Air

It seems to know the exact moment you need it.
You're staring at the pavement,
walking with a destination,
consumed,
but seeming to have no aim.
And the moment you have forgotten to breathe,


it sweeps you,
alarming you!


And the wind, breathes with you


Into your mouth, your nose,
as deep as your bones.
Inhaling up in circular motions 
around your brain, expanding it,
you have more space,
more time to decide,
more time before you die!
And into your veins and muscles,
depositing desperately desired extra breaths.


That is just the inhale.


The exhale collects the stubborn dark splotches
with the delicate tendril grasp,
sweeps swift and blue and quick through your
limbs, guts, bones, and pushes
the discomfort out like electricity from your pores!


And you are clean again for that moment..


I would suffocate and die without the wind.

The art of disarmament

What an expedition I have been on!
Is it more interesting to blame someone else? Some higher power?
Of course!
We are artists!
We cannot be at fault!
We are following the paths laid before us,
and though the choices are certainly our own,
the "forces" which imparted us with particular personalities have guided us to this misery.
And so I tell you,
it is not my fault.

I have before me what I wish to be:
She is blonde and blue eyed and beautiful.
Astounding happiness and love for others,
and they for her.
Maybe that's the part I want:
to be adored by everyone I encounter.

This is me desperately trying to communicate with someone.
This is honest.
I am desperate for a place to be honest.
For a person to unload their truths
so that I may do the same.

Otherwise I am only meant to blog and journal for my own release,
which is just fucking sad.
I have to teach myself to bring people in. To disarm.

06/26/2012

I am sure that I am alive.
Certain I can feel the hot Louisiana air inside my lungs,
the sun so near, and seeping into my pale skin -
can hear people around me chattering away to one another.

I feel like a ghost.
Haunting through these streets
unfamiliar,
with situations
I know so well.
Comfortably settling into my sadness,
busy streets are so much the same
anywhere you go.
Surrounded by everything, and still so damn alone.
The way I ought to be.
I need this sadness and lonliness
to find my worth.

Where has it been buried?
What city have I left it in?
Which address?
At the bottom of some shoe box,
smothered by theatre tickets and programs, 
birthday cards, and burned CDs.


Traipsing, trailing, silently behind me
all these years, waiting for me to remember when I loved myself.
Waiting.


Waiting?


Why were you waiting?
Why didn't you crush me?
That weight of necessity!
You SAW my sadness these years!
Why did you wait? Why are you still waiting?
I'm here! I'm so close,
we are staring one another in the face
like some odd stand-off,
fingering the guns digging into our hipbones.


And I know you are as afraid of me,
I've stranded you before.
And you know how terribly lost I am.
What's the secret?
That that special collection of words or thoughts we can arrive to
so I can free myself.

Forgetting to breathe is not exclusively a North Carolina thing

I keep forgetting to breathe.

In milder climates, it's only a silly thing.

Down here, 

it's a mistake.

 

I go too long without breathing,

when I snap back, I can only inhale thickly

a hot, wet, fog.

 

And even though I'm new here,

it coats my fragile, used-up lungs

with a familiar heaviness.

I become aware of the hollowness of my gut,

fed full but mildew empty.

 

And so so quiet.

No where to explode, erupt.

And though I'm surrounded by city,

there's no one here

with an ear I can respectfully bend.

 

 

08/13/2011

broken glass went to my head

you laughed at me

people pass by and pretend not to notice.

they have to see it. there's no way they can't -

how can they just walk by like it's not really fucked up?

that thought settles with me frequently.

we watch passively as people destroy each other, ourselves.

we're so incredibly selfish. I'm selfish.

grasping desperately for the things we want.

i don't even know what that is.

it seems to evolve from one thing to another before i have time to register it.

but then I'll have a day like today,

for a minute

I'll grasp clarity, I'll have this elaborate reality of a way to live that would actually make me happy -

and I could breathe, I had strength, and solutions.

but I think i've lost sight of it again.

as though i thought of the how

and was frightened.

i always thought i'd be stronger, more resolute.

seems like the way i've lived for the past six years

(constantly rooted to another person)

has handicapped me - i swore i'd never be this way.

