those things you do will all catch up to you

in china i danced alone to the smiths in some strange rooftop bar, not even lonely at all.

girls who dance.
girls who sing.

people who sit alone in crowded bars. i don't understand and will always understand their desire to be close to the crowd but not in it. in the middle of the dance floor,

i too, prefer the darkness.

if you asked me, i would ask for the quiet at 5:43am
when no one is mad at me because i haven't screwed up,
and my sorries haven't piled up,
and i'm running to catch the first metro
to get to work on time.

Chaos / Accidental Physical

I never thought I'd ever know -- you know --

life --

I never thought I'd have it all figured out.

I never thought happiness was a thing that would come to me.

I never thought I'd ever know -- you know --

just knowing, like, absolutely,

any one thing.

I never thought I'd ever be quite sure.

I mean, this is just to say, I still think this way.


It rained the day I went to Alcatraz. Not real rain, more like mist. Everything was wet and foggy. Well, that's San Francisco for you. Sometimes. I took pictures in black and white.


There was a time when my feelings were directly connected to my fingers and it would all come pouring out. There was a time when I wrote without my own critical eye. And it was good. Remember. Now it's a journey through a checklist of metaphors, narration, imagery, concrete imagery, quantity, point of view, conceit, no abstractions, and sense, does it make sense. And the words don't quite make their way out.


Summer is a time for getting drunk. But I want to get drunk in October. And I want it to be cheap and easy. I want to shiver. I want to be looking for a good time do you know when I last looked for a good time. I don't know when. I want to get drunk in October and I want the sky to be black and I want the beer to be disgusting because it's two for $6 Boreale and I want to dance in a dirty hipster bar with young dirty hipsters wearing neon tights and neon sunglasses to dirty hipster DJ playing LMFAO before LMFAO was cool I want to dance like I don't give a fuck that I'm dancing with my backpack on like I don't give a fuck that I'm dancing like I don't give a fuck like I don't give a fuck like I don't give a fuck 'cause I don't give a fuck.


And the words and the words and the words. They're never ending. And they don't quite make sense. There's no need to try and piece them together.


Always sitting there trying to name the feelings. Separate them, label them, explain them. And always the questions when I'm not ready. I don't know yet. And I might not ever know. Maybe leave me alone forever. Maybe leave me alone indefinitely. I can't articulate. I'm not ready.

And I am so spent. And I am so exhausted. And I can't see anymore. Beyond myself. I can't say just what I mean. I don't mean anything. I can't articulate.

And now I shrug my shoulders. And now I am alone. Why articulate?



All we want, baby, is everything.


This body grew like a tree from the earth. This body wants food. This body wants water. This body wants touch. This body wants space to stretch its legs. This body is sorry about some things but not about others. This body is sorry for pushing Tino in first grade gym class but not sorry about being angry. This body is physical. This body and other bodies. This body and the accidental physical. This body is full of insides and outsides. This body is full of spaces for the metaphorical abstract. This body is science. This body is art. This body bleeds every 27 days. This body has a literal heart. This body remembers some things but not others. This body remembers the taste of another body that had just consumed beer and marijuana. This body does not know what it has forgotten. This body and the accidental physical. This body cannot make sense of what is not part of it. This body can count. This body is not sure if it's put its feelings in the right place. This body cannot actually see inside itself. This body does not know what's going on inside itself. This body can see outside. This body can't see in the dark. This body is protein. This body is carbohydrates. This body is vitamins. This body created itself. What is this body but a tree grown from the earth, and every spring there is rebirth.







What happened to the days.

What happened to the things I had to say and then forgot.

Today is the day I listened to "Good Woman" by Cat Power for the 121st time.

if i were on the titanic i would lose my brains

k. made me watch 'the titanic' last night til 1am --

what the shit is that movie even about

and why do i know half of the lines by heart?

of course afterwards i had to wikipedia 'the titanic'

and read the whole damn thing --

of particular interest are the rich and famous who died.

then k. and i had a debate about whether or not

it's better to drown or burn in a fire.

i said 'burning in a fire sounds more painful

but drowning causes panic and chaos

and if i were on the titanic i would lose my brains'.

she said 'i'd rather die of hypothermia'.

i said 'it's funny that 10 years after this movie,

james cameron staged his comeback with 'avatar',

another poorly-written huge piece of crap,

and then he lost 'best picture' to his ex-wife kathryn bigelow

who also became the first female to win 'best director' at the oscars'.

we both agreed we were never going on a cruise ship.

Winter of Self-Destruction 1.0

Earth, I am in crisis, and you don't give a shit.
This is the winter of my self-destruction.
On the metaphorical road of life,
I have wandered off into a field
and am standing there like a lonesome cow.

Loneliness, you're enormous.
I'm drunk and you're taking advantage of me.
There isn't anyone here. I am taking advantage
of myself. Oh no.
My past and future selves are fighting again.

I am in crisis. I am as lost as Kim's bike,
locked to a pole somewhere in the city or
the dusty brain corner of forgotten things.
Earth, if you can remember where I am,
now is a good time to take me home.

Loneliness, you're enormous.
This is the winter of my self-destruction.
I am lying down now.
I am staring at the sky now,
wondering when it is going to snow.

