ad infinitum

Here I am writing something, mostly just for the sake of writing something. Because I haven’t written much of anything for a while. Or maybe because I was in the shower and the words just started coming out of me. They always come at such inopportune moments – the words, the ideas, the thoughts, the solutions even. This is no coincidence; it’s been scientifically proven, actually. (Though don't ask for a citation.) The mind at rest is free to let thoughts flow. Or maybe it’s because I’m sick right now. I’ve been in bed for most of the last thirty-six hours. My mind is strangely hollow and active at the same time. Or maybe it’s just because I love words so damn much. I’ve been reading so much lately. I hate to use the word voraciously, because it’s so typically used in this context. But I don’t have the desire or will right now to think of a better word, or worse yet, go to the thesaurus.

So I’ve been reading voraciously. I’ll go with that.

I’m currently nearing the end of a book by Haruki Murakami, an author so popular I'd normally refuse to read him. I’ve plowed through it pretty quickly. The story is great; it has kept me reading. I’ve been somewhat entranced with the characters and their stories. But at the same time, I’ve found myself feeling a bit of emptiness, or lack of love, as I read this book. The language is too simple, too straightforward. The story propels me, and the words bore me. I doubt I’ll read another book of his, just for this reason. More than I love stories, I love language. I read another book recently that made me literally want to eat it – to put the book in my mouth, chew it, swallow it. The language was so dense, so beautiful, so incredible, so, so, so, so much that my words can’t possibly do anything to describe it. The story was basic; I could have even done without it. I just wanted to read the words – to consume them. Let them enter my body, course through my veins, infect me. I didn’t care what they meant. What they meant to me was the same thing a beautiful piece of visual art does – structure, composition, emotion, whatever. The collage of words made a story, evoked an emotion, of their own. And that affected me more deeply than a compelling story with simple language. This is not to fault Murakami. Obviously, he’s a well loved writer. He admits his language is simple; it’s just not for me.

This started me thinking about design, which I only seem to think about abstractly these days. And I guess I’ve always been more fond of the abstract in everything I see and do. And so it goes with words. I’d sometimes rather not quite understand what they mean. And it leaves me thinking about my own words, my own language – what it means or doesn’t. And I’m stuck. Right now I’m stuck. “You’re a talented writer.” So what if I am. What does that mean? What have I ever done with it? What will I ever do with it? And I feel like I’m chasing the wrong dream sometimes, and that the universe is laughing at me. Mocking me. I feel like I should be – want to be – useful in this world. But where is my worth? What am I good for? And until I figure it out – if there’s even any figuring out to do – will I continue chasing my tail in circles? Will the universe continue to mock me? Do I need someone to kick me in the shins, shake me, punch me, wake me up from this dream that I’ll not dare call a dream?

Cause it sure as hell isn’t very dreamy.

Unless we are to consider that my dreams never are. I never remember them. They come to me only in fragments, vague feelings, foggy memories of a person, a place, a visceral sensation. They don’t have stories. I can’t recite them to you. They don’t make sense. In that case, sure, never mind, let’s go ahead and call this a dream. And as I think about my language and my writing and my so called talent – I think again, what is it good for? For putting here, on a blog that I both hope is read and not read? Aside from the one person who I know reads it, I assume there are others, but really I don’t know. And it seems contradictory that I would put these words here and simultaneously hope that no one reads them. But then some people who know me will laugh and say it’s totally appropriate, completely an apt representation of the self I simultaneously hide and project. And here I am, as I write these words, thinking it’s getting too personal, and that I’ll probably never put these words on this blog. And I’m wishing I could go back to the shower, where the words make sense. As the words, the language let’s call it, become real and concrete, they stop making sense. “Nothing makes sense.”

I want to be one of those people who writes sparingly. Cutting words. Fewer is better. I’d rather read something that doesn’t answer anything – something that only makes me wonder. I suppose it’s no accident that the way I write, the way I use my language, is not the way I like to read. I prefer to read those who write differently from me. Which I guess is not a problem, except that it leaves me wishing I were something or someone else. Which again, we could say is an apt metaphor for me. As these things usually are.

And this is all because I’m sick right now. Simultaneously antsy and lethargic. Foggy brain, elusive thoughts screaming to be freed from inside me. But “nothing makes sense.”

And what am I going to do with my life? I mean, what am I going to do? "You're a talented writer." So what if I am.

equilibrium:

a state of rest or balance due to the equal action of opposing forces

it's supposed to make [you] feel balanced,
they say
give [you] peace,
they say

instead,

it throws [you] 'round like a rag doll

and [you] say what is peace?
it sounds lovely

and she tells [you]
to lay down [your] weapons

?

