Everyone is itching. Everyone is Groucho Marx. We are all parting, time is short, yet so long. There is much sweetness to my sorrow, yet the sadness is there nonetheless. Everyone is angry, everyone doesn’t know where to direct their energy. I feel unsettled, like I am reeling from an impact that never actually hit me. Thankfully, disdainfully, I am here. Hope. That is what we are, even if we don’t know it yet. Even if we don’t know anything.
Dear Mom,
Everything you say, I listen to. At least in the sense that I want my choices in life to be ones that you are simply proud of. I wonder if I got good grades, applied to the college I did, found a job, and shaped my appearance all to fit your idea of perfection. It’s sad to me. How can one ever know if our decisions are based on what we as an individual want, or just what someone else expects of us? And when I made these decisions, I was only met with more disapproval. I can’t tell you anything of which actually matters to me, as it isn’t practical. I love you and I know you care about me. But I suppose I wish you knew how to show me affection, or look at me with motherly love reflected in your eyes. The only time I hear you praise me is when you are informing your friends of my so-called accomplishments. You have never taken time to get to know me. You have been the emotional child, self-absorbed and angry at me consistently. It is ok. You have also supported me and bought me Cliff Bars and driven me places. I just wish our relationship wasn’t so tenuous, not so shallow. You expect me to be mean. I expect you to be angry. I wonder if there is any way to ever know each other truly. You are my mother. But I know you more and understand you more than you can ever hope to see in me. I think to always be right is to always be essentially wrong. Admitting mistakes gives you a chance to correct them, if not erase the past. I need to stop avoiding these things that actually matter and focus on how we can learn to enjoy each others company. Maybe we can go on a bike ride. Maybe we can talk over ice cream sometime. Maybe we can not kill each other. I know we both want this, but is it impossible? Ah, here I digress.
I am so tired. I am so scared. I want to remember, but also forget. I am so angry, but yet so meek. It was the worst of times, it was the best of times, but they weren’t the only times. Hopefully astronauts are smarter than the average bear. Hopefully I can become less tired. I think I used to be interesting, or at least fun. Now I am only dull and dreary. I like it better this way, of this I am quite certain. No flowery adjectives for me, I will just swallow my cough syrup like all y’all defeated masses. Finances, publishing industry, frustration, reflection, fog, backpack, less.
Life is like a sigh
And you’re the catalyst for my exhale
You will never be transparent to me, yet for this I am glad. I don’t want to know you.
Living with only your facade lost in the corners of my memory is sustenance enough
This I can promise, if little else
Tattered smells that rest in my heart and sighs that came unsolicited from the intimate words I spoke to you with neither hope nor motive. Only that burning want of implicit trust.
Pouring melodies of a life lived in such a small space into your waxed ears taught me to be more careful.
It is too easy to give so much to someone that you yourself have nothing left, merely reduced to a shadow of this person who you think knows you well enough to determine your fate, your choices. Who was I? Who were you?
How ridiculous, how silly, how sigh-inducing. I hate endings. Good bye.
Iz good. I like the feeling of sunshine mixed with hope and rays of promise. I am not a pessimist. I just get tired sometimes, you see. There are too many people I want to write poems for, poems they will never read nor see nor breathe. I don’t fancy they will eat them for breakfast neither. What if everything I am is just a mash of ideas that came suspended between the bindings of some author’s spine, their words the ones that filter through my fingers and tongue and inhale to gradually begin to see you for who you truly are. Even if I don’t make sense, I guess I like it better that way. Anyone can say things like, “Today I made $40 and saw a friend. Yay me.” Wow that was so interesting, I think I just cried. And then died. Actually, I just lied. OK, OK. ENOUGH. I like you. And you and you and you. It’s kinda a problem. As sun blinds me and spell check muffles me, I hope you realize, my dearest Humanity, that I embrace you with open arms and trusting faith. Faithful trust. If only I could be the cold, emotionless stone heart I want to be, glaring at you through hateful eyes that didn’t know the feeling of salty tears or bitter disappointment. Then I could forget and walk away, fulfilled with sunlight being the only thing warming me, never needing anyone else. Ever. But that still sounds sad, even standing here in my yellowing grass. Fuck you green grass, you suck and aren’t even that great. And you’re only green because your owners don’t care about more important things, like conserving water for the fishes. Yeah fuck off, my yellow patch of grass is better than you any day of the week, it protects the planet and shit. Even Saturdays, which according to my underwear is the current day. So goodbye, I will now go find Nemo. Figuratively.