The Year in Review: Sometimes I Disappeared, But I Want To Come Back

It's that made up time of year when I decide to look back at everything that has made me who I am up until this very point of writing. These times come for me usually in that gray area when one thing ends and another begins; right now it's school ending and summer beginning. In a week I'll be on a plane to China. I think that maybe this is important because it's the exact same thing I did last year.

I'm sitting in my parents' kitchen right now, drinking tea and eating stale raisins. The weather is cloudy and I think it rained this morning. I just got back from A-Camp on Sunday night and I don't really know what to do with myself. It's a lot quieter here.

The thing is, this year, I don't need to ask myself "how did you get here?" because I already know that inertia got me here. Does that make sense? What I mean is that I didn't do anything at all to get me anywhere. In September I thought to myself that I was a whole new person with realness, tangibility, and form and I stepped outside of my brain and decided I was going to crash into life.

But it turned out that life was just work. And I threw myself into that with all the force I could muster because it made me feel like a real person. It made me feel needed and important and like I was really doing something, even if it wasn't actually important at all. I could say to people "I'm working" and it could be a thing that people understood. You know? It felt normal. Like, God, I'm just so normal, going to normal work all the normal time. And I felt all the normal feelings, which is to say, I really didn't feel anything at all.

What really happened is that everything else in my life fell away. I wanted time to "focus on myself" but it turns out that that meant ensuring that I got the proper amount of sleep every night. Everything was just fine in that fine way, where I didn't cry I just sort of despaired when things were sad and then did whatever it was that I had to do. I believe they call this "going through the motions" and Buffy Summers sang about it on her hit TV show "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".

I feel proud of myself because I made + saved enough money to pay for my entire trip to China all by myself. All the money that I'm using is entirely mine that I worked for, and financial independence is something that I've always wanted so this feels like a big step for me. It's okay to feel good about that, right? Money makes me so uncomfortable and I wish that everybody had a lot of it or that nobody had any at all. But I guess this isn't really about money.

It's about how I closed up and disappeared and became a non-entity. I worked a lot but it was only about money in the sense that I needed just enough to pay rent and keep some in my bank account. I worked a lot so I could hold on to something that seemed to make sense to everyone else ("work") and I didn't let myself think about the other things that I wanted. It felt good to have a team at work, to be known and to feel solid. That was sufficient.

But before this year, my life wasn't about sufficiency. It was an overflow of feelings all the time and I cried a lot and that was a good thing. I wrote words and people read them and the words came from a real place in my heart. I stopped writing this year. My blog is almost empty and so is my journal because I just didn't have anything to say. There were no feelings that were pounding on my heart's door, demanding to be let out.

It's kind of the worst thing, to stop wanting. I don't believe for a second that I've ever stopped wanting, but I took desire and covered it up. Every time it knocked it was a faraway sound that I could shut out so easily, pretend it belonged somewhere else. I muted my desire to be anything, to be even a person. Was I a person who wrote? I had no beliefs, no identity, no passion. I didn't want to participate in anything, go anywhere, meet anyone. There was nothing for me to write.

I don't know if it was fear. I don't know what it was. I think it was just a mistake I made about myself, which I am okay with admitting. I think if I could go back I would love everyone a little harder, because I wasn't a very good friend, and I'm sorry about that.

Going to A-Camp reminded me of the person that I was when I first started working for Autostraddle. And everyone remembered me as that person, which made me want to be that person again. I miss her, that girl who was scared but brave, in love with everything and everyone. It reminded me of a time when I really lived, or something, whatever living is. I mean, it was living with other people, being comfortable in my own skin, and letting things hurt. Life doesn't have to hurt if you don't let it, but then I don't think you'll feel any feelings at all. I mean, you have to let them all in.

by Robin Roemer
this is a weird picture of me and I don't even mind

This is what A-Camp did, what Autostraddle does: it gives you confidence to be who you are. If there's anything I learned from Autostraddle for the past 3 years it's that you have to let yourself feel. Your feelings are beautiful and you're beautiful and god it sounds so corny, but that's what it is, you are beautiful and you need to let yourself feel things because I'm going to start feeling things again and it's all going to be okay if we have feelings together.

I think maybe the whole point of this blog was my weird way of trying to tell you who I am, even though I don't know who that is. I'm figuring it out piece by piece, and the Autostraddle team has been a big part of that. Sometimes I disappeared, but I want to come back. I don't really know what that means, sorry.

I don't know. I guess this is just my life and these are the things that have happened to me and the things that I have done. I'm not going to say that I'm not going to hide anymore because I will probably still hide sometimes. But I know a little better now what I want and who I want to be and I think I can be that person.

by Robin Roemer

I know you can't see these people's faces, but I want you to know they are among the most beautiful faces you will ever see.

