remember when i wrote poetry?

Swimming

Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
The Kraken sleepeth.
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

He sails me carefully:
I swim with a many-armed,
many-mouthed,
many-tongued kraken.

I feel his voice and he tells me—
Each tongue tastes things differently.
He tells me—These Pacific waves are no land of Aquinas.
The lines of this coast
are as varied as the edges of my faith.

(I want to ask him, someday,
how he found his way here from those Nordic depths,
how he came from that dark cold into
this unfrozen salt water)

You see, he teaches me to eat of one thing,
and taste of many: to find the things I look for
in the things I see.
And because I am one, I find myself in all:
it is this talent that lurks behind his tentacles and tongues.

The skin of freedom is filled with this ocean,
His ocean.
I breathe in, to give up,
to slide into this liberation.

The lights come early;
I did not expect to see so much,
I tell the kraken.
Fearsome, yet he is my only company.
What other voice have I to hear?

I remember these things
because I leave no wake and everyone else is dreaming.
I am both sailor and swimmer:
I am partnered with the tide.

I have given myself permission to do whatever I want, whenever I want, and it's been helping. And while I love living in a house with my friends, right now it's becoming a little too much. I like my routines, my traditions. I like going to bed early, and I hate feeling guilty, not going to social events because I would rather go to sleep early and wake up early.

I've been working out a lot, and reading Dorothy Sayers novels. I'm trying to write a poem. I'm finally feeling able to dive into school work.

I think I might go to Spain for spring break, and hole up in a little sea-side town to read for two weeks.

o'neills

I went out by myself last night, and stumbled upon an Irish bar with a live band playing Lynyrd Skynyrd. A man bought me a drink and told me to have a good night, and there was this feeling, like I was glowing, like I was floating through the whole night. I met two guys, both of whom had absent girlfriends, and we danced in front of the band for hours.

And when the band was done playing, we went to a club and danced more. My feet hurt but somehow it, everything, feels a little bit better. Like I danced something out, let something go. Not everything, not by a long shot. But I'm getting work done, I feel like I'm moving up.

That being said, it still really hurts.

playlist

I had forgotten how much this hurts.

two other things

1. i still drool when i cry
2. i wish i could have a hug from my dad

i'm stuttering
darren darren darren
he just he just ended things
and now i am drunk
so drunk my fingers won't move right
my heart
i had forgotten what this feels
i dont know what love means
i can't my heart can't move
everything feels so far away
from where i am right now

i'd like to go away
somewhere wild where i can
forget who i am
or remember
i don't know what the right thing is
scotland was that--once upon a time
scotland healed me
and now
now now now

i don't know where to go

buoy

I've had a really hard week.
I feel a lot like I'm drowning, and
I'd like to just lie quietly
until all of this passes.
(It's not just Valentines-
It could be any day, any week)
But there are things to do,
papers and stories to write,
emails to return and people to see.
I've got the mean reds;
I've started smoking again,
and I can't stop reading.
Robert Hass, Larry Brown, Salman Rushdie

I went to Edinburgh for the weekend, to see Mr D.

It started with a hiccup: a used condom wrapper on his headboard that was not from me, a hostel reservation, deposit paid: place to go, seven cigarettes smoked rapidly on a street-corner, a conversation more silence than words, numbness, but also an understanding. We watched a movie, and he spent all two hours stroking my hair, scratching my back, lacing his fingers through mine. Apology both physical and verbal. The image of another girl in his bed touched away.

Friday night, there were drinks with his friends at the Jekyll and Hyde, where the bartender greeted me with, "Double Jack and Coke and a shot of tequila?" So much laughter, so much joy. Everything fit together; everything went right. He, unlike any other guy I've been with, makes me feel like I'm the only girl in the universe, like he's the lucky one.

Saturday morning: you know those scenes in romantic movies were the couple is in bed the morning after, and they're kissing, both under the sheet, and the sunlight makes their faces glow? All day Saturday was like that. He read to me from his favorite book, my head on his chest, feeling the way his voice growls.

He cooked dinner Saturday night for me and a few of his friends. There was wine and conversation. I've changed--a few months ago, I would never have suggested the dinner party for my last night, but now, it's more about having a good time, rather than having the right time, if that makes any sense.

He walked me to the bus stop (this is a pattern, isn't it? Since when was I the one that leaves?), stayed in line with me until I actually stepped on the bus. I don't even know where to begin thinking about how I feel. This was the goodbye weekend, even if he didn't know it. I'll probably see him again (he wants to come visit; I'm going back to see folks at St Andrews), but this is the weekend I want to remember.

a really perfect weekend

untitled 7

I didn't want to dance with your ghosts, but they were there, and the music was playing. And now I'm tired:
With every Dear John letter, I think 'I never thought I'd get here.' There is time, though, before you read that letter--
So throw me against your walls. I want you to pull me apart and like all the places where I fit together. I want to make you gasp, release sighs like specters, floating above your bed--a cloud of ghosts, pleasure past and intangible.
I'd like a silent violence this time. I'd like to leave with all my parts, clean and reassembled. I'd like to leave you with your ghosts.