.
I walked to my car with my best friends, soaking wet, shivering, laughing, drunk. I thought about how, years ago, I would never go swimming in my underwear in front of people. I thought about getting stronger, more confident, surer, smarter. I thought about my summer ending, and I thought about wasted time. I thought about high hopes and a lightening sky. I still felt young and alive. I felt breathless. I felt weightless.
I'm happy, but I can feel the meloncholy tickling the back of my throat. I'll leave on Monday, and nothing will ever be the same. Again. It's been a long road.
Oh, I'm half way there.
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[17 Jun 2007|10:51pm] |
So there's this guy. Who I work with. And he sort of asked me out. On sort of a pre-date. A pre-date as in, "Hey, after work one night, maybe the next time we close together or something, let's go grab some beers." Unquote.
Basically, on some unspecified day in either the near or distant future, the two of us will walk five doors down to the Sunset Grill & Bar in our work uniforms, shirts untucked, a little before or after midnight, depending on the day, and have some beers.
Like dudes do.
HOWEVER.
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a statement. It was a, "Let's do this thing. Let's get it rolling." And we're each other's favorite person to work with. And we talk non-stop when we're around each other. And he finds little ways to touch me. And we reign over Geekdom in equally impressive ways in the areas of music, literature, television and movies (he likes Rush, for God's sakes, and he didn't make fun of me for liking the Backstreet Boys - he said it was important to idolize something ridiculous). And we make each other laugh. Really, really hard.
My experts have weighed in, and they say it's realistic to think there's something there.
However, indeed.
I'm trying not to get my hopes up. I work mornings for now, and he's on a long-term vacation. I leave at the end of the summer, he stays here. He goes to UNC Chapel Hill. He's about to graduate. And he's older. And by older, I mean... *wince* the next decade. A self-proclaimed late bloomer. He's young at heart. And mature. Ish. And for all I know, I could be making all of this up and he really just wants go to the bar one night and grab some beers like dudes do.
But I like him. A lot. And I think he likes me, too. That's an exciting prospect.
It's tough being somebody who is not only realistic, but also analyzes every single word to decipher the true meaning. And by decipher, I mean mostly make up to provide foder for starved conversation and a bored brain. Man, I need to get back to school.
Why must we play these games? Why? If you like me, say so. I feel I've made it more than obvious. Here's a secret: If you ask me, I'll say yes. Just ask. JUST ASK ALREADY. (And I'm not going to be the one to ask because I'm the girl and that's just not the way it works, okay? Strap on a pair)
Ah, such is life. I should just stop thinking about it.
...
The thing is, it's such a pre-date that it might as well be an UNdate. Like an unbirthday, but a lot less fun and colorful and merry. And there's no singing. Hopefully. Because neither of us can sing.
...
...
...
And everybody can just shut up about the next decade thing. I've heard enough grandpa jokes, you assholes.
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[14 May 2007|04:07pm] |
Dude.
To kick off their U.S. comeback tour, the Smashing motherfucking Pumpkins will take RESIDENCE in ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA for NINE SHOWS AT THE ORANGE PEEL. And tickets are only twenty bucks!
Oh. My. God.
They're playing nine shows in Asheville, a show in Jersey, nine shows at The Filmore in Cali, and the one show in D.C. That means that they'll be spending the most time in California, which is an obvious call, and in ASHEVILLE.
DUDE.
You best believe that I'm hauling my ass up there to see the Smashing motherfucking Pumpkins kick off their comeback in the greatest city on the east coast. I suggest that you all do the same.
Here's the link: http://www.theorangepeel.net/sppress.php
Billy Corgan, you fetus-lookin' motherfucker, I can't wait to see you!
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[10 May 2007|01:41am] |
I leave Asheville tomorrow. My parents will tell me, "Welcome home." It's not home. Home is something better.