I am humbled, once again, by the magic of Autostraddle. I want you to know that I knew these things about myself before, I knew that I had disappeared this year and become a blank slate of nothingness. But I guess A-Camp filled me up again, reminded me of there's a rosy complexion to my cheeks.

hi so this is the new year

hi i'm oscar here to bring you a very special message about life which i know a lot about despite only being 7-9 months old.

firstly i don't even know why i have to say this because everyone should know this by now but open bars are a bad idea. the number one rule of life is "don't be too drunk" and open bars result in a direct contradiction of this rule. alcohol is this very silly thing that makes people think it is a good idea to text their crush or jump on the subway tracks or get naked in public.

secondly emily is lying in bed like a dead person because she violated the number one rule of life and she lost her earrings. maybe she should do the dishes or put on some pants but she just can't. now she is suffering the consequences of her actions which i do not approve of because if you come home and have to shut the door so the cat can't get in your room because you don't want him to see you then you are probably doing something wrong.

thirdly emily's number one problem in 2011 which i know a lot about despite not being alive for the entire year was anxiety about other people. i think this is stupid because emily is a smart caring person who always feeds me on time the best that she can but for some strange reason she is overcome with crippling doubt/panic/anxiety that other people think she is something other than what she is. although she doesn't really know who she is so she is also often confused and convinced that maybe she should be who other people think she is or that maybe she is already that person and or that she is a person entirely created by other people's perceptions of herself and what is free will anyway? she's not sure she has to think about it more.

from autostraddle.com

fourthly i been to a lot of places and seen a lot of things and i just have to say that i just don't understand people. i mean what are these portable telephone things that keep bringing drama into everyone's lives. here is a cat's advice: stop drinking (so much) and stop drunk texting. i like it better when people read books in bed instead of texting in bed because paper tastes better. i like to chew paper. also everyone thinks that looking a certain way is very important but it's not really. dogs are colour blind so they don't even know what you're wearing anyway.

in the end it doesn't matter who kissed who last night or that emily's eating processed cheese on a burnt bagel right now. she just wants what we all want: free delivery on new year's day. 2011 was a great year because i was born and 2012 will be even better because i will be there for all of it and there is so much opportunity for snacks. 2012 is the year of snacks.

thank you drive safe,

oscar

are there snacks out there

"don't become the thing you hated" or how to be a giant asshole

[destroyer - don't become the thing you hated]

what if the thing you hated becomes the thing you love? what then? do you love it or hate it? what if doing the thing you love interferes with the reasons why you love it? what then? do you still love it?

you like the feeling of being good at something. you like familiarity, you like feeling important, and most of all you like the idea of something perfect and tangible, and you know if you have it all away it would be fine and you wouldn't cry. but you can't destroy the desire for that which isn't possible and accept what you get with a smile. because then who would you be? would you be who you wanted to be? who is who they want to be? if you love the thing you hated and then became it does that mean you're who you wanted to be? if you love the thing you hated and then became it and then you ate it... does that make you full? of shit? 'cause you lied to all your friends, and you can't look them in the eye. so you hide underground in the metro and they never see you anymore, and you never see them. you lied to everyone and you can't admit you changed and you'd rather be used and wasted than nothing at all. and you hate yourself for being the coward who lied, the lying coward who lied and lied and lied and became the thing they hated. in the end, it turns out, you're just an asshole.

(via)

disposable myths

"don't you ever for a second get to thinking you're irreplaceable." - beyonce

i've seen you before. don't worry, we are all children looking up for validation. i know you don't want to feel special, you want to be special. you are so helpful. you are always there. you are so kind, so loving. you want equality so long as you are the equal one. i've seen you before. don't worry, you always get what you want.

here's what i think, though. you are completely disposable. we are all completely disposable. one body is replaced with another (how absence is easily replaced by another body that makes the same motions, and then it's fine i guess) is replaced with another is replaced with another. how the giant world makes us feel so small, and the tiny world makes us feel so small. you are in denial about your dispensability, 'cause it hurts doesn't it. all we wanted was to feel like someone needed us. i mean, me. wouldn't it be nice to feel like someone needed you, but actually you, you you you? turns out nothing needs us. you're flushed.

but don't worry, because it's completely alright. see, here's the thing. you are not the first nor the last to do the thing you're doing. someone will most certainly accomplish the same things as you, and don't worry because someone already has done it before you. someone has already made your mistakes, and someone will make them again when you're gone. so that's it. you are not the first and you are not the last. you are a cog in the machine, you are not a cog in the machine. you are free.

it was a beautiful shitty place

names changed for privacy.

i used to live in a shitty apartment in the plateau, surrounded by nicer looking triplexes. the landlord was a busy jewish man with a black suv who banged vigorously on our door for rent every month. i found my roommates on craigslist. i think originally it was supposed to be a one-bedroom apartment but was then turned into a three-bedroom to fit more people. greg's room used to be a closet i think. my room was bigger than his but also small. it could fit a single bed in one direction only. i painted my room green and it was kind of ugly and i left it there when i moved out. nobody ever used the living room. we didn't even have a table until greg bought a tiny tv tray which tilted slightly on the uneven floor. kevin's friend who used to live there before i did still had a pile of stuff in the living room. he never picked it up in all the 8 months that i lived there. it included a tv, a basketball, a book about mao zedong, and a bright blue bra which appeared out of nowhere one day.

one time, i listened to post-war by m. ward a lot and it was beautiful and things hurt but a good kind of hurt, you know? i remember lying in my blue sheets in my green room trying to figure out what 'home' meant.

