GIVE ME MUSIC!" (blood curdling scream) "how do i make this sound come out of me?" (whisper)
my fingers don't do what they're told, my hands flinch inappropriate beats and my ankles get tired, the bass drum grows dim.
i like to play the role of the indie hipster girl, but it's incomplete without the sound. "WHY CAN'T I MAKE THE SOUNDS"
she drifts in and out of daydreams and sleep is too real for her taste.
dance dance dance dance, thats all she really knows how to do and it isn't much. she loves to watch the real bodies flail, she's in love with all the people, all the dancing people that she knows, they are all she wants to see ever.
harmonies harmonies harmonies, she always sings the harmonies much to everyone's dismay, she breaks the songs with her persistence.
she could sing for days, if the days would let her.
don't you see she's hungry? she looks harmless but i bet she's vicious by the way the tears stream from her eyes.
she's knows a girl named after a bear with a voice that could break your heart, has broken her heart, she wants to steal the sound away, from this sweet bear girl, but instead she just cries. it's the only way she knows how to release all these things.
there is always something more. she wants this. she wants to impress people with mere sound.
all these damn bears she knows make pretty sounds, their roars are magnificent.
'what makes us beautiful?'
hours minutes days years decades centuries eras life cycles.
we are all one song, we are all many songs but she just wants to make a song.
she is filled to the brim with silence.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
mason jars
yesterday i cried a handful, and today another one and i though maybe i'd put them in a jar and send them to you because they aren't really mine. and then i thought what if we always sent our tears to the people they belonged to? how much more true would we feel. we could each have a closet or a small room where we store our jars of tears from various peoples. and then, when the sunlight hit them just right, we would get pretty little rainbows. and the sound, oh the sound! we could make with our little jars of tears. little tinkling rhythms.
tastless secrets
every morning she wakes up, shakes her head around, hoping that her thoughts are like dice, and she'll get a new roll everyday. she licks her lips, she sits up and hits her head, she smiles at herself. she laughs at the things that are hers, her things. her family, her wordless secrets, her happiness, her sadness, she owns these things and she doesn't let anyone else touch them. it's a troublesome thing, a lonely thing, to be so selfish one might suppose, but it is just as sad to share. she swallows her pills, she pushes away her confusion, she reads, she walks, she tries to pretend she doesn't feel the things that are always there. when she was little everyone always asked her not to grow up, joking about finding a doctor that could keep her little forever. they didn't know that this would make her so sad later. no one loves you when you're grown up.
she cringes at the sound of the ties breaking, the ties with the people that loved her when she was three. she cries as she feels the ties tugging at her skin, little pricks all over, because everyone is far, far away, and they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but she was already too fond to begin with. she's on a hunt for new people to add pricks and pins to her skin, and someday everyone will pull so hard that she will break into a million tiny pieces and she will be able to be a million different things and she will be happy.
does everyone change as much as i do? she asks herself each day, because she music is the only tie to her feelings, it reminds her how she felt, and where, and when. there is never a why. why is the worst sort of a question. she is happy when she realizes that she still has a regular, overwhelmed with life sort of sadness in her. not everything is lost.
what if sadness is her happiness? what troubled life, what a paradigm.
you can not ask everyone to love you. you can not ask everyone to love you as much as you love them. you can not ask your mother to hold you when you are sad, and to sing you lullabies every night before you go to sleep. you can not ask your friends to love you forever. you can not ask your friends to love you the most. because we all have different priorities. and it's not a conscious thing, it is a heart thing, and our hearts are the freest thing that we have. you can not ask your cousins to love you the most, because you get older, and you get less cute, and you get less relatable and you don't change enough, but you change too much. you can not ask strangers to love you the most of all the passers by.
you should not ask it of them. you should not be disappointed. you should not ask for so much. you should be humble. you should be happy. you should be quiet. you should keep yourself in line. you should make an effort. you should not want your mother when you are 18 years old. you should not expect things to be easy. you should not hope that people will understand you. you should not lie. you should not be sad, when there are so many happy things.
yesterday, i tasted all the things i ever wished i was. i am none of those, she counted on her fingers. i am not kind. i do not have the perfect warm smile. i can not sing like an angel. i can not make music. i can not create the pictures. i am not self assured. i am not a free spirit. i am not, ever, the things that everyone wants me to be. i am not the things i want me to be. i am not clay. i am not perfect for everyone, at all times.
she ran out of fingers.
she ran out of toes.
she ran out of time.