Appreciation

Delicious.
I have taken to brewing my coffee with cinnamon. After grounding my coffee beans I stir in 10 or so shakes from a canister of ground cinnamon, and pour the powdery fine brown mixture into the filter for 8 cups of coffee. I am a coffee fiend.

Because I don't have a toaster, I've slid two pieces of wheat bread onto a baking sheet and into the oven with slabs of butter on them to seep into the bread. Once thoroughly soaked in the stuff I spread a light layer of an organic blackberry fruit spread I've been waiting to try. Waiting until the day I craved toast, which isn't often, oddly enough. Today's toast has changed my mind. I imagine I will be craving this toast every day.

During the brewing and toasting time I've chopped a tomato, onions, a yellow bell pepper, a mushroom, and a jalapeno (seeded) for my omelet. I'm out of eggs so I have to substitute from a carton of egg whites (a brilliant idea, inspired by my cousin and housemate Alex. They take 2 months to go bad, and you'll surely have used them by then, and they're healthier, right? Who cares, they're delicious, in fact, I might start making my omelets as egg white omelets all the time, saving whole eggs for crepes - which I never really make just for myself -, eggbread - which is not eggs in a basket -, or the odd occasion when I make deviled eggs and any other assorted cooking calling for eggs). The jalapeno seeds have touched everything and have even made their way to my top lip, resulting in a dull sting.
The egg cooks partially through, muenster and sharp cheddar are placed in the middle to melt, and all the vegetables strategically placed in the center, to make for proper omelet folding. Having covered the whole concoction in order to steam the vegetables and cook the top of the egg (another thank you to Alex for that idea), I begin to munch on the toast. It is outrageous. Truly a perfect recipe (if you can call it a recipe when so very little measuring went into it...). I devour one piece and begin to nibble the second as I remove the lid on the omelet. Gently, I fold the omelets wings over the vegetables, and their juices run out of either side of the omelet.
I can't remember the last time I appreciated a homemade meal so thoroughly. I really ought to have taken a picture of it.

Exploring that idea of "love"

Inspired

His arms will enfold my slender shoulders, drawing my head to rest in the perfectly shaped nook on the right side of his broad chest. I feel so tiny and safe. He will squeeze tightly without regard to the size I seem to have, and I will always return it, my arms reaching beneath his, up his back, gripping his shoulders. His hands slow their stroking of my arms. 
You're so soft.
I submit a small indistinguishable noise. He returns his own version. We exchange a series of the sounds which comprise a sort of language we have created. Giggles from me as I release my head from his chest. A new smile I've begun to see only recently is offered to me. It is something gentler - only so slightly different from what I had grown accustomed to. Difficult to pinpoint. Maybe in giant bluish green eyes as they simultaneously promise to protect and wound me.
I am greedy for more of this affirmation, aware of my fortuitous good luck that this man wants to hold me. It is a kind of touch with which I was not acquainted. A soft orange heat which, at first contact, disperses across my wintery skin, then swells into deep waves which roll, a time-altering slow, through my blood and muscles. When they reach my bones I know I am at home. Tightly wound into him, I search for ways for all of my body to be touching his, to be cocooned in his, in him.
We are silent for centuries. Praying to the moon: please don't leave. Let this be the night you decide to stay forever.
Stillness.
Our breathing settles into a nocturnal cadence.
We wake to dark blue fog.
What time is it?
We become aware of the sounds of people shouting in the street.
What has happened?
Where has it gone?
We scramble for just enough clothing to avoid embarrassment. We stop short on the street. Wide-eyed, he pulls me close, my hand flying to his chest (I trust you). The rumors fly for hours, and the blue fog refuses to clear. 
A mother nearby absent-minded whispered to her small son that it was noon. 
That's when the messenger came. A nondescript young man on a horse shouted to the street for our attention.
The sun has been slain in it's bed by anarchists! Revolutionists who had grown tired of slaving away to the western civilization's stern diet of sleep and overwork. Dreamers who did not want to be restricted to their allotted 8 hours of sleep under the rigorous management of the sun's personal schedule.