Open Letter to Myself

You got what you wanted. You stumbled home drunk and it was cold. Why is that a thing that you wanted. You were alone. You were walking with a ghost who's not coming back. You lay on the bed and your head spun and your ears rang and your heart burst but mostly you did not feel because you had drank too much. And it reminded you of other nights in another city where things were softer. And you said to yourself why did you do that. And you said to yourself, to make it hurt. Because you're a masochist. Because you're crazy. Because there's something wrong with you. Your mind is on fire.

Put it out, put it out. Don't ever put out the fire in your heart.

You got what you wanted. You wandered towards the moon. You wandered towards the cross on top of the mountain which never got any closer. You never got closer to anything. You never figured yourself out. Instead you trapped yourself inside a box and now you're stuck. And you wake up and you don't know where you are.

You're drunk all the time. You're not even a person sometimes. You're a shadow. You're the moon which never gets closer to anyone. You just run away all the goddamn time. Half of your christmas lights don't light up and you don't know how to fix that. And what about your inability to glue even the largest of broken pieces back together.

Why did you make the choices that you made. You got everything you wanted and you're still let down. Why do you live here. And what if you could have someone here right now beside you. Instead of writing this you could be talking to someone real instead of talking to yourself. Sometime there'll be someone here beside you and this room will be too small and you'll bump into each other way too often.

But your loneliness will go out like a candle in the close quarters.

[And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor --

And this, and so much more? -- ]

[Places to kiss:

+ On Rachel, in the middle of the street, between Clark and St. Urbain, facing the mountain.

+ Against the Sun Youth building.]

we've been selected in this beautiful lottery

[bright eyes - blue angels air show]

a thing happened.

a person happened.

she was born, she grew fingers and legs and stuff. often i would wonder how something would get to where it did, like how did those little hairs on her cheek get to be in those exact spots. why were her fingers that exact length. why is it like this.

why is it like this and not like this.

we fucked up i guess.

did we?

i am pulled apart. my arms are stretched enough to encompass the whole world. but they don't. is that a thing that matters?

a feeling happened. there is a feeling... of ... love ..., of never doubting that you are loved. it's a luxury, for sure. it's a feeling that we have. it's a thing that was born. and it grew. and we are forever responsible for what we have tamed. we are responsible forever for what we have created. we made love with the tips of our fingers.

there are things we have to do. between now and then. there are things that need to happen.

i am reminded of things i've forgotten. the way doors can open and people just walk in. it's not unexpected, no it's just how you planned it. i'm beginning to think that it might never happen. but now it is happening.

a door it is opening.

there are things that i know to be true. like how love is a form of truth and we pull it apart like hungry wolves. we had it. and how is anything ever going to be as good as what we had.

i mean -- you said you needed time and you had time. i said i needed love and i had love. but we tore it apart like hungry wolves. we don't know our teeth are actually knives. now we know.

but what can we do? i feel like edward scissorhands.

"so this is my life. and i want you to know that i am both happy and sad and i'm still trying to figure out how that could be." - the perks of being a wallflower

(e.pic)

"we did some impressive or regrettable things."

there was a moment of madness, i lost myself. i lost my head. we did some stupid things. i was no good at loving you, good good good, i went and looked at pictures of you when you were 17. your hair was lighter then. kisses were lighter then too, and sweaters; warmer weather.

i could kiss kiss kiss you now, across the counter, you are just my height.

and why must women have hair that they brush so casually from their faces, so loose and effortless? why must they have wrists and arms and mouths with crooked teeth?

i did some stupid things. now here is what is going to happen from now on: i am going to close the door so you can kiss me on the cheek and no one will see. no one will know. among the metal pieces we are pretty much magnetic anyway. shut up brain.

i would lean against a tree halfway with laughter, i would finish this dirty street, death of stomach, head of iron air, i would find your ugly side.

i am no good at loving you.

truth about women

it’s the middle of winter. i think winter is perfect for breathing close to someone when you’re outside and hiding your hands somewhere. i wonder why it is always winter when these things start.

it’s the middle of winter and i don’t have boots on. i have shoes on and they are wet. my knees are wet because i fell to the ground to look at the sky. i thought it might answer some questions but i guess since the sky can’t talk it just snowed on me. it snowed on everyone else too.

i tried to make the place i live a home. i try to drink something warm every day. i’m afraid in the middle of the night my bones might freeze if i don’t continually stir the fires in my finger tips. i wonder how long it would take for someone to find my frozen bones and all it would take is another body in my bed and i might just melt a little. well, the truth was that i was waiting for somebody. i was waiting for her to come to the place i try to call a home because i thought maybe, well, i thought she said she would. but that was a long time ago.

it’s hard when you’re in love with everyone in the world. i want to say “you’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen” i want to say that to everyone i meet, ‘cause it’s the honest truth, every time i look at them, god, i think, good god, you’re beautiful, and you, you’re beautiful too, you’re all so goddamn pretty i can hardly stand it. i love them all. i love you all and you don’t even know it. you’re beautiful and you know it so you don’t hear me when i say it.

you’re beautiful and you love each other and you don’t love me and i love you, all of you, and i say, i love you, and you, well, you. there you are.

time is strange because it’s never quite the same everywhere. somewhere it is summer. somewhere on the opposite side of me.

