The beauty is it doesn't have to make sense -
banana.
As long as you feel something,
the flatulence of the mind is
as pretty as any prose.
Whoops,
got your nose!
Help me find the
water
at the end of the hose.
Doesn't matter how the story
goes.
I step
you step
each in a different walk
down the block
into the soul-crushing depths
of this wantless life;
what's your brand of strife?
How does it paint
pictures with
tiny little grammatical brush strokes
for different folks
getting stuck in my bike spokes
on the wheels
but no one feels
anything anymore
we just write shit.
Friday, March 08, 2013
Saturday, March 02, 2013
You; a dusty pile
You and I
are not so far,
and yet
reality has no strings attached;
no leg for standing;
no tunnel filled with light
or otherwise lacking,
two legumes
not from the same
whatyamacallet,
only resembling one another
in some relative ways,
ones that may or may not be worth exploring
if the dots line up...
and if they don't
you can amount
to just another passing fancy
that I collect in a dusty pile
in my memory
of past fancies.
are not so far,
and yet
reality has no strings attached;
no leg for standing;
no tunnel filled with light
or otherwise lacking,
two legumes
not from the same
whatyamacallet,
only resembling one another
in some relative ways,
ones that may or may not be worth exploring
if the dots line up...
and if they don't
you can amount
to just another passing fancy
that I collect in a dusty pile
in my memory
of past fancies.
Thought Purge
Let's face it, nobody's saying it, but I'm sure more than one of us is thinking it: Taylor Swift's music sucks. It's garbage. "22"? I'm 22, and I feel not only embarrassed that that's what people think of me when they learn my age, but degraded. (Hipsters are not a Halloween costume, Taylor, they're real people...real pretentious people, but real people nonetheless!) I can't help it, it's just how I feel. The disclaimer must be highlighted, this is just my opinion...but I also probably can't take your music taste seriously if you genuinely like her music for anything more than...nope. Nothing.
Radio commercials that are [not cleverly] disguised as actual songs, are on my top least favorite things ever. Sometimes I don't even know why I listen to the radio; I feel like it's ruining my life. Mostly when I hear Jared commercials, or the jingle about fish mcnuggets. For there is no more eloquent way to sum up my feelings on this: blech.
Philip Glass + Pandora + red= my ultimate relaxation? I guess I'm not helping by writing. But I know that I am, because it's my de-stress method. Word vomiting it all out - whether by written word or spoken. And then shed it by sleep.
Do you ever just want to PIT douchey drivers? No? Just me? Hmm...I think it'd be nice. Just like, oh, you think driving like an asshole (yes, this is me saying this...) cause you're cool is really worth risking people's lives, or the normalcy of them, for? Really? Cause for me, a little swerve to the left or right, and you'd know the real answer to that, real quick. Ugh. Commuting is also, apparently, ruining my life, too. I think the freeway is the hardest place for me to have grace for mankind...and thus, potentially my greatest hypocrisy is exemplified.
But then this morning on my way to work, I just saw this nerdy looking hipster (hey, Taylor...yeah, what? 22? Shut up.) dancing his scrawny little heart out to whatever music he was listening to, while driving down 62 in his hybrid. And it just made me laugh. Thank you, Hipster, wherever you are.
Fred Astaire is just so charming. What is it about him? Roommates and I just watched "Funny Face" with Audrey Hepburn, and we all agreed his face is funnier than hers...but what's not to love about Fred? Song dance AND wit - where do I sign up?
I know how to be a kiss-up when I want to be, but I don't know how not to be when I want to be. It's a problem sometimes.
As a woman, dressing up for work even though you don't have to makes coming home feel all the more like an accomplishment to be proud of; peeling off your heels like you just saved the world, but now you're off the clock, so it doesn't matter if an asteroid is headed for earth, your feet are sore!
Radio commercials that are [not cleverly] disguised as actual songs, are on my top least favorite things ever. Sometimes I don't even know why I listen to the radio; I feel like it's ruining my life. Mostly when I hear Jared commercials, or the jingle about fish mcnuggets. For there is no more eloquent way to sum up my feelings on this: blech.
