Well, I finally broke the seal and rode my horse last night. Aside from being a little unfocused and not the most supple he's ever been, he wasn't bad. He was sane, which was nice. We'll see how he feels once he gets back into better shape. I might have to prepare myself for the crazies. In the meantime, no horse has needed a back and good mane-pull more than he does right now. Blech. He is so gross.
When I put him back in his pen, he completely ran me over. I was not pleased. I've been working with him since he was a gangly, bum-high, big-headed, small-necked three year old to have manners on the ground. He doesn't run people over. He respects people's space. He's just too big to be rude, and generally he's not. I don't know why he did it, but his big drafty head smacked me right in the face. I woke up with a pounding headache and a stiff neck this morning. I wonder if that has anything to do with it.
I'm thinking about working at the barn on Sundays to help pay off my huge chunk of owed board. I don't really want to, because I already work Monday through Saturday, but I am just so broke. Maybe I'll talk to Shalayne and work something out. Maybe I can just feed on the weekends, or something. Or maybe I'll just continue working my two jobs as usual and pay her with money, rather than work.
Eric left the country yesterday. I'm sad. I tried stringing a friend's guitar, but failed horribly. The thing is literally impossible to tune. It got to the point where the nuts wouldn't turn anymore, and it was still ridiculously out of tune. I would pick a note on the low E string, and listen while it dropped as many as four steps, all on its own. I finally got it to sound somewhat like an E, and moved on the the A string. When I came back to the E string, it was a full octave lower, and it was G#. I don't understand. I need Eric to come help me. He could fix it. He is better at these things than I am.
I feel a little stressed out.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
measured my life in coffee spoons
I cleaned out my car today. Cleaned everything right out of it, and I mean everything. Garbage, clothes, books, shoes. Five scarves. Two toques. A pair of mittens. A set of coasters I bought at IKEA three months ago. The accumulation of all of the stressful aspects of my life.
I thought I'd feel better about my life if I did it; more in control. I don't. Instead I feel worry lines springing up on my forehead uninvited. I keep thinking about why my car overheats. Keep worrying about things like head gaskets and wondering if I'll ever have a completely worry-free day.
Eric is leaving for Europe tomorrow and I feel sad. We didn't celebrate my birthday before he left like we said we would. He didn't bring it up. In the midst of all of my hurt feelings, I asked him about it and he said he bought me a card but hasn't written in it yet, and that was all. Said something about how we'd celebrate it when he got home. It would have been nice to have been briefed of his plans -- or of his postponement, rather.
Tomorrow I'm going to begin the long stretch of full-time office-boredom, marked with short spurts of part-time greenhouse-coffee-shop-exhaustion. And the horse remains dreadfully unridden. The bills remain unpaid. Racked up.
Fourteen hundred and seventy dollars went towards the stupid moment of making a U-turn in deep snow.
I am feeling more like J. Alfred Prufrock than ever. Maybe I won't read the poem ever again until I'm forty-five, and then we'll see how I feel about it.
I thought I'd feel better about my life if I did it; more in control. I don't. Instead I feel worry lines springing up on my forehead uninvited. I keep thinking about why my car overheats. Keep worrying about things like head gaskets and wondering if I'll ever have a completely worry-free day.
Eric is leaving for Europe tomorrow and I feel sad. We didn't celebrate my birthday before he left like we said we would. He didn't bring it up. In the midst of all of my hurt feelings, I asked him about it and he said he bought me a card but hasn't written in it yet, and that was all. Said something about how we'd celebrate it when he got home. It would have been nice to have been briefed of his plans -- or of his postponement, rather.
Tomorrow I'm going to begin the long stretch of full-time office-boredom, marked with short spurts of part-time greenhouse-coffee-shop-exhaustion. And the horse remains dreadfully unridden. The bills remain unpaid. Racked up.
Fourteen hundred and seventy dollars went towards the stupid moment of making a U-turn in deep snow.