you wore a white shirt and you said something in my ear and it made me love you. i said that i didn’t love you before but now i do. i like that shirt you wear. i like those black framed glasses. you have your hand on my arm and inside my head i’m like “yes!yes!yes!”

no, wait.

that was a dream.

i’m wearing these shitty converse with holes in them and my feet are freezing already. i’m walking home at night, in fact, it may already be tomorrow, and there is slush in my shoes and inside of my socks. i wear my collar high or else the wind might come inside too, and then my bones would shiver, and they can’t take a shiver right now, they’re just waiting for a shake. but no one grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eye and says “shake shake shake”. shake shake shake.

i thought i’d be home by now but i’m not home. and you know what, i’m mad because i can hardly take it, you know, i can hardly stand it, i feel like kicking concrete. i’m mad at all the things; the wind, my dreams, the height of my ceilings, her glasses, cold tea.

i happened to be there one night. i never go there but then i was there instead of being somewhere else. that’s how things happen. it starts like i was doing my ordinary thing but then something changed. so something changed. so i was there. you were there, surrounded by friends or just other people. i carried you home and laid you on my bed. i said “i’m here,”

and you said,

“i want to go home”.

and home it is. keys and stuff. asleep in the next room. i stay up because i think she might call me. i remember that time is different if you’re not in the same spot as me, and she’s not. but i stay up because maybe, just maybe.

i had things tentatively planned. i thought she could maybe help me pick some winter boots. i thought we could stumble home from the bars and it wouldn’t seem so long and far. i thought maybe we’ll eat dinner somewhere, or maybe i’ll cook her dinner, or maybe both, or maybe more. she could walk to the bus stop with me. that’d be a nice change from standing with the lonelies who have gathered at the same spot for the same reason but can’t connect ‘cause they were born with lonely in their blood.

she didn’t call.

i’m so fucking in love with all of you. i’m so fucking in love and it hurts. it’s a million heartbreaks and i can’t go back. i can’t ever go back. once i was on the outside and it was a dull pain, the inside was a real heart but i’m not there anymore. and i can’t go back to anywhere. i’m so fucking lonely i might shrivel up into blank paper.

i barely sleep at night. i wander through dreams of people that i know but not well enough. in my dreams they are my friends but in real life we don’t know each other well enough to call it that. i wake up confused about the time. i think it’s morning when it’s 4 am and i start to get dressed only to check the clock and i can’t fall back asleep again.

when she finally called i hated every word i said to her. i was a sad puppy child full of contradictions. i cried quietly so she wouldn’t hear but all i wanted was for her to hear so i could get some attention. but i didn’t know what i wanted. but i knew what i wanted. but i wanted to cling to her body, looking for some kind of primeval comfort that i’m too shy to ask for when i’m sober. i couldn’t ask because i knew she couldn’t give. i didn’t know if she would call again. but i wanted it, yes, yes i did, so honestly that my own honesty hurt me.

after she called my eyes broke and i ate a half-cooked half-dinner. no, it wasn’t even half-cooked.

it’s not about you this time, i guess. it’s about me. it’s because i tried really hard. i mean, i really tried, i tried so hard that you didn’t even notice because everything i did was perfect. i was so fucking perfect. and i still lost.

i felt the fabric of your shirt, your white shirt. it touched my fingertips. i put my face to your chest and it touched my face. your arms were a blanket. i liked the way small parts of my skin stuck to your skin and the way you smelled and the way you breathed like it was a normal thing to do. you know i was still learning how. inside my heart i breathed a steady “yes, yes, yes”.

it was a dream. sometimes waking up from a dream is harder than other times. i can’t help myself for wanting it, for wanting you, for wanting her, for wanting everyone. time is hard, but time is not the same everywhere. somewhere else there is good time and the truth is that we will get there, all of us, every single one of us. because we’re so beautiful, we’re the most beautiful people ever made, and that’s the honest truth, i think, good god, we’re beautiful, and i love you, i really do, every single person, and all the doubles too.

inside my heart i breathe,

“yes, yes, yes.”

So Sick of Being Tired and Oh So Tired of Being Sick

There are a few things causing problems in my life right now.

I cannot register at Concordia until Monday. This causes problems for a few reasons. Namely, anxiety. Guys, I can't sleep. I'm not even joking. For the past two days I have wanted to throw a brick at my wall because all the classes I want to take are full. I have made a mock schedule and it causes me anxiety to rearrange it. It causes me anxiety to think of all the other people who are registering right now and taking up spots in the classes that I don't want to take but will have to take because the other ones are full. If I have to read Joy Kogawa's Obasan again I will drop out of college immediately.

The reason I took so long to start the registration process at Concordia was because I was waiting to hear from UBC which only sent my acceptance on May 14. Then Laura came and I was distracted. Then I called Concordia and they only scheduled my academic advising session for June 14.

Making a schedule is really hard. I think I must've been concussed when I decided to major in Creative Writing. Probably I should have looked at the degree requirements and the classes and maybe talked to an advisor about this stuff, but I didn't, I applied 2 days before the deadline and then through word of mouth I heard that it was a really good program, and still I didn't look at the courses and now I'm here in this spot, confused because I just want to write stories and I don't want to read Margaret Atwood and I don't want to study 18th century drama. I feel like maybe I should've known that Creative Writing is actually English Literature in Disguise with Four Creative Writing Classes to Throw You Off.