She took away everything I had ever built up, everything I held close to me, everything I worked so hard for. She took it, and now I have to go back and look at her every day and try not to hate her. Because I can't let her know that I'm still mad, and it still hurts, and it's her fault. They say it would be detrimental to her recovery and I'd be selfish to do so.
I would give my soul to leave it all behind. What's it worth, anyway?
Welcome home.
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[25 Apr 2007|10:24pm] |
So I will be in Cary for the summer instead of spending the majority of it in Biloxi. A family situation came up, and I know that it's more important to be home, where I'm needed. I am heartbroken, and I am angry, but I won't tell my parents that. I'll just tell them that I didn't have the money, so they won't feel as guilty. They didn't want me to go anyway.
The more and more I drudge through this, the more and more I'm beginning to realize what sacrifice is and what it means to love somebody and hate them all at the same time. Love them because I can't not love them, and hate them because of the burden they're unknowingly making me carry.
I can't help but think that this summer will turn me even more bitter, and I will go back to school more unhappy than I have been. But I know it's for the best. Somehow, it's for the best. It has to be.
Right?
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[17 Apr 2007|12:59am] |
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
It seems really trivial to be posting a message on my Livejournal or for people to join a group on Facebook, but when I sat at my computer in the Banner office this morning and watched today's tragedy unfold well into the afternoon, I couldn't help but think of that Vonnegut quote. I couldn't help but think about their last moments, and I couldn't help but hope that that was how it was for them. That they were scared up until that very last second, and then there was the beauty of heaven without pain.
I watched and read it all with a sort of awe, a sort of sleuthing wonder, trying to figure out what had happened, what went wrong, why why why why. But I couldn't. I just stared at the computer, at CNN's homepage, at the headline: Gunman dead after massacre at Virginia Tech. Dead. Massacre. Dead.
What scared me the most was probably what scared every student in the entire country: Each of those 33 people woke up that morning just like it was any other morning. They got up, brushed their teeth, walked to class, shared a cup of coffee with a friend, crammed last minute for an exam, cursed themselves for being late yet again to class, tripped over that same crack in the sidewalk, just like every morning. Same crack, same sidewalk, same morning, lived over and over again as the monotony of a semester wears down until the end, until the summer, until, for some, graduation and certain freedom.
They had every intention of walking out of those classrooms and living their lives routinely as average college students in an average college town.
I saw them. I saw them, and they were me. They were you. They were us. And they are gone. They are lost. For what? Nobody will ever know, and nobody should even attempt to answer. It's called a tragedy because it's senseless, and we mourn because we don't understand, could never understand until it, God forbid, happens to us. Until our normal, routine, average lives are interrupted.
I saw them, and they were me. And you. And everyone we know. They were us, and maybe that's the most painful realization of all.
So I hope - I pray - that the last thing they felt was not terror or pain, but beauty and certainty. There are other plans for you, and may you never have to know what pain is again. We will carry that burden for you now because you have carried enough.
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[16 Apr 2007|12:25pm] |
I am holding in my hand an official letter from the Literature Department's Creative Writing professors.
"Congratulations, Ms. Marshall. You are one of the 2007 Comfort Scholarship winners."
....
THAT'S RIGHT, BITCHES!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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| A shout out... |
[21 Mar 2007|12:20am] |
I think brave people are a rarity. I think that truly brave, courageous people are quiet about it, and because of that, their bravery goes unnoticed. I think brave people are a rarity and a treasure. I know some very brave people, and I would like to give a shout out to some of them right now.
Amy. You have beaten your mold and become more than those surrounding you. And you jumped out of a fucking airplane. I still think it's fucking insane, but it took some damn guts. You are a brave person.
Sarah Frary. You drastically changed your life. You picked up the pieces. You overcame hurdles most people would trip over. But you did not fall flat on your face. You have been pained, you have felt, you have been sad, angry, and happy, and you have survived. You are a brave person.
Carolyn. You waltzed into a business that women are not readily accepted into and you said, "Hey, fuck you, I like sports, too." You are brilliant and talented, and while you may not work for the NFL (yet), you're still the shit. And you are not a pushover. You are a brave person.