I am feeling more like J. Alfred Prufrock than ever. Maybe I won't read the poem ever again until I'm forty-five, and then we'll see how I feel about it.
exit sign
Sometimes I try writing poetry.
exit sign
the words rolling around
on my tongue taste bitter
so i spit them out
at you while you inhale
smoke of your unspoken
words curls upwards
past my chandelier,
towards the ceiling
where it might pop
against the abbrasive surface
no less abbrasive than i am,
you'd say
no less harmful
we should get down
on our hands and knees, now
avoid the smoke before it
ruins our lungs
under the thick ambiguity
we'll crawl towards the exit sign.
exit sign
the words rolling around
on my tongue taste bitter
so i spit them out
at you while you inhale
smoke of your unspoken
words curls upwards
past my chandelier,
towards the ceiling
where it might pop
against the abbrasive surface
no less abbrasive than i am,
you'd say
no less harmful
we should get down
on our hands and knees, now
avoid the smoke before it
ruins our lungs
under the thick ambiguity
we'll crawl towards the exit sign.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
this is fiction. fyi.
Inspired by an actual flyer.
Dress For Sale, Never Worn. Size 8, No Alterations Made.$350 $250 OBO.
It's usually in the closet, but I take it out to look at it sometimes. I picture myself wearing it, and we're drinking champagne with our arms interlocked like people in movies do. That's what I saw the first time I tried it on, when your mother said, "oh, honey..." and the sales girl told me I looked fantastic.
I never pictured replacing it with a drab black suit. Of stepping out of a resplendent, glowing, bright-white dream and into a heavy, suffocating cloak.
"Oh, honey..." your mother said to me when we stood next to black Crown Vics at the edge of the green expanse. I was staring out at the rows and rows of you. Other people that were like you. People who meant something to somebody like you did to me.
I took it out of the closet and lay it on my bed, and thought about the hundred-and-fifty phone calls that had to be made. The photographs that weren't taken, the cake that wasn't shared, the music that wasn't danced to, or even played at all.
I keep having dreams that I'm standing alone inside the reception hall. You promised to meet me there; you promised, so where are you? And I say your name out loud, and it echoes empty through the room.
When I'm awake, my thoughts echo empty in my mind.
When I came home from the funeral, I tore the drab black suit from my body, like I couldn't get out of it fast enough, like its heavy, unbreathable material was tightening
tightening
tightening.
And I fell down on my bed next to the dress, still lying where I'd been looking at it earlier this morning, and with pieces of silk and lace in my hands, I fell asleep.
This morning I made a flyer, and I asked a third of what I bought it for. Then in the car, on the way to post the flyer, I hastily crossed out the price and lowered it by $100.
I can't keep dreaming about the empty reception hall or my echoing voice or your mother saying, "oh, honey," to me while I slowly drift away.
Dress For Sale, Never Worn. Size 8, No Alterations Made.
It's usually in the closet, but I take it out to look at it sometimes. I picture myself wearing it, and we're drinking champagne with our arms interlocked like people in movies do. That's what I saw the first time I tried it on, when your mother said, "oh, honey..." and the sales girl told me I looked fantastic.
I never pictured replacing it with a drab black suit. Of stepping out of a resplendent, glowing, bright-white dream and into a heavy, suffocating cloak.
"Oh, honey..." your mother said to me when we stood next to black Crown Vics at the edge of the green expanse. I was staring out at the rows and rows of you. Other people that were like you. People who meant something to somebody like you did to me.
I took it out of the closet and lay it on my bed, and thought about the hundred-and-fifty phone calls that had to be made. The photographs that weren't taken, the cake that wasn't shared, the music that wasn't danced to, or even played at all.
I keep having dreams that I'm standing alone inside the reception hall. You promised to meet me there; you promised, so where are you? And I say your name out loud, and it echoes empty through the room.
When I'm awake, my thoughts echo empty in my mind.