[you] don't

know

if

[you]

can

or should
or will

but [you] do know

that [you] are,
as they say

a vessel
between two places
[you've] never been

A memory I prefer to keep:

[One from the archives that never made it out... I wonder if J will remember this day like I do...]

Caricatures.
Costumes.
The Baron and the Ghost.
Golden glows and hushed conversations.
Blackberry hookah stains the back of my throat with its flavor & fire.
Sangria.
Open minds.
Exploratory banter.
Wonderings about wanderings.
Questions without answers.
Pondering perplexedness.
Brief moments of clarity amidst profuse moments of obscurity.
Tattoos and bells.
The click-clack of my heels hitting the pavement, grounding me.
The city is muted on this Wednesday night.
I am muted on this Wednesday night.

doodly-doo-dum-diddy-dum

It doesn't happen often, but every once in a while I feel like it's written in the sky:

"Even though everything seems wrong, everything is right."

And god-damn-it, I relish those moments.

[god]

sometimes I wait
for an answer to arrive,
as if it were going to be delivered
by [god]

then I remember,
oh,
I don't believe in [god]

and I think,
this is where people who
do believe in [god]
get off easy

they can [pray] for an answer,
concoct whatever they desire,
say that [god]
told them so

and [!]
all is right in the world

Piercing Rays. And Sandwiches.

As I watched the morning sunlight flit between whispering leaves, making kaleidoscopic patterns on the dirt trail—as I sweated profusely and breathed rhythmically—I remembered a hike with my mom many years ago, probably over a decade, accompanied by two dogs who have long since died. And I remembered that we climbed in the clouds—up, up, up—until we reached something magical: the sun's rays literally piercing through the clouds, creating that visual ray effect you normally only see in movies or photographs. And we kept climbing—through the rays, through the clouds—until they were nothing but a pillowy, puffy white blanket beneath us. We reached the top of the mountain and ate sandwiches in the sun. Delicious sandwiches, because my mom always did—and still does—make the best sandwiches.

And everyone knows a sandwich is better when someone else makes it.

On a day like today...

...I wish for an easy train ride to a small seaside town where I can take a dip in the salty sea, drink a glass of something sparkling, sit on a giant rock as I watch the sun dip below the horizon, and hop back on the train to return home.

August & Everything After

August tends to be an unpleasant month for me. It means I’ve recently had another birthday. Another number. Another year of life demarcated. Another reason to question and evaluate what I’ve done and what I’m doing.

I get extremely restless this time of year. Every year. I have incredible urges to shake things up, do something drastic, take off to a foreign land, run away, reinvent myself.

August is that time of year when I know "summer vacation" is nearing the end, and school will start again soon. The pressure of "back to school" hits me every year at this time: Like a giant school principal in the sky, looking down on me, ready to throw the books at my head and say, "What are you going to DO this year, Audrey?"

This That and the Other

It's not really about this or that. More about all the things that surround this or that. But this and that each have a way of stirring up, conjuring up, the fractal bits that surround this or that. And it seems on the surface to be all about this or that, but really there's an entire universe surrounding this or that. It's all connected: this, that, and the other. Even the tiny fractals, the minuscule particles that are seemingly just floating around this or that. Even they are connected to this or that. Sometimes you focus on this or that so much that you don't notice the fractals. And other times you get so caught up in the fractals that you forget what this or that was. Even though this or that seemingly started it all. All this pondering, that is.

Crossing the Bridge

When random seems not so random...what does that mean? Or does it even mean anything?

Crossing the bridge.
Movement over the river.
I've looked for him for months.
Constantly wondered if he
was alive or dead or gone.
It's like a vision, a scene from a
movie at this point.
She's driving.
She's talking.
I have no idea
what she's saying.
I look out the window.
We pass them,
a gathering of the homeless.
And there he is.
I didn't see anyone else.
I didn't need to see anyone else.
I only needed to see him.
Is that random?
Or not?
Coincidence?
Or not?

Does coincidence even exist? Or do things just happen or they don't? And we humans want to add purpose to them... Because without purpose, we will wonder: What is the point of all this??

...

sometimes you are the teacher.
sometimes you are the student.
most often, however, you are both
whether you know it or not.