(in need of some editing)
she cringes at the sound of the ties breaking, the ties with the people that loved her when she was three. she cries as she feels the ties tugging at her skin, little pricks all over, because everyone is far, far away, and they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but she was already too fond to begin with. she's on a hunt for new people to add pricks and pins to her skin, and someday everyone will pull so hard that she will break into a million tiny pieces and she will be able to be a million different things and she will be happy.
does everyone change as much as i do? she asks herself each day, because she music is the only tie to her feelings, it reminds her how she felt, and where, and when. there is never a why. why is the worst sort of a question. she is happy when she realizes that she still has a regular, overwhelmed with life sort of sadness in her. not everything is lost.
what if sadness is her happiness? what troubled life, what a paradigm.
you can not ask everyone to love you. you can not ask everyone to love you as much as you love them. you can not ask your mother to hold you when you are sad, and to sing you lullabies every night before you go to sleep. you can not ask your friends to love you forever. you can not ask your friends to love you the most. because we all have different priorities. and it's not a conscious thing, it is a heart thing, and our hearts are the freest thing that we have. you can not ask your cousins to love you the most, because you get older, and you get less cute, and you get less relatable and you don't change enough, but you change too much. you can not ask strangers to love you the most of all the passers by.
you should not ask it of them. you should not be disappointed. you should not ask for so much. you should be humble. you should be happy. you should be quiet. you should keep yourself in line. you should make an effort. you should not want your mother when you are 18 years old. you should not expect things to be easy. you should not hope that people will understand you. you should not lie. you should not be sad, when there are so many happy things.
yesterday, i tasted all the things i ever wished i was. i am none of those, she counted on her fingers. i am not kind. i do not have the perfect warm smile. i can not sing like an angel. i can not make music. i can not create the pictures. i am not self assured. i am not a free spirit. i am not, ever, the things that everyone wants me to be. i am not the things i want me to be. i am not clay. i am not perfect for everyone, at all times.
she ran out of fingers.
she ran out of toes.
she ran out of time.
(in need of some editing)
burning down the house
if it came down to it, she would not be saved from a burning building.
"i'm going to burn alive"
she spends her days pairing them off. "well she would save him, because she would die without him, and SHE would save HER because she needs her in times of tragedy, and so on so forth"
but they would survive without her.
oh her mother? perhaps. but it really depends on who all is in the burning building. this strange metaphor is really just her way of weighing relationships.
or checking her weight in the world.
according to her scale, her weight is very light.
she is loved by many, but she does not come out on top in anyones charts. that is, assuming these people make charts. which they don't.
when she was little she used to think of what she would save.
her dog.
her cat.
herself.
her mother (but her mother was probably too strong to need saving).
her psychologist tells her that this is all very telling. the fact that she is the one needing the saving, and not the one doing the saving meant that she perceived herself as weak. and the fact that she assumed the building would burn all the way to the ground, and not be salvaged by the fire fighters meant she was a pessimist. like it was some big mystery. of course she was a fucking pessimist.
her psychologist was always full of bullshit like this.
she said "imagine the building is your life"
to which she responded "you mean, imagine my life is on fire?" which made her laugh, because it was a funny visual.
it was a rough test of character, she knew that. an unfair test of love, she knew. i mean, the chances of her being in a burning building with everyone she knew was not very likely. but perhaps at her birthday party? or her graduation party? or at her coming home party? (if ever she were to leave in the first place)
which brought her to the irony of the fact, that the only time all these people would be together would be to celebrate her. someone dropped the cake, it had too many candles, it was too close to the paper recycling, which was too close to coats, and so it spreads. and to think, they were all here for her, and she was the one that would burn alive. in chaos, she is lost.
lost, is not being unsure of where you are. lost is when you are unsure of where you are and no one else is thinking about you. then you are lost or drowning or burning. it all depends on which analogy you choose.
she was burning.
alive.
get her some water.
(incomplete.)
"i'm going to burn alive"
she spends her days pairing them off. "well she would save him, because she would die without him, and SHE would save HER because she needs her in times of tragedy, and so on so forth"
but they would survive without her.
oh her mother? perhaps. but it really depends on who all is in the burning building. this strange metaphor is really just her way of weighing relationships.
or checking her weight in the world.
according to her scale, her weight is very light.
she is loved by many, but she does not come out on top in anyones charts. that is, assuming these people make charts. which they don't.
when she was little she used to think of what she would save.
her dog.
her cat.
herself.
her mother (but her mother was probably too strong to need saving).
her psychologist tells her that this is all very telling. the fact that she is the one needing the saving, and not the one doing the saving meant that she perceived herself as weak. and the fact that she assumed the building would burn all the way to the ground, and not be salvaged by the fire fighters meant she was a pessimist. like it was some big mystery. of course she was a fucking pessimist.
her psychologist was always full of bullshit like this.
she said "imagine the building is your life"
to which she responded "you mean, imagine my life is on fire?" which made her laugh, because it was a funny visual.
it was a rough test of character, she knew that. an unfair test of love, she knew. i mean, the chances of her being in a burning building with everyone she knew was not very likely. but perhaps at her birthday party? or her graduation party? or at her coming home party? (if ever she were to leave in the first place)
which brought her to the irony of the fact, that the only time all these people would be together would be to celebrate her. someone dropped the cake, it had too many candles, it was too close to the paper recycling, which was too close to coats, and so it spreads. and to think, they were all here for her, and she was the one that would burn alive. in chaos, she is lost.
lost, is not being unsure of where you are. lost is when you are unsure of where you are and no one else is thinking about you. then you are lost or drowning or burning. it all depends on which analogy you choose.
she was burning.
alive.
get her some water.
(incomplete.)
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