It was just an adjective.

Simple sounds
muffled amongst the layers of meaning
that wrap overlap and veil
Meant to convey
they confuse refusing to be as simple as they seem
Because we’ve imbued them all
Convoluted them all
And if they’re not in a dictionary yet, just you wait
And the words on the screen broken down
are just pixels perceived by your eyes
Any meaning perceived
all lies behind
where the lines are converted to sounds
wrapped around and around with meaning
A mean thing
created by the creatures determined to drown out the actual sounds and
Perhaps the magic of music is found
in the substance of sound without meaning,
sound just being

If I could only just be.

And feel

(The wind of the word
a i r
and the Teeth
(Are you feeling your Tongue Touch the Tip of your Teeth
and your breath breath breath)
the swish and the swash of the grass and
the buzz of the bugs
and the squish and the squash of the marsh
and the gal-lop gal-lop gal-lop)

When did sounds become words
and words become meaning
and meaning become so abstract
that I can’t even grasp what it is to mean.

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It was just an adjective.

Referential Existence

Words are so remarkably frustrating. They never fully encapsulate what I am trying to convey… the swirl of thoughts and logical strands, the elegant images and buzz of emotions tingling in my veins… they never flow out of my mouth, instead they tumble and crash like the waves on a beach trying to reach the dunes but failing because their shoes have been tied together and so they fall on their face and are dragged back to the sea of confused meaninglessness by the moon, which doesn’t even make any sense because the moon is so far away so how can its influence reach us.  These things, these letters and words are so limiting so constraining so endless so infinite so definable so utterly incomprehensible…

I took a poetry class in my final year of college.  I sat in a desk,
watching our professor try to pull the strands
just enough to let the light come through the impressions painted with pens,
just enough to get a glimpse of the supple curves and delicate skin,
without shedding the fullness of the harsh light that would shatter the seduction.
Just enough to convince us that we are not alone in our aloneness,
that others, too, are thwarted in their attempted sharing of the solitary oneness of self,
looking to the tilted mirrors of those around them, disappointed.1
Yes, and2
That others, too, recognize words as an elegy to what they signify,3
wavering between being and loss, awash in an incommunicable sea of existing.
That others, too, have sensed the strangeness of holding an unusable, yet somehow beautiful, broken tile of memory 4 in hand with a gentle wondering of what to do
that others, too, feel themselves at the center of a powerful and baffled will,5
Yes, and that others, too, are desperately avoiding erasure6
Aware of oblivion’s inevitability7
And the feeling or fact that
what has been done will be done again
and that there is nothing new under the sun8
And that originality is a myth
And that why is ultimately unanswerable

And so,

Vladimir:             What do we do now?
Estragon:             Wait.
Vladimir:             Yes, but while waiting.9

 


1 Hass, Robert. “The Apple Trees at Olema.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
2 Rankine, Claudia. Citizen: An American Lyric. Graywolf Press, 2014.
3 Hass, Robert. “Meditation at Lagunitas.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
4 Hass, Robert. “Novella.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
5 Hass, Robert. “Misery and Splendor.” The Apple Trees at Olema. Harper Collins, 2010.
6 See footnote 2.
7 Reference to John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars
8 Ecclesiastes 1:9
9 Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot. Grove Press, 1954.

Referential Existence

Systems Thinking // effects of effects

The innumerous nodes of the system shift infinitely, are shifting. In spite of their untangleable entanglement we, perhaps unconsciously, persevere in our belief, our obsession with one directional cause and effect. But the cause of the causes of effects were (a/e)ffected by other causes in the same way infinitely unless there was one first cause, which isn’t that the big mystery, so please no more reductions of the irreducible and solutions to the insolvable. We and me and you.
Let’s revel in the complexity, our understanding complete in its incompleteness.
But I preach

To her
Because she has an undying obsession with answers. Trust me, we know. We tried.
Dying that is. That year. that year is the one that haunts, that demands, that is eternally unentangled. Because him and him and her and them make too many trails to follow; they loop and swerve and intertwine like necklaces thrown in a bag and left for years because that was all an act and the curtain was drawn and the scene changed and now even if she wanted to separate them she couldn’t.
But she does want to separate those chains of days, to complete the autopsy, for what died was her hope and perhaps the black box of her heart could hint at the happenings causing the crash. She may not be able to reconstruct but perhaps she could aid someone else’s avoidance.