Untitled

For some reason today I actually looked at the doorknobs in my apartment. Examined the hardware, admired its shape. Dark metal against a white wooden door. Crystal knob. History. They’ve been here for a while. And me? I’ve been here a year, I’ve looked at these knobs hundreds of times, touched them just as many. But I’ve never seen them. I may have given them a glance, thought they were beautiful. But I’ve never given them the careful examination and consideration they deserve. They’re not really mine. I’m a resident here, but nothing here is really mine.

And I want to take a trip. To visit a place that isn’t mine. With things and people I can love, and inevitably have to say goodbye to. Because nothing here, and nothing there, is really mine. And nothing here, and nothing there, is really yours.

And all I have is now.

And all you have is now.

And all we have is now.

Tick Tock

clock is ticking.
refrigerator is humming.
these things are constant.
it's like I've been here before.
so many times before.
in this same place.
it is exactly the same.
and also very different.
circular.
yet not.
elliptical perhaps.
the short sides different than the long sides.
but still the loop is closed.
everything repeats.
not at a consistent pace.
but still it repeats.
and here I am again.
I've been here before.
clock is ticking.
refrigerator is humming.

Missing: Shopping Cart, Green Tarp, Man

I haven't seen him for a couple months. I've been wondering where he is, if he's okay. Did he just move on to somewhere else? Or did something happen to him? I'll likely never know. And I'll likely always wonder what became, or didn't, of the homeless man who was my neighbor. For a couple months, I saw him nearly every day. He had a regular routine, passing by my apartment at around the same time each morning, and always at the same location in the park. Then one day, he was gone. Sometimes this is what happens in life. And all we can do is wonder and accept the experience for what it was, before it became just a memory.

I can't make the words better than Charles Bukowski, so I'll just let his words do the talking:


the young man on the bus stop bench

he sits all day at the bus stop
at Sunset and Western
his sleeping bag beside him.
he's dirty.
nobody bothers him.
people leave him alone.
the police leave him alone.
he could be the 2nd coming of Christ
but I doubt it.
the soles of his shoes are completely
gone.
he just laces the tops on
and sits and watches traffic.

I remember my own youthful days
(although I traveled lighter)
they were similar:
park benches
street corners
tarpaper shacks in Georgia for
$1.25 a week
not wanting the skid row church
hand-outs
too crazy to apply for relief
daytimes spent laying in public parks
bugs in the grass biting
looking into the sky
little insects whirling above my head
the breathing of white air
just breathing and waiting.

life becomes difficult:
being ignored
and ignoring.
everything turns into white air
the head fills with white air
and as invisible women sit in rooms
with successful bright-eyed young men
conversing brilliantly about everything
your sex drive
vanishes and it really
doesn't matter.
you don't want food
you don't want shelter
you don't want anything.
sometimes you die
sometimes you don't.

as I drive past
the young man on the bus stop bench
I am comfortable in my automobile
I have money in two different banks
I own my own home
but he reminds me of my young self
and I want to help him
but I don't know what to do.

today when I drove past again
he was gone

Remnants

I used to love hitting the Roman streets in the early morning hours. Soundtrack in my ears, running or walking by the shopkeepers sweeping their sidewalks, cleaning up the cigarette butts and trash left from the prior night’s activity and partying…

I had my Portland version of that experience this morning. A Monday morning spin through the park after one of the first truly warm spring Sundays yielded a plethora of remnants from Sunday's festivities. Stacks of beer cans and bottles at every trash station lay in wait for a lucky can collector. Overflowing trash cans signified heavy use. It was like: wow, life happened here yesterday. Lots of it.

I certainly enjoy being part of the life, part of the activity. But there's something about solitarily witnessing the remnants in the quiet aftermath that I enjoy even more...

Skinned Knees

It’s trial and error, this life. Trial. And. Error.

It’s skinned knees and broken bones. It’s everything from the incomprehensibly painful little paper cut, to small knife cuts that bleed only momentarily, to gaping open flesh wounds that never quite heal.

It’s all these things. But mostly, it’s skinned knees.

You go for a run, full speed ahead, because it’s fun damn it!

Then boom! You fall down.

You lie on the ground in agony for a moment, looking at your skinned knees, all bloody and scraped, and mostly, exposed.

Then you get back up.

Skinned knees aren’t fatal but they hurt. They bleed and scab, and just when they’re almost finished healing, you let your guard down, bend your knees, and the scabs crack. Bloody again. Repeat process. Wait longer. Be on guard. Don’t bend your knees.

Eventually, skinned knees do heal, just like everything else.

But chances are, even once your skinned up scraped up knees are visibly healed, and your skin has magically repaired itself, you’re left with a reminder: new, fresh, soft pink skin…a little more sensitive than its older, tougher predecessor.