When I came home from the funeral, I tore the drab black suit from my body, like I couldn't get out of it fast enough, like its heavy, unbreathable material was tightening
tightening
tightening.
And I fell down on my bed next to the dress, still lying where I'd been looking at it earlier this morning, and with pieces of silk and lace in my hands, I fell asleep.
This morning I made a flyer, and I asked a third of what I bought it for. Then in the car, on the way to post the flyer, I hastily crossed out the price and lowered it by $100.
I can't keep dreaming about the empty reception hall or my echoing voice or your mother saying, "oh, honey," to me while I slowly drift away.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
one perfect joy.
It's spring, and I feel like writing poetry. So I wrote one. One tiny, tiny poem. Unoriginal as I am, I named it "spring."
I don't think I'm a poet, actually. But it's fun to try it anyway. I've been feeling like everything in my life could be a series of poetry. Maybe I'll publish a book one day.
I'd like to write a collection of stories from the barn, and from our lives, and publish them all together in one book. Once I am finished with school and can really focus on something that's for me (and not for grades), I think I'll start on it. So many important things happened. There is so much to tell. So much for the world to understand about our summers and winters and all of the things that happened to us because of that one, obvious, common thread that connects us all.
It's 11:30 PM. I have to go to work tomorrow, but I wish so bad it was a weeknight so that I could watch my favourite late-night television shows before falling asleep. I have fallen asleep during so many interviews on Late Night. I have forced myself to stay awake through those first, funny sketches.
I rode my horse today, for fifteen minutes until he was sweaty, and I was out of breath. We are so out of shape, the two of us. And I am always in a hurry. I just want to go outside and gallop around. Seriously, that's what I want to do with my hundreds of dollars per month: have unlimited access to galloping around in Albertan fields. I spend a winter full of debt for that one, perfect joy.
This is the beginning of a full week.
I don't think I'm a poet, actually. But it's fun to try it anyway. I've been feeling like everything in my life could be a series of poetry. Maybe I'll publish a book one day.
I'd like to write a collection of stories from the barn, and from our lives, and publish them all together in one book. Once I am finished with school and can really focus on something that's for me (and not for grades), I think I'll start on it. So many important things happened. There is so much to tell. So much for the world to understand about our summers and winters and all of the things that happened to us because of that one, obvious, common thread that connects us all.
It's 11:30 PM. I have to go to work tomorrow, but I wish so bad it was a weeknight so that I could watch my favourite late-night television shows before falling asleep. I have fallen asleep during so many interviews on Late Night. I have forced myself to stay awake through those first, funny sketches.
I rode my horse today, for fifteen minutes until he was sweaty, and I was out of breath. We are so out of shape, the two of us. And I am always in a hurry. I just want to go outside and gallop around. Seriously, that's what I want to do with my hundreds of dollars per month: have unlimited access to galloping around in Albertan fields. I spend a winter full of debt for that one, perfect joy.
This is the beginning of a full week.
Friday, April 11, 2008
spring
the muck of the new year
is stuck to the open-toed shoes
i ressurrected from my basement
i count spring as the beginning
i am standing in the mud
outside your house
in the weak sunshine
it's the beginning of a do-over,
at least.
is stuck to the open-toed shoes
i ressurrected from my basement
i count spring as the beginning
i am standing in the mud
outside your house
in the weak sunshine
it's the beginning of a do-over,
at least.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
riddles
Today I heard a song she loved.
It's silly. We used to make fun of her for her unashamed love of Kenny Rogers and Patrick Stewart and drinking Sourpuss out of wine glasses. Now that's all I want to do.
I want to be back in the back seat of her truck, and hear that silly song come on, and laugh while she turns it up and says, "Come on, it's GOOD! Sing along!" And I want to keep driving and driving and driving forever.
If we get out of the truck, it'll all go away. I didn't know that then. I do now.