You know, I really hate it when people cast themselves as the victim in every scenario. Warning: This is a post better left unread that is fueled by pure anger and hilarity at the people who surround me. I will now mimic said people. “Oh poor, innocent me! Oh how I was slighted and taken advantage of from every angle! I have never done anything wrong, she’s the passive-aggressive, self-pitying, user!” Yeah don’t worry, you’re always right. I think if you really care about someone, then you talk to them. Now then, lets commence with the tea and crumpets before I lose all hope for humanity. For so long I have sat and listened to your meaningless stories, sat in patient, caring silence. Always agreeing, always offering a rational opinion. BUT WAIT! For one second my day isn’t consumed by your shallow chatter? GOD HAVE MERCY! LET THE CLAWS COME OUT! I only hope that you can breathe once you enter the real world, maybe you should bring an oxygen tank, just to be safe. Generally, most people can’t make a decent path through life by possessing mounds of apathy for every single individual they come into contact with. Maybe, just maybe, it isn’t everyone else who is flawed, but the person looking back at you in the mirror. You spend enough time looking, I think you know who I am talking about.
I think I am inspired by the feelings I receive vicariously through others. I don’t want to let my material possessions and what not consume me, but essentially I am a consumer, so what be will be. Can a person live in a constant state of fever, or shaking, nervous, delirium? It seems I want so much from people, yet I never give them what I want. I think I try to be good, I think I try, but in my heart of hearts I know I will never be the rational being I want to be. Can an action be derived just by the want of telling a story, just the want of confirmation that occurs from a captivated audience? Right now I am slightly sad, but also strangely apart. Apartheid. I see construction workers and words that transfix me, not in an unusual manner, simply scenic. Can one be a visitor in their own life, viewing it as if from a kaleidoscope of distortion? The worst fear is knowing that you are your own victimizer, and that all of your thoughts are just some one else’s, that nothing can ever be original ever again. I know this is silly, Mikayla just be still. But I don’t think I can. Any time I think of correctness it dissolves through my fingertips. Perhaps I am incensed at you, perhaps I am terrible but am only human. Women and men, men and women. They traverse each other in a dance of clashing colors and cancan boisterousness. I am never done, never defeated. I will keep pushing and falling, sinking and treading this water I am living in. I hate clinical language. I wish I was Anais Nin.
oh look, I wrote you a response. AND I just now realized that you changed our thumbnail photo. an inspired and tasteful choice you’ve made, really. as unabashedly attractive as the tops of a certain two heads and a certain pair of cat ears may have been, I enjoy the sunlight streaming down on the diving fools. or foolish divers. whichever best applies. I am not capitalizing any of my sentence-starting words, and I am rambling as you might. this is the effect tumblr has on me. an effect of idleness and pointless, wandering thought. in fact, it is the effect you seem to have on me, as well. I suppose that is the seductive appeal of being acquainted with the sunny interior of your dark-shrouded soul. what a way with words have we, think you not? I do think, indeed. in fact, I think quite a lot. I realize that I am a nerd. a flustered, perhaps average intellectual. I appreciate it. I even place my pride in it on occasion. but sometimes I read something I write, such as this, or look into a startling pair of eyes, such as yours, or have an especially erratic thought such as, “my friend’s romance is like a baseball game,” and I can hear Mr. Loveless’ voice meld with the modern teenage masses in a chorus of accusations: “dirty hip[ster].” dirty, dirty hipster. and sometimes I wonder if maybe we have a little bit of a lot of that in us, though I don’t even know what that means. it would seem sometimes as if to be hipster means to be exceptionally good at talking about nothing in an intelligent manner, which I do quite a lot quite proficiently, I believe. a picture of our pear house just fell onto my desk, and I must pick it up. of course, you have no idea what our pear house is, but I’m sure you can imagine, as you were blessed with an abnormally splendid gift for imagining things. it was in physics last september when we sat together, and I drew a pear, which naturally became a house, which naturally became OUR house, and, naturally, we stand in front of it and you are shouting at me, “YOU POO!” and at the bottom, I wrote all those eons ago, “And Mikayla and Katie lived happily ever after in harmony.”