But time disperses all nodes which feels more like the continual ripping of stitches rather than the healing of wounds. And she awakes again from the dream of a memory of an idea, who was once flesh. But her reinvigorated desire to detangle is thwarted by the dispersion.
And so platitudes fill her, pumped by the society obsessed with succintness. Forgive and forget to keep calm and carry the dark days tucked away where nobody can see them because they’re over now, over your head, that is. Today is a new day, because we say so even though all the days are the same spinning spherical ballet connected only by the thin strand of memory and the untangleable web of effects of effects of effects of effects of effects…

 

Systems Thinking // effects of effects

journal / unedited grief / days 1+2

dandelions2.JPG

Wednesday

This is shock Is this shock
tingling in my limbs my fingers
that celery bad idea. it’s in my throat something coming up the vibrations in my body bring it, bringing it to the surface my legs walked me here, well, legs, were they mine? crumpled to the floor, how did I get there?  hand on mouth a sob escapes the voice still speaking. They say that’s what it’s like..speaking but not hearing. I understand now. I feel it now. Is this grief? Welling up pushing up forcing up my esophagus which is what started the problem but on the other end going the other way that started the tear the chain reaction the hospital waiting room waiting waiting but we thought they said… no but the dream… the hope… the end… the beginning…no the end “the uncomfortable truth”
“there might be other factors in motions”
I am in class and they are talking and I am here and I am not and “that’s what he says by his body”
“adjacent to, alongside, within the space”
“it’s always gonna belong to that person”
should I be in the car? on the way to roanoke? I haven’t taken my meds. Do I make food? Buy flowers? Sit here? Keep writing. I can’t breathe. My eyes are stinging.
“the disconnect between the literal action and the imaginative (?) action is so wide” / “erased them” / “bold of her to do this”

“if you let in the excess emotion you will recall the Atlantic Ocean breaking on our heads.”
“a strange reverie”
“sit down and pull together”

such a sunny day for her to die. Is that God smiling? Does God smile? Is the sun happy? Is God the sun? Where is she? Who is she? Is she being born? Is she who she was? Eternal self still self reunited, never un-united. Can a mom be a butterfly?
This isn’t actual processing because it still feels fake and I’m making the motions that seem like healthy motions because you’re supposed to process, right? You’re supposed to sit on a bench in the sun and just write about your feelings, right? Gotta do all those steps of grief quickly so you can be sturdy for everyone else… you aren’t even her daughter, she wasn’t even your mom…but yes, she was and is and…
she’s in heaven right? Celebrate right? hope right? rejoice right? death…dEATh…death…saying it enough will rid it of emotion right?
-guacamole
-hummus
-biscotti

Thursday

its the weight of this death
and the death of your grandfather
and the twin you did ballet with
and the glassiness of his eyes and the quiver of her lips
and the shaking of their shoulders
pressing in and down and causing the sigh
breathing is not enough
or too much
or maybe I am holding my breath
waiting for the news
because this isn’t the end
though it is
for them
no, it’s only the beginning
of the sighing, crying, goodbyeing
somewhere in us we know
we know this one
and that one
they are all were will be
everything
and nothing
they change everything
and nothing
because life goes on
they say
tomorrow will come
they say
but what they don’t say is this weight
this weight of all you’ve loved and lost
the weight of seeing him in the wooden box
peering over the edge
your sister on tiptoe
touching his hand
cold
standing in a room of caskets
“this one’s pretty”
watching tears shed
the weight of the dirt
and the tears
and the newly bought plot
the weight of the shuffling feet
and the “I’m so sorry”s
and the hands on shoulders, knees, arms…
the weight never really leaves
it just piles on
keeps piling
(how will the grass ever grow?)
until one day I, we won’t feel that weight anymore will feel all that weight always will be that weight.
We’ll be weighted and floating and nothing and everything. We’ll be on our backs in that room with the man with the teeth too spread apart whose job is to make up our face make up life and peace and rest make up enough color, not blue, enough color, rosy, so we can greet everyone coming…coming to see and cry and put their hands on shoulders and knees uttering so so sorry’s…

sliding the matchstick back into its matchbox
feminine though, it needs to be feminine
it needs to be sturdy to keep the weight of the feet and the tears and the grief of the children and husband and parents from pressing in and crushing her already frail frame
(always put your toys away when you’re done playing with them
back in their boxes. buried treasure. time capsule)
what will he do in this house all alone?
what will be do without his bride?
’til death parts up. then what?
you see someone, half someone, half there because their other half has a hair appointment tomorrow…and plans to get the mortician’s makeup.

journal / unedited grief / days 1+2

Curation.