I don't like these kinds of life-changing experiences. The kinds that make you different, in your heart, than the way you were before. It's not that I don't like change; I just don't like my life without her in it. And I can't stop thinking of all the different ways to live my life, and which one would she think is a good idea? What kinds of advice would she give me now, if I were sitting in her kitchen floor at midnight, the way I used to. The way we all would. Taking turns.
And we are different than we were before, in the most profound way. We didn't ask to be different, did we? I didn't ask to be forced to take giant steps forward, away from the way things were. It's heavy on my heart.
My wisest friend, who loved Kenny Rogers, got out of the truck.
Who's left to drive, now?
life ain't nothing but a funny, funny riddle. -- K.R.
It's silly. We used to make fun of her for her unashamed love of Kenny Rogers and Patrick Stewart and drinking Sourpuss out of wine glasses. Now that's all I want to do.
I want to be back in the back seat of her truck, and hear that silly song come on, and laugh while she turns it up and says, "Come on, it's GOOD! Sing along!" And I want to keep driving and driving and driving forever.
If we get out of the truck, it'll all go away. I didn't know that then. I do now.
I don't like these kinds of life-changing experiences. The kinds that make you different, in your heart, than the way you were before. It's not that I don't like change; I just don't like my life without her in it. And I can't stop thinking of all the different ways to live my life, and which one would she think is a good idea? What kinds of advice would she give me now, if I were sitting in her kitchen floor at midnight, the way I used to. The way we all would. Taking turns.
And we are different than we were before, in the most profound way. We didn't ask to be different, did we? I didn't ask to be forced to take giant steps forward, away from the way things were. It's heavy on my heart.
My wisest friend, who loved Kenny Rogers, got out of the truck.
Who's left to drive, now?
life ain't nothing but a funny, funny riddle. -- K.R.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
and if we're lost
I keep hearing songs in my head that creep up on me. That I haven't heard in a while. They just begin. Like "the stars are strange and beautiful tonight."
And then I want to go outside and look at them and see if it's true.
I feel weird. I don't feel like I'm settled into something I could get used to.
And then I want to go outside and look at them and see if it's true.
I feel weird. I don't feel like I'm settled into something I could get used to.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
what it's about.
Today I drove to work with my sunglasses on and my window rolled down and I thought about how nice it would be just to keep driving. I could have stayed on the same road and gone straight to jasper. I could have eaten ice cream in Jasper and gone for a hike and written in my journal at the base of a mountain.
But I turned onto 184th Street and went to work, because that's what my life is about. It's about going to school. It's about studying and doing homework. It's about data entry at a boring job. It's about confinement.
I want it to be about driving to the mountains on a moments' notice. About making decisions that just affect my day, and not the rest of my life.
But I turned onto 184th Street and went to work, because that's what my life is about. It's about going to school. It's about studying and doing homework. It's about data entry at a boring job. It's about confinement.
I want it to be about driving to the mountains on a moments' notice. About making decisions that just affect my day, and not the rest of my life.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
without
I just read a book of poetry in twenty minutes at the library while compiling research for a project. The book completely absorbed me. Pulled me by my bones into the poet's state of mind. And I can't stop thinking about it.
It's called "Without" and it's by Donald Hall. It's a collection of poetry about the sickness and passing away of his wife, a fellow poet named Jane Kenyon. It was so close and sore. So beautiful and heartwrenching.
I cried under the brim of my hat at the table amidst students who were all concentrating on their work, heads bent, pencils scribbling. And I was turning pagest as fast as I could, letting a big tear drop slip down my cheek.
And I tried to go back to planning my research presentation, but I couldn't. I need to sit and think about Jane; I need to let her settle in my mind before I can move on. I need to let my own experiences with cancer and best friends settle down, return to the pit of my stomach where they usually sit. Let Jane and Tanya sit in the pit of my stomach and not interfere so much with my heart so that I can get some work done.
There is so much work to be done.
And so many things I haven't.