To everybody else in my life, each person who has stayed by my side through the best and worst, I want you to do me a favor and acknowledge your own braveries. I don't think we do that for ourselves enough. Tell me what makes you strong. Tell me what makes you brave. And then tell yourself: You are a brave person.
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[14 Mar 2007|02:57pm] |
I just got nominated for a creative writing scholarship. Again.
It's mine this time, bitches.
I'm in Human Biology now, and I checked my email, and there it was, the nomination letter, and I wanted to scream. I still want to scream.
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[08 Mar 2007|06:51pm] |
I rented movies today, a day before I go to the beach then go back to Asheville. I won't watch them. I knew I wouldn't watch them when I rented them. So why did I rent them? Why, you ask?
*sigh*
Because he'll be there tomorrow when I have to return them.
I hate being a girl.
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[05 Mar 2007|01:09pm] |
You ever think that there's something big going on in the world, and we're just not seeing it? Or we are, but all we do is sit around and talk about it? Or hold press conferences about it, petition against it, hold up signs protesting it?
What are we doing? What's the point? What do we change? Can we change?
Every second of every minute of every hour of every day, I ask myself this one question: What's this life for?
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[02 Mar 2007|12:44pm] |
Thank Goddess and praise the LORD! Spring break has arrived!!!
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[25 Feb 2007|01:13am] |
So I went to have a few drinks at Chilis with Ryan, my wonderfully awesome gay manager at Blockbuster, and his boyfriend (husband) John. We were talking, drinking, being merry, you know, and some of John's sketch-ass friends come and sit down. Basically, they're the worst kind of hippies - they say they're hippies, but really their just really, really, really chill hardcore druggies. Anyway, Ryan and I continue to talk and laugh for a couple hours. John will join in occasionally, and so will the sketch-ass hippies. We laugh. Lots of laughing. Anyway, at the end of the night, the sketch-ass hippies say they want to get John and Ryan "really fuckin' high on some dank-ass dope." But then they try to back out of it by saying they don't have any furniture. I chime in, saying, "I would think getting really fuckin' high on the floor is the same as getting really fuckin' high on the couch." They laugh, blah blah blah. So we go to leave, and Ryan and one of the sketch-ass hippies walk me to my car. The follow conversation ensues.
Sketch-Ass Hippie: You're not comin' to my house, Kristen?
Me: Nah. I have some homework to do.
Sketch-Ass Hippie: Aw, you're breakin' my heart, pretty lady.
Me: You would not believe how many times a day I hear that.
Laughter, then I bid my final good-bye to Ryan, a hug and a kiss, and I get in my car and drive off. I think to myself, "Man, I should can attract 'em, can't I?" Hardcore drug addicts, woohoo! Sketch-ass hippies, YESSSSS! COUNT ME IN!
But then I laughed and turned up my music because at least I still got it.
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[20 Feb 2007|06:59pm] |
This whole Maggie Weshner thing is being blown entirely out of proportion and people are starting to act like babies without understanding all the little things at work.
Now, I am in no way supporting our Chancellor and her administration's decision to terminate the director of the counseling center mid-semester. I am in no way supporting the Chancellor and her lack of communication with the student body, her faculty, and her staff. She is sending the wrong message to the people at this school, and that is that she is against them. If you're going to terminate a pillar of this campus, tell us why. Don't give vague answers. That much I will protest - I will protest the fact that dozens and dozens of students are being forced to terminate with Weshnever in the middle of therapy and must start over with another counselor, if they can be worked into the schedule. It's traumatic enough to admit your secrets to one person, but now you have to do it again? Ridiculous. I will support the rights of students and the rights of staff and faculty, and I am against a campus where nobody feels secure about their jobs or their well-being.
The decision to terminate Maggie Weshner mid-semester was a mistake and it was a decision that lacked sympathy and consideration for the students under her care. The administration handled it very, very wrong, and they should have better communicated their reasoning with at least their employees.