Philip Glass + Pandora + red= my ultimate relaxation? I guess I'm not helping by writing. But I know that I am, because it's my de-stress method. Word vomiting it all out - whether by written word or spoken. And then shed it by sleep.
Do you ever just want to PIT douchey drivers? No? Just me? Hmm...I think it'd be nice. Just like, oh, you think driving like an asshole (yes, this is me saying this...) cause you're cool is really worth risking people's lives, or the normalcy of them, for? Really? Cause for me, a little swerve to the left or right, and you'd know the real answer to that, real quick. Ugh. Commuting is also, apparently, ruining my life, too. I think the freeway is the hardest place for me to have grace for mankind...and thus, potentially my greatest hypocrisy is exemplified.
But then this morning on my way to work, I just saw this nerdy looking hipster (hey, Taylor...yeah, what? 22? Shut up.) dancing his scrawny little heart out to whatever music he was listening to, while driving down 62 in his hybrid. And it just made me laugh. Thank you, Hipster, wherever you are.
Fred Astaire is just so charming. What is it about him? Roommates and I just watched "Funny Face" with Audrey Hepburn, and we all agreed his face is funnier than hers...but what's not to love about Fred? Song dance AND wit - where do I sign up?
I know how to be a kiss-up when I want to be, but I don't know how not to be when I want to be. It's a problem sometimes.
As a woman, dressing up for work even though you don't have to makes coming home feel all the more like an accomplishment to be proud of; peeling off your heels like you just saved the world, but now you're off the clock, so it doesn't matter if an asteroid is headed for earth, your feet are sore!
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Ghost-Riding Cars
Isn't it always when you least expect it? The saying goes something like that, anyways. See, I've been pondering buying a new[er] car. It was just this week I sort of came to terms with the fact that my car works just fine, and now it just not the time; I don't feel particularly like taking on another monthly payment of any sort, as I have enough already.
Then yesterday happened. It started out as a faint, unfamiliar chirping noise that subtly made itself known behind the sounds of my stereo. It grew the next time I drove, to a high-pitched whirring noise, not unlike a small plane's engines starting up - I was worried something might shoot out of the front end. Then, I stupidly and only slightly reluctantly went to the gym. When I got back in the car, I said to myself "here goes nothing!" But there went something: clunk, cu-clunk, clunk, clunk. So I just turned it off.
After an hour of waiting for both a tow-truck and my roommate to bring my purse with my AAA card, the tow truck driver turned the car on - with the same clunking present - and drove it onto the angled-bed of his truck, drove the approximate 5 blocks to the repair shop and didn't even look at my membership card or I.D. Essentially all for naught.
On the upside, I actually walked myself somewhere today. I am the opposite of a home-body. I like my home to be a comfortable place, but I don't really like to be there, at least not alone. So to better get work done, I go somewhere. It actually derails the process briefly, but for some strange reason when I do get on track I am much more concentrated.
I had to call eighty-seven year old my grandpa who happened to be up in the city, to give me a lift back to Bloomington to borrow my mom's SUV. I kind of like driving the SUV, minus all her bumperstickers that I swear have nearly gotten me rage-run off the road a few times. I thought, waiting on the couch for my grandpa, I wish you could ghost-ride cars. As if that would completely solve all my problems in an instant.
Then yesterday happened. It started out as a faint, unfamiliar chirping noise that subtly made itself known behind the sounds of my stereo. It grew the next time I drove, to a high-pitched whirring noise, not unlike a small plane's engines starting up - I was worried something might shoot out of the front end. Then, I stupidly and only slightly reluctantly went to the gym. When I got back in the car, I said to myself "here goes nothing!" But there went something: clunk, cu-clunk, clunk, clunk. So I just turned it off.
After an hour of waiting for both a tow-truck and my roommate to bring my purse with my AAA card, the tow truck driver turned the car on - with the same clunking present - and drove it onto the angled-bed of his truck, drove the approximate 5 blocks to the repair shop and didn't even look at my membership card or I.D. Essentially all for naught.
