Monday, January 28

Old Words Still Ziploc Fresh...


“You never change.” She whispered it like a secret that thrashed through the air until it found a resting place lodged somewhere in my brain. I was trying to process this prolific revelation--- I never change.

“You hate me so much. You never want to come close to me. But I’m your mother. I am your mother.” As if possessed by something else entirely, she began chanting her new mantra, a prayer to God asking to wipe her hands clean of me, her voice dripping with nothing but regret.

Those were, perhaps, the most earth shattering words my mother ever said to me. All this time, I thought she was the one who hated me. She was supposed to be the one who hated, not I. She was cold and distant, guarded and bitter all throughout my childhood and adolescence. I was too scared to approach her, let alone get near enough to strike up a mother-daughter bond---a bond I probably wanted more than she did.

I wanted to remember something good. I filed through my vast stores of memory looking for small bits of proof that she is more than fury. Did she love me when she sang me a lullaby? Did she love me when I took my first step, said my first word, wrote my first story? Did she want me after all the things I put her through?

Part of me wanted to embrace her, pity her; tell her that none of this was real. ‘We are happy’ I would say or, “we could be.”

I examined her face, trying to read past her hard expression, trying to find some sort of explanation. She wasn’t the same bright, enchanting woman she had been seventeen years ago---nothing at all like the pictures tell. Her jovial face was now worn from time


and age and struggle; tiredness written in every line, sacrifices for her family swimming in the pools of her eyes.

I should have been loving then. I should have been gracious, but the petty side won out.

“How does it feel to be pushed away from someone you love?” It was divine liberation. It was freedom. It was glory beyond reason. It was excessively cruel, vindictive, low.

The fight ended as they normally did: a violent shouting match moved forward by resentment and tar soaked hearts.

I regret my words. There was no justice. We were both wrong. Yet, I just couldn’t bring myself to say that two-syllable word that seemed so impossible. I couldn’t push it past my lips and change everything.

I could have changed our relationship if only I had been brave enough, if I had been strong enough. Instead, I let my frustrations and anger boil and brew over into some poisonous concoction that burned us both.

We love, but do not say so. There is no redemption for the pain our silences cause. I never change.

I wish I could.

Wednesday, January 23

Frosting Over Disaster...


La Violette:
Sir, your father is here.
Don Juan:
Well, how opportune! It’s just what was needed to drive me out of my mind.


I’ve been acting quite odd lately—fits of mad giggling, strange gurgling sounds, and outlandish facial expressions.

Yes, quite out of the ordinary.

Perhaps I've had too many cupcakes.
I act like such an idiot sometimes. And I'd like to explain myself. It's just that I don't have a good reason.


I’m scared, friend. But I feel like a wind-up doll. I always say such things. I’ve said them so often that people disregard my words completely and refuse to take me seriously.

Please don’t question my sincerity. You can say that I’m mad, or stupid, or silly, but you can’t say that I’m insincere. I genuinely love you, and I honestly hate you----all to the same person, dear.
I hate the way my mum says drama. Like it's a swear. It's the same way my dad says Harry Potter.
Silly little girl, who thought that because her mum volunteered to chaperon Districts, that they
were making huge steps towards a healthy and functioning relationship.
Ah, you idealists slay me.

School That Shall Not Be Named makes me really sad. Why do dreams have to be THIS painful? I think I’d settle for ‘almost makes you want to jump off a bridge’ syndrome instead of this ‘…wasting away in madness here! Let’s burry me alive, ey?’ condition.

-Cheers!

P.S. I got my official UCF acceptance letter today. Bye, bye dream!
P.P.S. GAH! DISTRICTS! GAH!

Sunday, January 20

Yes Sir...

They say I've wasted the last four years of my life. They say I've accomplished nothing.

Here I am thinking I've peaked or something.




Apparently, not.

Friday, January 18

Kafka Meets Collins




and I was just thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were
standing side by side on a place mat.

I wondered if they had become
friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one
another

like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to
each other at the same time---

me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading
this.



Is there anyone leaning in a doorway somewhere near some blue hydrangeas reading this?

Please tell me there is.

Collins makes me want to be a happy poet---throw out that surrealist scrapbook of crap and write about nostalgia, write about that feeling when I was ten and nine and seven, about the blind woman’s teacup and forgetfulness, write about undressing Emily Dickinson; leave the world of ambiguity behind. Embrace clarity. He makes me want to claw my way back to reality and plaster it about my walls, enjoy every shade of life dear, he seems to say.

I think that I’d be too star struck to sit through one of his class lectures. I’d just stare in awe, trying to absorb it all. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

Kafka. Kafka is all I can think about lately--- flippin’ marshmallows, my negativity senses are tingling.

I’m going to end up like him, aren’t I?

What a beautiful failure---wasting away, lost in existentialism [har har], trying his entire life to please his parents but failing to do so, and then finally dying alone and miserable from a painful disease. Well, at least it was poetic, tragic, gut-wrenching.



I don’t take my mother seriously. Now my father is a different issue entirely. I would never dare walk out on him. I suppose it’s because I respect him, and don’t care about her.


I hate maths. I always feel so dumb after that class.

I’m uncomfortable. I feel like I’ve been thrown back into the awful ol’ days of Strange kid with the head thing, from the pleasantness of Athia, The Freak. I’ve been demoted back to anonymity.

I don’t know why she did it.


Words drown out the sound of my mum’s screeching. Stories take me anywhere but here. That’s why I love them so much. That’s why I savor the sensation…I need it.

What a desperate little girl.


I was in McNamara’s class yesterday, making up a test.
It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“Why do you skip school so much?” she was looking at me and then to my test, her left nostril flaring with congestion.

And I tried to explain to her. I tried to make her understand that I just couldn’t bring myself to go school. I can’t bring myself to face my failures. I can’t be around people for long periods of time without having some sort of break down. It’s too much.

I need time to charge.

I couldn’t explain how darkness seemed to seize me every so often and I how can’t force myself to participate with people anymore. All I want is to run into my closet and hide or sleep my life away.

It’s amazing how you can build a reputation as resident crazy in a matter of seconds.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you shared.” Smile. Nod. Turn away.

Why did that seem oddly reminiscent of how all the adults in my life act around me?

-Cheers!

Thursday, January 17

Here Now & There No More...

Cheers to a first entry, and many more happy tidings to come.