It's called "Without" and it's by Donald Hall. It's a collection of poetry about the sickness and passing away of his wife, a fellow poet named Jane Kenyon. It was so close and sore. So beautiful and heartwrenching.
I cried under the brim of my hat at the table amidst students who were all concentrating on their work, heads bent, pencils scribbling. And I was turning pagest as fast as I could, letting a big tear drop slip down my cheek.
And I tried to go back to planning my research presentation, but I couldn't. I need to sit and think about Jane; I need to let her settle in my mind before I can move on. I need to let my own experiences with cancer and best friends settle down, return to the pit of my stomach where they usually sit. Let Jane and Tanya sit in the pit of my stomach and not interfere so much with my heart so that I can get some work done.
There is so much work to be done.
And so many things I haven't.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
copied
My office smells like photocopies.
Like ink and hot paper and mechanisms.
I photocopied everything in the world, just now. I'm tired. It wasn't the photocopying that really took it out of me, it was many other things -- but I just don't like the smell.
Like ink and hot paper and mechanisms.
I photocopied everything in the world, just now. I'm tired. It wasn't the photocopying that really took it out of me, it was many other things -- but I just don't like the smell.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
less small
I've been thinking about how much she'd love the new barn. About riding through tall grass and looking behind me and seeing her bareback on her old horse, right there like she always was. And about feeling confident and valued. About friendship.
I would give anything to drive up the long, treed-in driveway and see her car parked next to the others, and feel relief for once in the past year-and-a-half. And I'd like to feel that the world doesn't have total power over me. I'd like to feel a little less small.
I would give anything to drive up the long, treed-in driveway and see her car parked next to the others, and feel relief for once in the past year-and-a-half. And I'd like to feel that the world doesn't have total power over me. I'd like to feel a little less small.
Monday, March 3, 2008
lights will guide you home
It's 12:38 AM, and I should be sleeping. I have to get up early tomorrow to go out to the barn and catch horses for the farrier. I'm not in a very sleepy mood right now. I'm in the mood to get an extra-large coffee and go for a long drive. Maybe listen to Coldplay.
Or I could try getting into my bed, lying down and closing my eyes.
Or I could try getting into my bed, lying down and closing my eyes.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
meltdown!
There was a minor meltdown yesterday that involved a lot of crying screaming bad words at my computer. It was about a large project due today that I didn't really know about. It was about a broken printer in my hour of need.
But I made a cup of tea, I wrote down a list, I fixed the printer, and I moved on with my life.
It's okay, now.
But I made a cup of tea, I wrote down a list, I fixed the printer, and I moved on with my life.
It's okay, now.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
free things:
I randomly applied for a job at Spruce Meadows. For some reason, against all logic, I really hope I get a phone call about it.
This is logic:
1. Spruce Meadows is in Calgary.
2. I do not live in Calgary. Or even near Calgary.
3. I can't afford to rent somewhere in Calgary by myself.
4. I have other plans and obligations here in Edmonton.
5. What about my horse?
6. This is not a parallel list. The grammar school within me can't believe I just threw a question into an otherwise non-interrogative list.
But the thing is, I secretly want to do something different than what I've been doing. Something that doesn't involve me settling for some lame, boring job the way I've always been doing. Something that involves change.
I keep daydreaming about driving down there with my car all loaded with all the aspects of my life I can't leave behind. So I guess my giant oaf of a horse would be sitting in the passenger seat, grooving along to Simon & Garfunkel, and all of my friends and my boyfriend would be in the back seat, playing my guitar, watching my TV, and trying on my clothes. And then we'd get there, and there would magically be a big house that we could all live in, and it would be fully furnished, and it would be free. And so would I.
This is logic:
1. Spruce Meadows is in Calgary.
2. I do not live in Calgary. Or even near Calgary.
3. I can't afford to rent somewhere in Calgary by myself.
4. I have other plans and obligations here in Edmonton.
5. What about my horse?
6. This is not a parallel list. The grammar school within me can't believe I just threw a question into an otherwise non-interrogative list.