Hello, whoever you are who is reading this.  You may be new, you may not have noticed, or perhaps you don’t care, but I just realized that I have been so particular recently in what I have been posting in this blog that I feel I am being exactly what I DON’T want to be: curated, edited.  I want to be honest and real and rambly (that’s not a word, but you understand…one of the awesome things about language  – webster doesn’t dictate what I can or cannot communicate).  I want to be profound and dumb and whiny and inspiring and hopeful and downcast…I want to be REAL.  In everything that I do.  But instead I feel like I am actually being true in nothing.  Instagram gets a different part of me than Facebook does, and I still don’t understand Twitter to be quite honest, and here, on my blog where I feel the most real, I still feel this need to have a certain theme or whatever.   So what if someone scrolls through and moves on because I am too unpredictable in my content to follow.  I shouldn’t care, right?  Except that’s not really how it works.

I can preach all day about facades and honesty and give off the air that I am above caring about it all.

But I’m not.  I care desperately.  And I HATE that.  I HATE that I have been checking my number of followers on IG, that I have been wondering why people have unfollowed me, why I can’t reach 250, when some people hit 1,000 without breaking a sweat.  I am intimidated by the vast number of talented creative people all over the web and IG and etsy.  How will I ever stand out among them?  Why would anyone ever choose to buy a piece of art from me when ten thousand people are doing it better?

Comparison kills.

(speaking of which, so does smoking.  there’s research to back it up.)  It sucks any enjoyment out of the things I am doing because I never measure up.

It’s a constant striving, a constant desire for more and better, but ultimately for most and best.

And so I see that ugliness in me and my reaction is to seclude myself.  To run from other people.  Because then instead of facing that ugly jealousy in myself, that voice saying “you’ll never be as [good, smart, pretty, skinny, successful, creative, kind, artsy, motherly, perfect] as they are. just give up now before you fail.” – instead of confronting those things I go into my metaphorical cabin in the woods.  For a while I am content with the birds and the grass and the sunshine and books and art…but that loneliness always comes creeps back in.  And the part of me that has spent a good deal of time in Christian community says, “well, if you were finding your all in Jesus, you wouldn’t be feeling so lonely. that hole you feel is just that God-sized vacuum” or whatever quote I am misquoting….point being, then I feel ashamed at feeling lonely, guilty for wanting to rejoin society.  And then I step my toe in the water, go on a coffee date or whatever, and find myself tripping down social stairs with my tongue tied around my ankles. “How did I ever interact with humans in the past?  I can’t even tell a story without coming across like a lunatic!” And then I end up online again, where I can filter my thoughts before I send them, photoshop my acne, delete my whining, hide my tear-stained cheeks.  UGH.

My best friend and I have been talking about some of these things recently.  (Even being able to say that I have a  best friend (and an awesome one at that!) is such a blessing.)  And I am doing a lot of reading and thinking related to the digital world for my thesis.  Do we need people?  Are we cheapening our stories and our lives by sharing them in bits and pieces on all of these social media sites?  Is the digital inherently harmful for social interactions?  Can it be done in a way that is life-giving?  That actually allows for understanding and connection and authenticity?  Does that mean narrowing down to just a few places to invest?  (the internet never really ends up working like that though it seems…)  But today I read the blog here  titled “Is Blogging Dying?” by Mayi Carles where she definitely convinced me if there is one online place to invest, particularly if I am going to actually try and start a business, it is on a blog.  Which after thinking about it, makes a lot of sense.  If I don’t like the pressure of chronological posting (the feeling of always needing something fresh and new and better than the last thing) I have some degree of control to alter that here.  Maybe in the end that’s a horrible way to go about having a blog, but at least I get to make that decision for myself, and can choose to change it myself.

Anyway, now I’m really off track… I think being married to a man who rarely (never) tells a story without tangents and mid-thought rambles has rubbed off on me more than I think it has. haha  Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing.  Rambly just may end up being the best description after all.  The opposite of curation. Which is also, incidentally, not a word.

 

Curation.

morning thoughts

here
was at one time the only option, or so I remember – but now all is tainted with uncertainty, doubt. hesitant to accept anything too readily, risking naive, gullible, loss, disappointment, disillusionment – even memories are untrustworthy. truth, reality – if they exist in any objective fashion – are hard to come by, impossible in fact, given my eyes covered with the lenses of subjectivity, my ears fitted with cochlear filters. purity is a lie. there are no guarantees, only an unending mess of entangled possibilities and what ifs and neither here nor there. an endless straddling of body thoughts head heart world dreams… there is only faith.
and death.

at least, it appears that way.

morning thoughts