love songs

Sometimes I wonder if we've become too hard; too resistant to the overtures other people make, brushing them off as inconsequential or if we're feeling particularly cynical, calling them fake and insincere. We want something real, something solid you can hold onto, not these mushy feelings that don't lead anywhere.

But sometimes I like lying on the couch, sipping on hot tea and listening to people sing about their undying love for each other - I'd like to believe that these things exist.

on writing

I've known my friend for years but it's only been the last couple of months that I feel I've gotten to known him more, what's the word for it - completely? I feel like this has a lot to do with how we send each other things that we've written - poetry, stories, and free association mainly.

There's a sort of intimacy in words, in the act of writing that makes sharing and forming friendships easier. In person we hold back, we have walls that we're ready to put up when the other person comes too close; we negotiate boundaries, and offer up things about ourselves that are safe. I feel with writing, at least for myself, that I hold back much less, I lay my words out there bare and ready to be picked at, which is downright frightening. I've "told" him stories that I've only talked about a handful of times with other people - things that I laugh nervously at, fiddling with my hands, eyes cast downward at the table. These barriers are struck down in writing though, and this, I think, is why I love writing.

the dark

He places a finger on my lips, and I lean in - all smoky breath and lingering alcohol and clammy hands climbing up to smooth over collarbones and neck muscles - I try hiding beneath your coat from the cold and then I'm swallowed up by fraying cushions on our salvation army couch by the window, sunlight peering in through half-shut blinds and she's pouring earl grey tea into soup bowls and telling me about her day in drawn-out whispers, long legs tangled up with mine and I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of her shampoo until I blindly reach for your face, stubbornly unshaven and unsmiling, shoulders locked, and you're trying to tell me something important, I know it, but it's too scary so I build them, layer by layer, and then I can open my eyes in the dark again.

growing up

When did we start growing up?

I'm talking to one of my oldest friends, and he is moving into his new apartment next week, 1 year lease and everything. I don't know why but I was struck with feelings of nostalgia, and then, how did we get here? We used to walk home together from school sharing earphones, listening to the bands we loved in the rain, hoods pulled over damp hair and hands stuck in our pockets. Nine years later, and he's looking to get his MBA and I'm here.

Paying rent and the bills, lugging my groceries from the store, coming home to an empty apartment, doing my laundry - all simple things really, but somehow it means a lot. I suppose it's a good thing. A sense of responsibility, of being in charge of yourself and who you are. I just wonder when we finish "growing up", when the uncertainty goes away, and when you feel like you fit into your skin more.

who you are

The air stings my face slightly.
The wind is biting.
The sun shines, but it's warmth cannot keep up with us.
You stand off in the distance.
Wreathed in a glow that seems to emanate from deep inside you.
Blond locks whip around, in disarray and yet every movement, another
act of sheer brilliance.
I want to come close to you.
To whisper in your ear,
"This is who I was before I met you."

~blurs of joy

a deep fog settles in my mind
swallows up these long, long roads
and tree branches that look like spiders
ravens flocking in between them

I turn corners to find you
there
trembling shadow on the ground
all misshapen hands and dark eyes
laughter that sounds secondhand
you blink at me

I brush a lock of hair behind your ear
and I whisper:
"This was who I was before I met you."

find

leaning against metal railings on the street eating ice cream crepes with high school students and drinking tea alone in restaurants oh god are they looking at me funny am i doing something wrong how about i try to say this word with the right accent will you understand me then looking out the window on a moving train and seeing patches of green and brown and mountains whip past me there is so much beauty i can't take it after arriving at the station with a suitcase and poorly written directions where the fuck do i go now oh but look at all the pretty girls with make up and eyelashes and brown hair and i love the feeling of your hand in mine walking down this narrow street where the salarymen have come to drink their problems away under dimly lit red and white lanterns and the clinking of glasses and beer being sloshed onto the table and the warm warm air that makes my skin all sticky and i think, no i feel, i feel like i've really found myself here.