But the thing is, I secretly want to do something different than what I've been doing. Something that doesn't involve me settling for some lame, boring job the way I've always been doing. Something that involves change.
I keep daydreaming about driving down there with my car all loaded with all the aspects of my life I can't leave behind. So I guess my giant oaf of a horse would be sitting in the passenger seat, grooving along to Simon & Garfunkel, and all of my friends and my boyfriend would be in the back seat, playing my guitar, watching my TV, and trying on my clothes. And then we'd get there, and there would magically be a big house that we could all live in, and it would be fully furnished, and it would be free. And so would I.
to remember:
"Somewhere behind the rider you've become, the hours of practice you've put in, & the coaches that have pushed you, is the little girl who fell in love with the sport and never looked back. Ride for her."
-- Anonymous
-- Anonymous
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Slovenia (Or How It Happened In Three Parts)
I am resisting the urge to exploit my personal life by writing postcard stories and sending them to various literary journals (such as Grain, Other Voices, et al.) for publication. Really, I have had so many glorious ideas for stories as a result of my own turmoil. Last night, while I lay in the fetal position on the floor in the shower, I was crafting sentences about how everything was slowly unravelling in a matter of three days. I even had a title. It was Slovenia (Or How It Happened In Three Parts). But I would maybe have to change the parentheses, because I stole that from a short story published three seasons ago in Grain. So maybe just Slovenia. Either way, it was brilliant. Either way I am sitting at a table with the incorrigable boyfriend, his parents, their business partners and a girl I thought was a boy watching old people polka their hearts away at the Slovenian Cultural Center. I was being the bigger person.
I was being the Biggest Person, because despite the fact that a night out with my friends the evening before was a complete disaster; despite the fact that there had been a huge fight in front of my friends; despite the fact that there was an icy cab ride home; despite the fact that the fetal-position-shower-thing happened there, too; despite the fact that one of us slept on the couch; despite the fact that he yelled at me; despite all of those things, I did my hair and put on a nice outfit and went to a weird Slovenian party in celebration of all of the big game they'd shot in 2007 and I rose above. I had a nice time. I made the best of the situation. I was the Biggest Person On The Face Of The Planet Earth, Including World Record Winners For Tallest Or Fattest Or Most Famous. However, there's a fight in the car on the way home and an hour-and-fifteen-minute shower where I lay on the floor and contemplate my life. Sketched stories. Crafted perfect first sentences.
I don't know how I could continue having relationships with people in my life if I exploit those relationships' misgivings with the written word. That is not my task, here. At least, I don't think it is.
So I'm not going to write Slovenia, despite its literary genius. And I'm not going to submit it. And I'm going to work on coming out of the hole I've created over the past two days, and I'm going to finally return the phone calls of my anxious and caring friends.
I was being the Biggest Person, because despite the fact that a night out with my friends the evening before was a complete disaster; despite the fact that there had been a huge fight in front of my friends; despite the fact that there was an icy cab ride home; despite the fact that the fetal-position-shower-thing happened there, too; despite the fact that one of us slept on the couch; despite the fact that he yelled at me; despite all of those things, I did my hair and put on a nice outfit and went to a weird Slovenian party in celebration of all of the big game they'd shot in 2007 and I rose above. I had a nice time. I made the best of the situation. I was the Biggest Person On The Face Of The Planet Earth, Including World Record Winners For Tallest Or Fattest Or Most Famous. However, there's a fight in the car on the way home and an hour-and-fifteen-minute shower where I lay on the floor and contemplate my life. Sketched stories. Crafted perfect first sentences.
I don't know how I could continue having relationships with people in my life if I exploit those relationships' misgivings with the written word. That is not my task, here. At least, I don't think it is.