I made myself dinner. It was wild rice with teriyaki sauce. It tasted like shit. Talent in the kitchen I have not. Heres some advice to you. A tablespoon is not the same thing as a teaspoon. Pans and pots can be different. Clocks can be helpful in monitoring the food’s progress. Maybe ice cream will make me feel better. I am amazed at how little things can turn into hilarious calamities and how a little perspective can put many a person into focus. I like my view to be from far away, I have no need to see the lines and cracks in your facade, just the general idea of you is all. Butter is an essential ingredient. I hate people who skimp on butter when sautéing mushrooms. Really now, there are certain things that any sane person should just not do. But I realized that I don’t want to ever forgive you, nor do I think I should. I keep hoping that I was wrong and that you will surprise me with a glimmer of soul. But its futile. You have changed and the past is the past. I wonder if famous people ever see reflections of themselves and involuntarily shudder. When you get your first wrinkle I will burst into hysterics. When you find Jesus I will applaud you. When you skin your knee I will lick Neosporin onto that bitch. When you aren’t a ridiculous caricature of a caricature than maybe I can look you in the eyes once again. Heres hoping.
teenagers. why are you so stupid. i don’t really know. maybe because I am stupid. there are few things I know to be fact, less things that I am certain are real. perhaps this is good, because if one knew many things, they would be sad. being sure hasn’t led anyone to happiness, of this i am sure. it is the power of not knowing, of falling and being wounded and constantly wondering that is the greatness of living. giving in to the shallow bullshit is great, as is saying what the hell. whenever i am filled with doubt, that is when i feel the most alive. whenever i am questioning my knowledge, that is when i am most in control. i pity the ones who know everything, who will never stumble in life, nor see both sides of the mirror. being a critic can be fun, but it is when you are criticized that you feel the most. feelings. PSH! emotions. HAH! they can really lead you down a primrose path of dalliance. but it is this path that few walk that few will remember that few will learn from. i am not above being a fool, this i have proven. but neither am i above empathy sympathy or caring. i think to truly see you need to be able to choke on your words and fall into trees and get scratched a bit. writing this i realize i am terribly hypocritical. also, a little tired. but it all comes from a place of soul. maybe i am a dried up piece of cucumber, but at least people are capable of being more than one thing. sometimes i laugh when i find things the opposite of funny. sometimes i cry when i am simply happy. no one can be the wiser, no matter what they think, no matter how perceptive they really are. maybe i need to find real things to think about, more things to reflect upon. of this i am sure. OH NO! if i strive for greatness, and only accomplish the average, at least i can say i tried. but words are only somewhat comforting most of the time and tears dry up faster than gold and ink. or so i suppose. i am amazed at all of the ways the are to achieve merit. i am astounded at all of the unkindliness i see in your countenance. hell, maybe we are just reflections of each other, but i still like to think that you are good and i am trying to be good and you have more feeling than a piece of sediment trapped under a toenail. that is kind of gross to imagine. but really, condensing this bullshit down to a single thought, why are we the way we are?