steps

if we could trace our steps back
back to cold hands thrust into pockets
back to earphones, for sharing
back to half melted ice cream waffles
and turned up shirt collars
back to the things you say without saying
what would we find?

sense

cherry hair and lips
and a warm hand over cheek and bone
formulas and vortexes
make sense
with you

Nothing up my sleeve but my heart
and a dozen paper cranes, folding into themselves
as the sun cuts through swathes of seeping despair
you tell me there will be a next time
but your eyes are looking to the horizon
and the bones on the back of your hand are playing only one note
So I sing my lonely song with all the broken hearts

~in collaboration with blurs of joy

there's no glitter in the gutter

I was: our reflection on the floor and the violence of rain on the dashboard. Our neck muscles straining as we crane our heads up to the ceiling, and clouds shifting across the sky. Stars strung together by stories and memory as we breathe in cool, quiet air. Our fingers and palms moving to the beat of the music, and my head spinning. The incessant noise in my head stopped for just a few moments, and I was glad.

want

I want to stop standing still. I want to hold on to your fingertips and lie underneath midnight blue and sky and stars and openness until it gets to be too much, and go to places I've never been to and be terrified and exhilarated at the same time. I want to get my feet to move. I want to.
 

it happens

 

It happens sometimes when I'm doing the most mundane things. When I'm washing the dishes, or when I look up from my book at the next subway stop, was that you who just came in? I want to tell you what I've seen and done, what I've accomplished so far in my life. I want to grab your hand and point, look - I travelled here and there and touched this very spot, I ran down this street with a good friend laughing about something silly, I laid my fingertips on this window and marvelled at just how much beauty there was passing by, and slept on this floor just as the sun was coming up. I fell in and out of love, and I had my first drink there, a glass passed around a circle. I cried in that bathroom stall and spent that many hours on the phone, and I decided to go down this route instead of that other one. I made my first home here. I was afraid, and I am still afraid. If you knew that I made it here, what would you say?

wise

The dark room is littered with strings of tiny lights stretched out across the ceiling from the front of the stage to the back of the bar, the space in between caught in a whirlwind of people's conversations breathed into your ear, casual touches they think you don't notice, laughter making their way up a scale, and the pretty noises she makes when she grabs a few bottles of beer at a time in her hands. You lean against the speakers and let your fingers dance along the grooves of the machine, your heart beating in tune with the drums. Everyone is nodding and singing to the same song, the same beat, the same music; cheeks flushed pink and red, mouths parted open in anticipation of the next word. You turn and smile at the person next to you.

time takes you now, fear it after.

For the first time in a while, you feel alive.

keep the car running

keep it running while we link arms and run down these lit up streets together, our feet a blur on the sidewalk, skipping over cracks and potholes and painted lines, wind cutting across our faces, the cold slipping in underneath the fabric of our shirts and stars that blink above layers and layers of clouds. keep it running while we order greasy food from a store that runs all night long filled with people and warm food and condensation on the glass and tip cups made out of styrofoam and plastic bags that are handed to you with extra ketchup on the side, please and thank you. keep it running, we're just going to sit here for a bit, our hands skimming over dark wood turning red from the lighting, legs getting stuck against leather seats, and tell each other stories that are mostly true and find out things that we didn't know before, find out things about ourselves. keep it running, we'll be a while.

"I was searching for the things that never change"

What am I searching for? Your steady hands, thumbs brushing over collarbones, fingertips tucking in a stray hair. All of us lying down on the carpet in my room, shoulders against each other, windows open. A gentle nudge in the morning, get up it's noon already do you want lunch? The radio blaring when he forgets to close the garage door. The faint light in the basement and noises the sewing machine makes when she steps on the peddle, when she makes that last stitch. That look on your face - you know what I'm thinking about, but you'll wait until I'm ready. I guess there are a few things.

remembering

I remember: your warm hand at my shoulder, your fingertips tracing patterns on my back, arm around my waist. Steady, steady.

The look in your eyes that told me what you were thinking of at that moment, the folding of your hands and darting of eyes when you were lying, how your jaw moved when you were angry.

