Sunday, December 30, 2012

2012 in Review

This year....I was full. That's the best way I can describe everything that I felt. I felt things deeper then usual this year, but was able to still think, and focus, and maintain my sanity(for the most part). Which honestly is something that I've struggled with. Feeling things deeply has always left me feeling unhinged.
As this year comes to an end I feel quite nervous. There are so many things that I HAVE to accomplish this year. I'm going to do what I always do when trying to keep myself on task and make daily list. But to keep track of the little things I'm going to do a little "jar project" that I found online.
Instead of waiting until the end of the year, I plan on reading through the little notes 3 times. At the end of April, August, and December(nye). I'm really excited about this new project because I overlook all of the great things that happen to me all the time. I hope to use this project to continuously remind myself that:
"A Single Sunbeam Is Enough To Drive Away Many Shadows "- St. Francis of Assisi

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Keep a Poem in your Pocket: Marty McConnell

because this is what you do. get up.
blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late
to work. go to the couch because the bed
is too empty. watch people scream about love
on Jerry Springer. count the ways
it could be worse. it could be last week
when the missing got so big
you wrote him a letter
and sent it. it could be yesterday, no work
to go to, whole day looming.
it could be last month
or the month before, when you still
thought maybe. still carried plans
around with you like talismans.
you could have kissed him last night.
could have gone home with him, given in,
cried after, softly, face to the wall, his heavy arm
around you, hand on your stomach, rubbing.
shower. remember your body. water
hotter than you can stand. sit
on the shower floor. the word
devastated ringing the tub. buildings
collapsed into themselves. ribs
caving toward the spine. recite
the strongest poem you know. a spell
against the lonely that gets you
in crowds and on three hours’ sleep.
wonder where the gods are now.
get up. because death is not
an alternative. because this is what you do.
air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.
pants, socks, shoes. sweater. coat. cold.
wish you were a bird. remember you
are not you, now. you are you
a year from now. how does that
woman walk? she is not sick or sad.
doesn’t even remember today.
has been to Europe. what song
is she humming? now. right now.
that’s it.
“Survival poem #17,” Marty McConnell (via tumblr)

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Sunday Morning Music: Allen Stone

Finding Home #3: Borrowed + Found

My "home" right now is in a blocked off part of somebodies living room. I have made it beautiful with borrowed and found pieces of furniture. I have made a small coffee table by covering a plastic bin with cloth and placing the top part of a broken wooden door on top. On that table there is a terrarium I made myself, along side a cacti plant. There are vases with dried flowers in them, and glass jars filled with a water to hold floating tea lights. Behind that are my clothes, hung on a clothing rack. To the right is a big mirror on top of a trunk that my mom passed on to me. In front of the mirror are two small statues that I love so much, Buddha and Ganesha. Continuing to the right of the room there's a small cabinet that holds my folded clothes. Then there's me on a couch. From that couch I stare out two windows that face a building.
This is my home...and when its quiet, with just me in it, it is as kittens.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Keep a Poem in Your Pocket #2

That moment when you read something and it resonates so deeply inside of you that it warms you to your core..
We can stick anything into the fog
and make it look like a ghost
but tonight
let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows,
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.
let’s turn our silly wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts.
Move forward
and repeat after me with your heart:
“I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.”
Make love to me
like you know I am better
than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this.
But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
without jumping.
I have realized
that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it,
that we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it,
that if my heart
really broke
every time I fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.
“We Were Emergencies,” Buddy Wakefield (via tumblr)