Sometimes I think I'm stupid. Not stupid like, 'I can't solve this math problem', but stupid like there's something that I'm missing. There's something about my life that I don't understand, that I don't get, when I finally do get it I'll have this "ooooohhhh" moment where everything makes sense and I can live my life better, but then I think that maybe there is no moment of revelation and as soon as I stop being so naive and realize that this is it, there is nothing else to "get", then I can come to terms with the fact that Modern Poetry in English is full and I can get on with my life.

But I can't stop thinking that maybe it will open up.

I think I just care a lot, you know? "I just want life in every word, to the extent that it's absurd" (and if this was an academic essay I would probs do some MLA shit right here, like, "Gibbard, Clark Gable", or something). Anyways. The point is that sometimes life is hard! And confusing! And no one wants to help you! And I want all of it, all of life. And you think one thing but it's really another thing and you feel cheated and upset, but maybe 17th Century Prose & Poetry is not as bad as it sounds (who am I kidding? It probably is) (but life goes on) (is what I'm trying to say).

This is One of Those Posts Where I Write a Random Poem About My Day

I can't stop thinking of you,

and my stomach,

which hungers for love more than my heart,

which seems full,

already,

full of bits of stuff and bits of fluff,

little pieces of misplaced

I-don't-know-whats.

++

I love you more than birds, which are free
and love is free and boundary-less.
I like you more than that.
Birds are tangible,
three-dimensional,
edible.
Love is quick to catch fire,
sparks,
embers burn long into the night.
I love you longer than night,
longer than the spread of eagle's wings,
the length of light from the sun on water.
Love is not so measurable as the sky,
which has limits,
but not the mind, which is so easily interrupted
but steady in its perseverance.

++

"I'm over him," she said,

but something about her tone

and the way she flipped her hair

made me think,

No you're not.

It occurred to me,

hours later,

that I couldn't remember her name.

Then,

more hours later,

I wondered if I ever

knew it in the first place.

"This is where I used to live," she said,

"and this is the high school I went to."

I said something,

but she didn't hear.

She was lost in a memory,

and I wondered

if she was even talking to me.

Later,

I laughed about it

but it wasn't funny.

The realness,

the closeness,

the tangibility of it all.

It confirmed my suspicion

that nothing,

if anything,

lasts.

It was three-dimensional

and edible,

so they ate it,

and it was gone.

I'm Not Really Sad, I'm Just Trying to Become a Better Person

but then i thought, "what if i never grow up?" i mean legitimately grow up. what if i'm stuck in this awkward year where my parents still do my laundry but i buy my own toothpaste and i take the bus to school and i can't drive and i don't know how to do banking or

there's a fear of growing up, but what if i just don't? what if i'm that person who can't do things for themselves? what if i can't have real relationships with people or if i live with my parents forever and they wash the dishes every night, what if i never learn to be a person, what if all my friends grow up and blow away...

and what happens if i can't get a job? what happens when i forget how to learn? will i have my own set of cutlery will my bed always feel so big and empty who will pay for my retainer to be fixed? who will say "i'm sorry", who will apologize, who will take the blame who will feel bad feel pity who will look down at me and say i'm sorry i failed and will i say i'm sorry i failed i never ever ever grew up i just never never learned i just stuttered and stuttered all my life.

what happens if i never figure out how to cook a chicken? what happens if i forget how to use the toaster? what happens if my hands fall off!? what happens if i forget how to write, do people suddenly become illiterate what happens if that's me, that's me, that's me. what happens if no one reads my book what happens if i don't write a book because my hands fell off and my eyes fell out and i have no goddamn legs. i'm just a box, i'm just a box, i'm a square and is someone sorry now, will someone take the blame, will someone claim responsibility for the empty cardboard box out there on recycling day?

what if i never learn how to tell a good plum from a bad plum or where the potato section is, what if i can't pay my library fines what if i can't find the library? what if i disappoint my grandmother? who is going to write about me? does anyone listen in class? what if i'm the person who forgets how to ride a bike? and i have to learn twice? my legs are gone! i just wanna wear suave shoes again. cardboard legs and cardboard shoes recycle me. i don't wanna cycle, recycle revenge. if i ever go away, who will buy me tea?

what if i have feelings and no one else has so many feelings and i drown other people, what if i drown people with me. like what if who i am is too big. what if i am a giant ocean wave, enveloping bodies and beaches and sand -- what if when i write i actually sound like obasan, the worst novel ever.

and what if i screw it up, what if my feelings consume me. what if i screw it up by being afraid of screwing up.

one day the lights will go out in my room and they will not turn on again. one day the boxes will be filled, they will be moved and loaded onto a van, the house will empty, the walls will be bare. one day we just will not be there.