So I'm not going to write Slovenia, despite its literary genius. And I'm not going to submit it. And I'm going to work on coming out of the hole I've created over the past two days, and I'm going to finally return the phone calls of my anxious and caring friends.
Monday, February 4, 2008
secrets
There are a lot of things that I am not willing to admit out loud. I mull over them in my head when I lie awake at night, or when I am on my constant commute to and from the west end. Things that I like to keep a secret from my own ears. Once they hit the air they'll be true, and I'd prefer if they weren't.
Things like the fact that it's not getting better. Missing her. Feeling physically sad about the lack of her presence in my life. It feels like there's a string tied to my heart that leads straight out the front of my chest, and she's holding the string, and she's so far away. So far away that my heart wants to press itself against my rib cage, come right out of my body, and fly away to be closer to her. Sometimes, when I'm doing trivial tasks, like tying my shoes, or washing my hair I suddenly think, "I can't believe she died. It doesn't make sense. She was there. She had permanence. And now, it's all gone."
Today I used company resources to make dozens of copies of the newsletter she used to put out at the barn. Reading through her honest, straightforward writing and reminiscing about how thoroughly and perfectly she did her job made the string on my heart tighten. Thinking about Beau and his recent death made the string tighten. Thinking about my own horse, unridden, makes the string tighten.
I feel guilty for not being more motivated. She was motivated. She motivated me. She helped me make plans and move forward and decide things. I'm not good at any of those three. I wish I could just feel motivated to ride and train and be the athlete that I was when she was there to encourage me.
And my constant longing for my wisest friend to be back in my life, or at least back on earth in someone else's life isn't even the only thing. I am feeling this winter in bones. Every day, I wish it would just stop. I think I'd be a lot happier if I wasn't worrying about plugging in my car and shoveling the driveway. I think I'd be a lot more motivated if going outside weren't such an ordeal. And I am feeling the strain and drag of long-term relationships. Of having the exact same arguments where we each say the exact same thing that we did all the other times, and coming up with no solution. Why?
And I am feeling the exhaustion of another semester at school. It feels like my life energy is being pulled down towards my feet and into the ground. It feels like I don't have the right words for the right assignments. I feel stressed out about it, but at the same time, I feel like calling it quits. Just for a little while. Just for a few months. Just to regroup. Just to rejuvenate. Just something. I am feeling trapped within the life that I've been chosing. This school-work-school-work-ride-school-work life that I've mapped out for myself for the next few years.
And so it's just a few little things that nag at me constantly that are beginning to wear me down. And I could really use a nice, long nap and a hot shower and an all-inclusive Costa Rican resort.
Things like the fact that it's not getting better. Missing her. Feeling physically sad about the lack of her presence in my life. It feels like there's a string tied to my heart that leads straight out the front of my chest, and she's holding the string, and she's so far away. So far away that my heart wants to press itself against my rib cage, come right out of my body, and fly away to be closer to her. Sometimes, when I'm doing trivial tasks, like tying my shoes, or washing my hair I suddenly think, "I can't believe she died. It doesn't make sense. She was there. She had permanence. And now, it's all gone."
Today I used company resources to make dozens of copies of the newsletter she used to put out at the barn. Reading through her honest, straightforward writing and reminiscing about how thoroughly and perfectly she did her job made the string on my heart tighten. Thinking about Beau and his recent death made the string tighten. Thinking about my own horse, unridden, makes the string tighten.
I feel guilty for not being more motivated. She was motivated. She motivated me. She helped me make plans and move forward and decide things. I'm not good at any of those three. I wish I could just feel motivated to ride and train and be the athlete that I was when she was there to encourage me.
And my constant longing for my wisest friend to be back in my life, or at least back on earth in someone else's life isn't even the only thing. I am feeling this winter in bones. Every day, I wish it would just stop. I think I'd be a lot happier if I wasn't worrying about plugging in my car and shoveling the driveway. I think I'd be a lot more motivated if going outside weren't such an ordeal. And I am feeling the strain and drag of long-term relationships. Of having the exact same arguments where we each say the exact same thing that we did all the other times, and coming up with no solution. Why?