On the upside, I actually walked myself somewhere today. I am the opposite of a home-body. I like my home to be a comfortable place, but I don't really like to be there, at least not alone. So to better get work done, I go somewhere. It actually derails the process briefly, but for some strange reason when I do get on track I am much more concentrated.
I had to call eighty-seven year old my grandpa who happened to be up in the city, to give me a lift back to Bloomington to borrow my mom's SUV. I kind of like driving the SUV, minus all her bumperstickers that I swear have nearly gotten me rage-run off the road a few times. I thought, waiting on the couch for my grandpa, I wish you could ghost-ride cars. As if that would completely solve all my problems in an instant.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Nonprofit Writing
I just came from my first official, in-person interview as a writer for Thirty-Two magazine. I am shaking and teary, as I really think about it: I get to do this! Something Veronica Descotte, founder of Cakes on Wheels - the woman I interviewed said resonated heavily with me: "I am just so lucky to do this."
Even if this is the only article I get to write about nonprofits, or for Thirty-Two, I am just so excited and honored that I get to do this. If you haven't heard of Thirty-Two, and you're from the Twin Cities go to the list of shops that carry the magazine, and try to see if your can get your hands on a copy. It's worth every penny. It's so refreshing to know that someone still believes in print, and not just any print but damn good print! The magazine is a beautiful thing to behold, and it's goal (in my own words) is to exemplify the culture of the Twin Cities Metro and on a larger scale as well, the Midwest and its relevance.
We tend to get a bad rap in Minneapolis-St. Paul that we're not relevant, or we're too Midwestern - whatever that means. I think Thirty-Two tries to fight that stereotype, but not falsely. And I think it's just a great thing to be a part of, even if it's potentially only for one go.
It's inspiring to meet someone who had an idea and went with it, creating this great project that reaches out so simply but effectively. Then to get to write about it in a magazine that's just getting off the ground but doing so, so beautifully...I can't believe it! I walked away from Veronica's house, toward my car after she said goodbye and gave me a hug, and I was just excited.
I'm the type of person who could have an idea and be so excited, but nothing happens. And I've known for at least two years now that writing about nonprofits is what I want to do. And I won't shake a stick at an opportunity such as this.
If I believed in luck...I'm just so lucky.
Even if this is the only article I get to write about nonprofits, or for Thirty-Two, I am just so excited and honored that I get to do this. If you haven't heard of Thirty-Two, and you're from the Twin Cities go to the list of shops that carry the magazine, and try to see if your can get your hands on a copy. It's worth every penny. It's so refreshing to know that someone still believes in print, and not just any print but damn good print! The magazine is a beautiful thing to behold, and it's goal (in my own words) is to exemplify the culture of the Twin Cities Metro and on a larger scale as well, the Midwest and its relevance.
We tend to get a bad rap in Minneapolis-St. Paul that we're not relevant, or we're too Midwestern - whatever that means. I think Thirty-Two tries to fight that stereotype, but not falsely. And I think it's just a great thing to be a part of, even if it's potentially only for one go.
It's inspiring to meet someone who had an idea and went with it, creating this great project that reaches out so simply but effectively. Then to get to write about it in a magazine that's just getting off the ground but doing so, so beautifully...I can't believe it! I walked away from Veronica's house, toward my car after she said goodbye and gave me a hug, and I was just excited.
I'm the type of person who could have an idea and be so excited, but nothing happens. And I've known for at least two years now that writing about nonprofits is what I want to do. And I won't shake a stick at an opportunity such as this.
If I believed in luck...I'm just so lucky.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
How He Loves
Lately, God has been teaching me a really heavy lesson. This lesson is one that I thought I'd already understood and grasped, not that I needed to be taught yet. I am starting to see that I was wrong, and I had only a part of the picture. He's been teaching me about His love.
Being a self-proclaimed highly-introspective person, I've always thought of myself as one who loves big. And until recent years of being burned [what I considered] one too many times, I sort of loved with abandon. My heart would just crash into the someone, or so I thought.
I went through a couple of really important friendships, - important both in retrospect knowing what I do now, and important because they were just that - and have only recently come to the realization that I have been shying from seeking the deeper connections that I once so loved. In many situations I've found myself avoiding interactions I would normally throw myself into without a thought for the sake of the possibility, now scared of the chance that I'll invest and get myself hurt.