However.
I think people are failing to realize something: Maggie Weshner was planning on retiring in the fall. This is basically being considered an early retirement, and she is being let go with a big, fat severence pay, which will last until January. Basically, she'll be on vacation until then. A vacation paid for by the university. She could go get another job and still get paid by the university. She could go chill out in Barbados for all they care. She has the choice. The university did not just kick her out on her ass without anything after 28 years of service.
Also, has anybody else noticed the fact that Weshner has not been the only long-term faculty member let go recently? There have been several. Where was everybody then, when those people were losing their jobs?
The administration made a piss poor decision. They fucked up. Big time. They may never recover from it. Students will probably hate them until they graduate. I think they are well aware of that by now. But they will not re-instate Maggie Weshner because a bunch of students are going to walk out of their classes at a set time tomorrow. Face it, guys: She's gone. She's not coming back. If she does, I will eat my words and shut up about it, but this administration will not budge. They have a lot of changes in mind.
The restructuring process is in full effect, and perhaps students should refocus their efforts. Realize that this is not the last change this university will go through. Let's start fighting something that isn't already a lost cause.
P.S. Can I just say that Greg Goddard is a fucking idiot? I mean, c'mon. He's all about rallying students against injustices, blah blah blah, but has anybody ever really talked to this guy? HE IS A MORON. Yes, he's passionate, but being passionate means jack shit if you're a dumbass. In fact, the combination of dumbass-ity and passion is donwright dangerous. He has no ties to the counseling center, no stakes in this. He's doing it purely for the attention, just like that bullshit last semester with the Socialist Unity League wall. He wants the attention and he wants the noteriety for being a rabblerouser and a rule-changer when really, he's nothing more than some republican douchebag who's got his head so far up his ass ugly girlfriend's vagina, he has no idea what's really going on. Get over yourself, man.
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| A dream... |
[17 Feb 2007|12:19pm] |
It's fuzzy now, but there was a ranch and an expansive plain. It was a small town, and this ranch, the one I lived on with my family, a different one than my own, was the epicenter. My friends were always there, and I had a lot of friends. Seemed like the entire school, hundreds of friends, always around, and we were always laughing. I rode horses in the sun and braided wildflowers into halos. My friends and I always had parties with pineapple and moonshine. I had an alcoholic mother who was never around, but everybody thought she was out of town on business, that she worked in some fantastic skyscraper in the city. Everybody thought that was so cool, and so did I, so I lied and said that's where she was, making deals and helping us survive on our ranch. Everybody got along except for this one guy - he went to my school, and he had sharp, angular cheekbones, neon blue eyes. He worked in the autoparts factory, and he came from the bad part of town, a place nobody else came from. He didn't believe me when I said my mother was in the city. He didn't believe my happiness and tried to tear it down whenever he could. His jeans were always dirty, his sunbleached hair short and mussed, his lanky form always covered by some sleeveless t-shirt. His skin was impossibly tanned. He was a worker, was built, skinny and taut with a sinew of stringy muscle stretched beneath thin skin, and nobody else was like that. He had age on his hands, though he was our age, and his fingers were rough, calloused, and I didn't like it, didn't like him.
I rode horses in the sun and braided wildflowers into halos.
Then one day I was at a party and I got a phone call. It was my father, who said he had to go into the city for something, and he didn't sound right. So I went outside and talked to him, tried to find out what was wrong, and then he told me my mother was dead. I barely knew her, but I understood what being motherless was. Suddenly, I understood what heartbreak was. The house was loud with people, and I tried to walk away, into the fields, but all my friends followed me. They wanted to know why I wasn't at the party, why I was on the phone, why I wasn't smiling. All five hundred of them kept following me, no matter where I walked on my property, they just kept following me. They wouldn't let me get into my car, they wouldn't let me leave, and I was just trying to talk to my dad about my dead mother.