An empty bag of salt and vinegar chips lies besides me. I can’t help it, you’re my kind of sodium. One day I walked into a dream and saw everything in a tilted frame of reference, the things I knew were soaked in vinegar and shook with the secrets that only mockingbirds knew. Conducive to the scenario that has wrapped me into this place and time and room and people that disagree with my heart. If only there were no preconceived notions of motives that you clench to in a cynical clinical state of mind. I wonder if one day everything will be ok. You know, I can be a functional adult or some shit. I can’t do my own laundry, confessed the lazy girl. Nor can I make myself dinner that doesn’t come in prepackaged steps on a cardboard box. This means I can never be a member of society, concluded the despairing girl. I can never be the independent person who leads a rebellion or lives alone hating humanity. Damn it, thought the angry girl. This means I will have to apply myself or some shit. But apparently you need this thing called experience first. But I want to have it now, screamed the hysterical girl. Time went by and passed as rivers etched wider paths into the ground. The girl was now old. She now had the experience of age and wrinkles. But I don’t want it now, croaked the old woman. I was foolish.
I have nothing interesting to say. Please don’t listen. Really, just leave. Pull on your green scarf and other extremities and make a graceful exit. Before you go, you should know that movies hold more truth than the charades you perform, yet your deepest wish is to be as cinematic and dramatic as your tap-dancing neighbors. I always wondered if you were a diamond, or the impostor cubic zirconia. And I know that I’m haunted by the film of dust and mounds of pennies and scraps of paper that crowd the corners of my mind. Its quite actually perhaps hilarious. But don’t worry, you are certainly too self-centered to have a conscience trouble you. Or maybe just plain dumb. I think the greatest feeling in the world is knowing you have found a person who you can show the worst parts of yourself to, and trust that they will still be there to call at three in the morning and laugh with and tell secrets to and confess your shame and regrets and hopes and they will always believe in you. Trust is quite actually perhaps rare. But it is great. You should know that too.
Dearest Inky. What do your protuberant neon eyes see? When you are out in the night, how does it feel to be a shadow, hidden from the world, slithering between fenceposts and peering out from behind tall grass? With your long claws ready for prey, your paws softly padding on mysterious streets, prowling the neighborhood for trouble. Do you fear anything? Why do you get stuck on the roof so often? Do the cold winds ever chill you to the bone, penetrating through your thick black coat? I’m sorry that I don’t always let you inside when you are climbing the screen door, howling to be let in. I’m sorry I ignore you sometimes. Is it hard in the summertime, never being able to escape your black furs? I bet it is. When you meow at me, like right now, what are you trying to tell me? Do you wish I spoke better German, so that we could communicate more effectively? Maybe you’re a Latin cat. You are the best companion in the world and I am sorry I don’t treat you better. I’m sorry I call you stupid and Stinky Inky at times. I’m sorry if my lap ignores you for my laptop. You only want me to feed and love you, and seem to always forgive and forget. Does your kitty brain feel pain? Do you remember the time you got in a cat fight and were sore and limped for a while? And the other 7 times you almost died? I wish I could be a better owner to you, more loving and pet you more under the chin. I suppose I know you will always love me and I wonder why. I wonder if you were Elvis in your human life. Whoever it was, it was someone quite charismatic, and maybe a bit stupid. But its alright, you are now a free kitty, able to come and go as you please.
Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? To think that water vapor is the sole material for this work of art that twists and spirals above our heads today, settling on mere dust particles in the atmosphere. No this vision is not a ghostly hallucination I have conjured in efforts to escape looking at you. Just imagine the sadness I feel, knowing your retinas will never be able drink in this earthly wonder. I don’t think they offer a skylight option in the gray cubicle you inhabit day in and day out. I would do anything for your eyes to look past their narrowed lenses, to be able to focus beyond the glare of your computer screen. Yet you see only the impending doom of tax hikes and revenue returns written in the sky. When your tongue strikes me like a lightning bolt, or your red-hot words thunder through my skull, I can’t help but think how things might be different if you got out more. Perhaps I could suggest a trip to the Sahara Desert? Or maybe just a trip to the backyard? I know you hate it when the pitch of my voice becomes raised and I begin making unpredictable statements that make cracks in the plaster you have sealed your heart inside. Here we are, two people who can not reach each other. Maybe it is futile, but I invite you to come stay awhile in my atmosphere that is peppered with dreams and schemes. Now do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in the shape of a camel? Of course not, the only cloud you can see clearly is the one your head is ensconced in.