And I am feeling the exhaustion of another semester at school. It feels like my life energy is being pulled down towards my feet and into the ground. It feels like I don't have the right words for the right assignments. I feel stressed out about it, but at the same time, I feel like calling it quits. Just for a little while. Just for a few months. Just to regroup. Just to rejuvenate. Just something. I am feeling trapped within the life that I've been chosing. This school-work-school-work-ride-school-work life that I've mapped out for myself for the next few years.
And so it's just a few little things that nag at me constantly that are beginning to wear me down. And I could really use a nice, long nap and a hot shower and an all-inclusive Costa Rican resort.
ivory lines lead
I feel like writing postcard stories lately. I feel like sitting outside in the sun, writing postcard stories. There are two problems with this scenario:
1. It is -20 degrees outside, and frankly, not very sunny.
2. I have writer's block.
I can feel creativity bubbling up inside me, but it has nowhere to go. I'm just thinking over one sentence that I'd like to use; chewing it up and spitting it out and trying again. This is the sentence (in one of its multiple variations):
Your words go down easy: they just leave your lips and slip into my own, and I can roll them around and really feel their weight before letting them in all the way.
I've been listening to a lot of folk music lately. I think I could be folksy, if I tried. I could run around quoting Simon and Garfunkel, learning simple songs with sweet melodies on my guitar, drinking herbal tea and trying to be bohemian. In addition to the folk music, I've been reading poetry written by musicians. Leonard Cohen, Billy Corgan, those kinds of people. The kind who write about longing and loneliness in the middle of the night. The kind who mark their time with cigarettes and ashtrays and empty bottles of what once was red wine, but is now the blood that travels through their veins.
Death Cab for Cutie wrote a song called Lightness that talks about the heart as a river and the brain as a dam:
Your heart is a river that flows from your chest
Through every organ
Your brain is the dam
And I am the fish who can't reach the core.
I guess that's all I have to say, right now.
1. It is -20 degrees outside, and frankly, not very sunny.
2. I have writer's block.
I can feel creativity bubbling up inside me, but it has nowhere to go. I'm just thinking over one sentence that I'd like to use; chewing it up and spitting it out and trying again. This is the sentence (in one of its multiple variations):
Your words go down easy: they just leave your lips and slip into my own, and I can roll them around and really feel their weight before letting them in all the way.
I've been listening to a lot of folk music lately. I think I could be folksy, if I tried. I could run around quoting Simon and Garfunkel, learning simple songs with sweet melodies on my guitar, drinking herbal tea and trying to be bohemian. In addition to the folk music, I've been reading poetry written by musicians. Leonard Cohen, Billy Corgan, those kinds of people. The kind who write about longing and loneliness in the middle of the night. The kind who mark their time with cigarettes and ashtrays and empty bottles of what once was red wine, but is now the blood that travels through their veins.
Death Cab for Cutie wrote a song called Lightness that talks about the heart as a river and the brain as a dam:
Your heart is a river that flows from your chest
Through every organ
Your brain is the dam
And I am the fish who can't reach the core.
I guess that's all I have to say, right now.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
ghosts like me
There was an ad in the volunteer section of the Classifieds in See Magazine the past couple of issues for a volunteer ghost writer to help a brain injured woman write the story of her life. I feel that volunteering for such a task could either be the most wonderful experience of my life, OR absolute hell.
I wish I could just make decisions. Do I want to do it? Do I not want to do it? Sometimes I feel like waiting for signs to do things, and then I remember that I am in charge of the decisions I make.
I guess I could just call and find out the details.
I wish I could just make decisions. Do I want to do it? Do I not want to do it? Sometimes I feel like waiting for signs to do things, and then I remember that I am in charge of the decisions I make.
I guess I could just call and find out the details.
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