I started screaming at them. Screaming and sobbing. I threw the phone at my best friend, and she stormed away. She would never talk to me again. I screamed at all of them to leave me alone, and I tangled my fingers in my hair, collapsing in the middle of this field with tall grass, disappearing from view. Everybody hesitated, watching me curl up on the gold ground, surrounded by grass, and they watched me shake and sob and fall apart. Then, one by one, they all left me there, in the middle of the pasture, with my hair a mess and my cheeks streaked with dirt and tears. Day turned into night, and I stayed there, my cheek on the ground, my eyes staring at the grass, watching the bees hover over the wildflowers. I touched the purple petals, felt the silk on my fingertips, and day turned into night again. The sun was there, bright but not hot, and I lay, still and silent in my new world.
And then he came, blurred by the sun, his skin melded into the golden grass, and he sat down a few yards a way, watching me. I watched him back, and he moved closer, laid down next to me, but still kept a distance between us. I looked at his sharp cheekbones, at his dusty face and neon eyes, his tanned skin that matched the dried grass. We stared at each other, with the pale purple wildflower between us, and he picked it, tucking it behind my ear, pushing my hair out of my face. I remember my hair being dark, darker than it is now, and it was the darkest thing in that field. He didn't say anything for a long time, and day turned into night, and then it was day again and we were still there, in that field. The sky was so blue it was white.
He said, "This field is full of pain."
I moved closer to him, draping my arm over his lean chest, nuzzling into his neck, tangling my legs with his, and I forgot how much he used to hurt me. In the middle of that vast, hilly field, in the middle of my escape, he was the only one who understood anything. I heard voices drift to us, my name being called, but it was so far away, it was like the wind, a whisper, a rustle of the grass protecting us. He kissed me and laid his head back, his cheek on the dirt, his eyes on me.
He said, "I'm afraid one day I'll lose my arm at the factory and nobody will love me. I'm afraid I'll die and nobody will know where the funeral is."
I asked him to go to my mom's funeral with me, and he said yes.
We didn't move. There was a blue haze around us now, blurring the edges, and we stayed. The sky was still white, and it was cloudless. I traced the slight curve of his light eyebrow, the contour of his cheek, felt how smooth the skin was there, even though he was a worker. Then I looked up at the sky, just like he was, and leaned my head against his. And there we were, amidst our pain in a blurry world of grass and dust. Day turned to night, but there was no time.
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| Kristen's Current Thoughts On: Valentine's Day |
[13 Feb 2007|04:36pm] |
I know, I know. Valentine's Day. Single's Awareness Day. DOOMSDAY. Sure, it's all well and good for those who are in a relationship. It's all love and candy hearts and hand-holding and I love you, snooky bookims. But to everybody else, it's that big ol' honkin' day of bitterness. Singles wear black in protest, give their friends anti-Valentine's, scowl all day, and drink all night to erase the loneliness in their cold, cold hearts.
I'm here to propose something different. Forget the cards, the boxes of chocolates, the dinner, the roses. Forget all of that consumeristic bullshit and turn to the person who means the most to you and say, "I love you." Say it to them today, tomorrow, and every day for the rest of your life. It doesn't have to be your boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or wife (though, if you have any one of those, perhaps you should say it to them every now and then, too). It can be anybody that you love - a friend, a dog, a goldfish, a professor, your parents. Just say it. There shouldn't be just one day out of the year when we appreciate the ones we love.
I used to think I knew what love meant, that it was this painful, bitter thing, but I've learned a lot in the past few months. I've learned that to love, to truly love, means you would give up your world and your well-being for that person. We all have the capacity to love, and love, though it is this idiotic, metaphorical emotion that is too general to be defined, though it is symbolized by stupid hearts and cheesy poetry, though it may cause some heartbreak and it may make you cry, is not a bad thing and could never be.
So tell them you freaking love them already.
This concludes Kristen's Current Thoughts on: Valentine's Day.
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