[all pictures from before i die i want to]

++

I have thought about it and I have decided that my greatest fear is not dying, not not living, not "moving forward", but ignorance. More than being ignorant or naive, I don't want to be stupid. I don't want to think I know things but get them wrong. Socrates wouldn't like that. I never want to drown in my own confusion. I hope that I always strive to be better, be smarter. I hope I never settle for anything less than I deserve. I hope I stop thinking that I don't deserve happiness. I hope I never forget what learning actually is. I hope I never forget the person that I am right now, and the things I believe in. I hope that people never listen to me and think to themselves that I am stupid or that I don't know what I'm talking about. I hope I always present myself as an intelligent, well-read, creative woman. I hope that my intelligence never goes away -- I don't care what I look like, how tall or short I am, where I live -- I hope that I never stop reading and thinking and solving because that is the core of who I am.

Read my book, 'cause it's gonna be written.

You Feel Hopeless and Homeless and Lost in the Haze of the Wine

Maybe Matt Bergbusch was foreshadowing Friday night when he asked "who has all your lost or stolen socks?" and I said "Brendan Collins". Miraculously, after stumbling out of a club with my face in a fucking bag supported by a person I don't even know, I still have my house keys in my pocket. I still have my cards, my phone, my money, my earphones and even my fucking lip balm. I somehow managed to get my scarf, my jacket and my hat on. But I went home today with no socks. I lost them somewhere at Brendan's house.

++

Are they laughing at me? I asked. I stepped in a giant puddle. I was bent over, my knees seemed to be going on opposite directions, I just saw feet and heard voices, my face in that bag.

No, she said, no one is laughing at you.

Her voice was smooth, honest.

But they were probably judging me, I thought.

++

It starts sometime around midnight. I'm trying to tell someone to "meet me halfway". The thing is, I don't know where halfway is. I don't know where I am, where I stand or what I want. I'm thinking that "cmonqrrw were all in between just meet me halfway" is not very romantic.

I'm laughing and crying today. I find myself ridiculous, and hopeless. And I realize this is all very real and I'm on the verge of breaking through or breaking down.

++

Elliott Smith glorified walking between the bars.

I've been out haunting the neighborhood
and everyone can see I'm no good
when I'm walking out between parked cars
with my head full of stars.

There was nothing glorious about the way I was carried what seemed like one hundred miles to the car. Strong hands held me, someone I didn't know.

Why are you doing this, I asked.

Why, why in the world would this stranger pick me up off the floor and drag me somewhere safe. I know I said ridiculous things like Don't leave me! and clung to her body looking for some kind of primeval comfort that I'm too shy to ask for when I'm sober. But she never even needed to come near me in the first place.

Because you're the most beautiful girl here tonight. And we have the same name!

I don't know how beautiful I was trying to choke air down while coughing my stomach up but it's hard to disagree with someone when they kiss your disgusting face and hold your hand and tell you that it's fine and tell you that it's okay, it's okay it happens to everyone.

I don't even know what she looked like.

++

I've been trying to force something that's not there. I know I should let it go but I can't because I'm horribly overbearing and hopeful and desperate. This is my ballad of big nothing.

and you walk
under the streetlights
and you're too drunk to notice
that everyone is staring at you
and you don't care what you look like
the world is falling around you

you just have to see her

you know that she'll break you in two.

I would live for that glance, that one look where our eyes connect for a split second before people pass between us. Countless poems and songs have been written about that moment. Romantics die for that moment.

But that moment didn't happen because you were nowhere and I could barely open my eyes.

Good thing too, because I wouldn't want you to see me that way.

++

It's embarassing, it's humiliating. It's public shame that I probably deserved for not knowing my limits, or not obeying them.

But it's funny how at one of my lowest moments someone came out of nowhere, lifted me onto my feet and said I was beautiful. I was trying to lie down and die and she wouldn't let me.

So there's proof that good people do exist. Though it would probably be better to forget that night -- and the details are hazy now at best -- I don't want to forget the random act of kindness bestowed on me by a complete stranger.

Next time I see someone puking their brains out I will carry them home and tell them that they're beautiful and everything's going to be all right.

(via)

If You Want it to be Real Come Over For One Night and We Can Really, Really Climb

No attempt is made to explain away
the things that really, really, really, really, really are behind.
You can't hide.
- Okkervil River "For Real"

++

I found out on the metro, I mean -- I realized what I already knew -- that you're never going to call again. I figure that's okay, I guess. I tried/didn't try/didn't know what I was doing. But this is what I want you to know: no one knows what they're doing. It was my first time being born, my first time being 6, and 7, and 8, and feeling death -- my first time having a dead mother -- I don't know how to react -- does anyone? -- my first time in high school, first time learning the history of quebec, the geography of other people's bodies and mouths and hearts. It's my first time being 18, my first time living this day -- october 14th 2009 -- I'm never going to see this day again -- but how do I know what to do with it? So when I walked past you in the hall, so when I gave her that note, so when I avoided him on the way home; I was just living in my own weird way. I don't know if I'm doing it right. There's no instruction manual. I don't know if I should've said something else, or if this gets easier or more vivid. I don't think living gets easier, it just gets stranger. If I'm confusing it's because I'm confused.

I started reading the first couple of pages of this book and on page two I was told "love and ideals are not actually real". Oh, okay. I see it now.