I want to forget.

ghosts

It feels good to push your hair back from your forehead, wet and matted around your face from the heat, and to lean your head back on cushions, letting your body cool and relax from the tension. You close your eyes and nod to the beat of the music that vibrates off the folds in your ear, to the singer's voice that nearly pushes you forward, to the feathery light touches the tips of your fingers make on the fabric of the couch.

You search and search in the recesses of your memory for that person who used to sit next to you, and just for a moment you feel him close to you, warm breath on your neck and collarbones and that distinctive cinnamon smell that seemed to trail after him all the time. It lasts for just a moment. Then you're thrust back into the present, and you're sitting there by yourself again. You open your eyes, and somehow it's okay.

space

I wonder, how much space is there in me that I can give to someone else?

goodbye

December, 2009

It’s been about 2 years since we started growing apart, 11 months since we broke up, 10 since we’ve seen and spoken to each other, and about far too long that I’m still thinking about you. I've always told you that when we were going out you rarely appeared in my dreams. And now I dream about you quite frequently, and it’s the same deal every time. I ask how you’re doing, what you’re up to these days, because I have absolutely no idea. It’s so strange to go through everyday not knowing what you’re doing. It’s strange that I’ve gone through so much this year: graduating, applying to schools, interviewing, getting in and angsting over which school to pick, then going to Japan by myself, and then finally getting to this place. And every time, I thought of all these things that I would to tell you, but you weren’t there. So I would tell my friends, the people who I could actually count on. But at the back of my mind I would have liked to see how you would have reacted, what advice you would give me, if you believe in me, if you’re proud of me. It feels so strange that I’ve gone through all those things without you behind me, telling me that I’ll be okay. Why do I still want your approval or reassurance?

You know I see you sometimes when I’m out, at odd times of the day? I’ll see someone who kind of looks like you, or someone wearing something familiar, and I’ll look back a second time just to make sure. We’ve spent 6 years together and I showed you a part of myself that I never showed anyone else. And to suddenly have that gone, it’s a weird feeling. It’s not like I’m still in love with you, but I think I miss you as a friend, like a lot. I don’t know why you haven’t returned my text messages or my phone calls. Maybe it’s because you’ve moved on. Maybe it’s because you feel uncomfortable keeping in contact with me, I don’t know. But I do miss you, and I really want to know what you are doing these days, if you're doing something you love, if you're happy.

Because I am. I may not know if what I'm doing is the right thing to do, if it's something that I'll regret later, but at least it's a plan. It's something completely new and exciting and scary and I still question myself on a regular basis, but hey, I got myself here. So I hope you're okay. And that one day you'll decide to pick up the phone or send me that e-mail telling me how you are. In the mean time, I'll continue doing this myself. It's hard, but somehow I think I can get through it.

Goodbye, because I need it to be.

change

I was, and am, always afraid of losing touch with my friends. The ones that I've been with since elementary school, the ones that have stuck with me through all these years, the ones who understand me and love me the way I am.

But sitting here with them in my room with the windows open, legs sprawled on the warm carpet and heads tilted back, laughing over pictures and scraps of paper and memories that go way way back, I don't think that I have to be.

I had a feeling once, that you and I, could tell each other everything, for 2 months...I said never pick sides, never choose between two, but I just wanted you, I just wanted you.

I wonder if I'll find you.

being

When was the last time I was completely and utterly myself? The last time I opened my mouth wide and laughed out loud with no self-consciousness, the last time I confided in a friend one of my deepest secrets?

It's difficult to do sometimes, isn't it? I think we've all grown to put on appearances to give our best impression. And to show our ugly parts, the parts that we're not proud of, that's difficult to do.

But I guess that's what beauty is. To not be afraid and to let go and to be someone who does things most true to what we believe. To face the sides of ourselves that we don't like, to take risks, to stop lying to ourselves. It can be downright frightening, to be so vulnerable and full of flaws, but it's probably liberating.