Get myself hurt.
And this is something I've been coming to understand. See, God has been teaching me about how He loves. The way I love is not a full picture of His own, and I was prideful enough to think that. He has put people in my life that haven't been easy. He's put them there, drawn our paths together, and challenged me. People who like different things than I do. People who communicate differently than I do. People who I wouldn't normally agree with. People who don't see what I see in their self. People who don't believe truth, - indubitable truth about their worth and place.
And weave together. Then there's this feeling. This sense of just how great it is that this individual is unique; that all of the characteristics and talents that go together in them, are not found in anyone else. Ever. And I just feel like they are this gem. I'm overwhelmed. And then God tells me, This is my heart, not your own; this is how I love. And I have this realization: my love is broken, your love is broken; His love sees through all the crap that distracts us, and the stuff that's not crap, but we see it that way.
Then comes the realization of how it must feel. When I'm so overwhelmed all I can do is cry, or try not to - depending on where I am, or how I feel in that moment, or who's watching and might judge me for feeling things too real. How it must feel to be rejected. How it must feel to have someone not care, when you tell them you love them. How it must feel to watch someone betray their talents for get-rich-quick or ten-second happiness. Then my heart breaks all over again.
This is how He loves. How constantly must His heart be broken? How often must He be beaming and joyful before slashed by the sting of rejection? This is how He loves. We can never fully understand, but we get pieces and portions.
I just try to think of the greatest love I have and the greatest love I receive; and this is how He loves.
Being a self-proclaimed highly-introspective person, I've always thought of myself as one who loves big. And until recent years of being burned [what I considered] one too many times, I sort of loved with abandon. My heart would just crash into the someone, or so I thought.
I went through a couple of really important friendships, - important both in retrospect knowing what I do now, and important because they were just that - and have only recently come to the realization that I have been shying from seeking the deeper connections that I once so loved. In many situations I've found myself avoiding interactions I would normally throw myself into without a thought for the sake of the possibility, now scared of the chance that I'll invest and get myself hurt.
Get myself hurt.
And this is something I've been coming to understand. See, God has been teaching me about how He loves. The way I love is not a full picture of His own, and I was prideful enough to think that. He has put people in my life that haven't been easy. He's put them there, drawn our paths together, and challenged me. People who like different things than I do. People who communicate differently than I do. People who I wouldn't normally agree with. People who don't see what I see in their self. People who don't believe truth, - indubitable truth about their worth and place.
And weave together. Then there's this feeling. This sense of just how great it is that this individual is unique; that all of the characteristics and talents that go together in them, are not found in anyone else. Ever. And I just feel like they are this gem. I'm overwhelmed. And then God tells me, This is my heart, not your own; this is how I love. And I have this realization: my love is broken, your love is broken; His love sees through all the crap that distracts us, and the stuff that's not crap, but we see it that way.
Then comes the realization of how it must feel. When I'm so overwhelmed all I can do is cry, or try not to - depending on where I am, or how I feel in that moment, or who's watching and might judge me for feeling things too real. How it must feel to be rejected. How it must feel to have someone not care, when you tell them you love them. How it must feel to watch someone betray their talents for get-rich-quick or ten-second happiness. Then my heart breaks all over again.
This is how He loves. How constantly must His heart be broken? How often must He be beaming and joyful before slashed by the sting of rejection? This is how He loves. We can never fully understand, but we get pieces and portions.
I just try to think of the greatest love I have and the greatest love I receive; and this is how He loves.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
The Weight of My Love
The weight of love
Sits heavy in me
And it wells up,
climbing from the pit in my gut
to the top of me
to crawl forth from my eyes
and ever so gently dance
down the hills of my face.
And this is the weight of my love for you;
this is the best justice
that I can do
to explain the weight of this love,
a smile on my face.
Sits heavy in me
And it wells up,
climbing from the pit in my gut
to the top of me
to crawl forth from my eyes
and ever so gently dance
down the hills of my face.
And this is the weight of my love for you;
this is the best justice
that I can do
to explain the weight of this love,
a smile on my face.
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