Maybe it's because I have neither that I think this is untrue. Maybe I've read too many books, seen too many hollywood movies with romantic endings. Maybe I've been listening to too many songs that tell me love is the best sensation hiding in the lion's mane. I want love to be real, I need love to be real. I need ideals to be real because I idealize love in the worst way.

I slipped her a note in class, sat back and thought My life is a joke. After class she turned around, "Was this you who wrote this?"
Yes.
"Is this real?"

++

I'm just using you so I'll have a story to tell. So do your worst and I'll write my best. That's all I could ever hope for -- an experience so brilliant it will lift the words off the page. I'm running low on gas and I've kind of given up on you -- you, you'll never call. But now I'm asking you, come on, make it hurt! You're not killing me the way I want you to.

Come on, idealized love. I know you're real, I've felt you moving in me before.

And now I'm a walking contradiction. I wrote some days before -- notes in my phone -- But you're like, a real person. And I'm not. You're the kind of person who won't call back. And I'm not. I'll make you larger than you are. I'll write you into fiction, make you beautiful and smooth. But you're still real, you're just somebody else. I'm real too, but to other people. Maybe I passed you once before, before I knew you, and we slid by each other -- our worlds so close to touching -- your eyes straight, my head turned -- I didn't know you'd be real to me one day. Am I still outside your line?

++

I spend my days learning. I learn the curve of the hallways -- where the A wing is, the elusive F -- which bathrooms to use and when -- where to go when I'm alone -- and where to get on the metro so the doors open right in front of the stairs.

And when someone asks you if this is real, the answer is "Yes. Yes, of course it is." Because if this isn't real then I have nothing. If love isn't real then I -- we -- truly have nothing. You may call, or not. We might brush so close to each other again someday, maybe tomorrow. But I'll never have this day back, or that note, or this particular feeling walking home in a frustrated sorrow. I'll never be 6 again, or 7, or 8, my mom will never die again, I'll never be in high school for the first time. I'll learn new curves -- elbows and shoulders, lips -- meet other 'you''s and write other stories -- but I still won't know what I'm doing. It will still be the first time, it will still count, it will still be real. And I'll be here, taking notes.

Yes, this is real. This is very, very real.

Now it all seems too familiar, like pages turned on calendars

I had a post where I talked a lot of crazy about the past but that was it, all I did was talk crazy. I also went through my old journals and emails, it was just a ridiculously bad idea. Basically I don't know what's going on! Let's talk more crazy about 2006.

2006 was a stupid year. I turned 16 but I was probably really 5. I'm also turning 5 again this year. When I say 2006 I mean grade 10 which was really 2007. In 2007 I developed insomnia mainly because I exchanged sleep for staring at my ceiling. Also I made some late night phone calls where I breathed into the speaker and said things like "I can't sleep". I listened to a lot of Bright Eyes.

"i'm sorry about the phone call and needing you. some decisions you don't make. i guess it's just like breathing and not wanting to. there are some things you can't fake."
-bright eyes "feb 15th"

++

I disappeared for two months in 2006. I mean, I didn't write in my journal. Last entry of 2005: december 2. Then, a poem. Then, someone's name written a million times on one page. Both undated. Then, march 29, 2006. A letter. I didn't write anything in July. On August 14 I wrote an entire entry about fried eggs. On August 17 I made a list of things that annoy me. It took up two pages. Excerpts:

1. people sitting on my pillow
10. little kids
15. peeing
16. bad hair days
21. turtlenecks
23. mushy carrots

++

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I'm forgetting who I used to be. Or maybe, could it be, am I saying this?:

"i am trying to say what I want to say without having to say I love you"
-stars "what i'm trying to say"

November was when I realized I loved [redacted] already, and my heart soared.

Then it unraveled so fast and I was lost on buses in my own town and there was snow and it was cold and [redacted] was cold and I was dead inside. I followed [redacted] everywhere, really, I waited outside libraries and at home on the computer, I never slept 'cause of [redacted].

I spent a lot of time on the bus in grade 10.

"i take the city bus home
it's the same route every day
i check the schedule in case it changed
but it never does."
-my journal, november 20 2006

I spent a lot of time walking in 2007. I think 2007 was when I walked everywhere without actually going anywhere.

I spent a lot of time wasting time, doing nothing. People thought I was weird, I was just trying to hide from them.

++

August 27 2006; a story about yellow galoshes. September 2; a list of different ways to say hello. September 7; a to-do list. Things that I have accomplished on that list since then:

4) write a song
9) be able to do the rainbow (soccer move)

and this is up for debate

6) make one significant change in the world

++

"i'm sorry about the phone call, and waking you. i know that it is late. but thank you for talking, because i needed to. some things just can't wait."
-bright eyes "feb 15"

Whatever I Was Then I Can't Ever Be Again

i carved a heart out of wood in my woodshop class in grade 8. the machines scared me. i was scared of getting my fingers cut off. i thought it would be a good idea to carve your initials in the wood, thought it would be romantic even if i was the only one who would ever see it. and there i was, pretending i could hold forever in my hands, pretending there was something i knew to be true beyond all doubt.

one day i found my wooden heart with your initials on it, sitting on my desk. i took a pencil and scratched out your name. it was a long time ago.

in retrospect, and only in retrospect does the world seem less obvious.

polaroid