Skinned knees hurt.

Dear Sunday

Dear Sunday,

Where, oh where do you go? Why do you always leave me hanging? Stuck like a raggedy t-shirt, dangling by a single clothespin on the line. A lonely child abandoned on the side of the road.

You are as ephemeral as that crisp shadow cast by the fading sunlight.

Fleeting.

Sunday, you are so fleeting.

When you first arrive, you act as if we have so many possibilities, you and I. A truly optimistic notion. Endless potential.

Sunday, just as I chase shadows, I chase you. I chase you with an insatiability I can’t describe. I want desperately all that you have to offer. But I never catch you. You slip through my fingers every time. The result is always the same. You walk away, without giving me even an inkling of what you promised upon your arrival. You leave me forlorn, staring into the abyss that is your reservoir of constantly unfulfilled promises.

The only concrete thing you have to offer me is that you will come again. Seven more days, and we can try again. We can try to make this work. Again.

As I watch you turn your back to me and leave, I can only say: “See you next time, Sunday.”

Trouble with Titles

I have trouble with titles: literally, figuratively, metaphorically.

A job title. A personal title. An email subject title. A blog post title. An essay title. Any kind of title. Any kind of label.

I write, and then I struggle with the title. A title says so much; in some ways it’s crucial. How to categorically (and creatively) label what I’ve written in a way that means something? Brevity has never been my strong suit.

I’ve always hated labels; perhaps this is why I have trouble with titles. I’ve never felt comfortable with the labels placed upon me:

• You are a ___________
• You live in a _________
• You drive a __________
• You eat _____________
• You drink ___________
• You value___________
• You vote ____________
• You make ___________
• You do _____________

While we could fill in the blanks of these mundane sentences—and they would indeed be true—what do they say about me? Nothing of any consequence.

Titles, boxes, labels—they are often how we define ourselves and others. But I don’t like them.

Yet still, I will fill in the blanks...

• I am: a woman who thinks of herself as a girl. Or a girl who thinks of herself as a woman.
• I live: in a lovely place in a lovely city.
• I drive: a car, a bike, my feet, and my life.
• I eat: anything that tastes delicious.
• I drink: water, wine, beer, coffee, and booze.
• I value: everything and nothing.
• I vote: when I feel like it and when I am informed enough to do so.
• I make: cookies, cakes, strings of words, photographs—and occasionally—others smile.
• I do: everything and nothing.

But don't put too much stock in any of these things, because I have trouble with titles.

Tomorrows, Todays, and Yesterdays

This obsession with the New Year is not something I can grasp. Some kind of naïve, fruitless, childlike hope that 2010 will cleanse us of the ‘horror’ that was 2009? Sure, there is something metaphorically wonderful about a fresh start, about a new thing, a new day, a new year to signify a new beginning. But metaphorically what does this mean? That we are wiping the slate clean, discarding all that has occurred thus far? What is this anyway, a race to the end?

My lackluster feelings about celebrating the arrival of a new year are often met with disgruntled and bewildered reactions. I am of the belief that the arrival of a new year is simply the arrival of another tomorrow, not unlike any other tomorrow we’ve experienced, nor the many more tomorrows that are likely to come. Upon being told my perspective is “depressing,” I am now the one faced with my own feelings of bewilderment. How is this depressing? To me, it is exactly the opposite.

I value, equally, every day of this existence—no matter how mundane, extraordinary, or even gloomy. I will not write off 2009 as a terrible year, like so many are. I will not write off any experience, nor wish any time away, nor see any day as more or less significant than any other.

Life is but a process, and I’m not really interested in racing to the end.

I was once sitting in a hot, steamy, uncomfortable laundromat in Rome, eagerly awaiting the final ten minutes on the clothes dryer so that I could get out of there and move on. As I watched the seconds ticking down on the red digital reader, the diminishing seconds suddenly became time-bomb-like, symbolically representing the diminishing seconds of my life. In that moment, I experienced an epiphany. I told myself then that I would never wish time away, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

I’ll not trivialize this life experience by throwing out all the clichés about how precious life is and how we should be grateful for all that we have and blah, blah, blah. No. I will say it: Life sometimes sucks. Sometimes it even sucks ass. Shitty things happen, and life is not a fucking bowl of cherries. But I choose to see it as a process—not a means to an end. Process is fraught with ups and downs, agonies and ecstasies. Tomorrows become todays, and todays become yesterdays. And so it goes.

So here's to today, this day that is no more or less significant than any other. That is not depressing. That is beautiful. And that is life.