We mourn the sun with the millions who, like us, awoke to the unforeseen tragedy. Afterward, the millions stand. Staring at each other. Not knowing what to do next. Some people are sitting in the grass. Some are milling, hands shoved in pockets. A low rumble of inquiries begins to overcome the crowd.
Should we go back to bed until a new one comes?
A "new one"?
What if a new one never comes?
Should we go about our day?
I have to work in a half hour!
I have an appointment at 10:30!
Surely no one should work today?
Well, someone ought to call and make sure.
Who are we supposed to call?

Sensing our unease, and eager to show he had no part in this, the moon urges Orion and Cassiopeia and the others to guide us back to our homes after the funeral, and task themselves to assure we estranged children of the late civilization.

He and I are met by the jovial duo Castor and Pollux. I tuck myself under his arm, nuzzling into the nook I have come to trust was made for me. Pollux regards me with affection and approval, relishing in the beauty that is the release of one's soul to the mercy of another's.
And it is in this moment that my fear of our lost world seems to me a foolish and trite worry. Old cares fade into obsoleteness.
Money. Image. Insecurities. Jealousy. My bones and blood force them out of my pores, mouths wide in anguished screams as they drip and disappear to the thirsty earth. Deaf, I don't look back.
Melting in the swirling warmth of his body touching mine, I swear aloud never to grieve for the slavery of the old culture. Their duty achieved, Castor and Pollux grip hands as they disappear into the deepening purple night toward their next wanderer. In one slow motion, he stops walking, abandons my shoulders with the same arm whose hand would breathe down my arm, fingers sliding through mine, gently requesting
stop. be here with me in this moment. i am with you. i understand you. i am yours.
Our minds and voices have abandoned their functions in this peaceful purple eternal hour. Instinct swears to be our guide. She coos directly to the muscles that are floating loosely in our blood, waiting to be willed.

Trying like Hell: My "Pattern"

Trying Like Hell: My Pattern

This is me promising, with this blog as my assistance, to try like hell to do all the things I want/need to do, and to be the person I want to be, for once.

I fell into another stupid depression last night at the recognition of My Pattern. That's right, I made it into a proper noun. That's how much of a thing it is. 

I took, what I considered to be, the first step, which was to make myself a single woman. I have spent my entire adolescent and early adulthood life being so thoroughly consumed by trying to be what men want. It went through all the proper stages. When I was in high school, it was about being submissive to boys. And about being not as "girly" as all the other girls, you know? Being one of the guys (being raised as a tomboy by men, it came naturally). But I have come to the understanding that the behaviors previously known to me as "girly" - emotional, irrational, impatient, hard-headed - are, in fact, characteristics shared by men.
Then in college, I began to think more about what I want, and I began to demand that. My latest relationships consist of an odd balance between the two. 

They begin with someone that I adore (I have the fortune of not being attracted to cruel men - nice guys don't finish last with me, unless you're not genuinely nice, just trying too hard to be nice...). I bury myself in this person. And right when I'm not sure I can recognize myself anymore, I bounce back forcefully and selfishly. I'm out the door before they realize what the hell just happened. 

Unfortunately, what has always happened, is that I have found someone else in whom I can bury myself.

And that is My Pattern. For all to see (or no one to see, who knows!) This is me acknowledging I have a problem. Hello, my name is Morg, and I'm a relationship chameleon and one of those people who "just can't be single."

SO! I ended my last long term relationship. In addition to wounding the two of us, there seemed to be bullet spray over our group of friends as well. 

Although to say that I'm a completely single woman would be a lie. That's a different story.

And I've moved to a city in which there exists just ONE person that I know. 

This is the recipe for "starting over", I think. 

And it seems that to "start over" - one has to be resolved to change the shit they don't like about themselves and to make goals to achieve the shit they want. 

So, here I go. 

The things that make me happy: 

acting/performing

having a companion who understands everything about me

having a job I care about

giving gifts that have been well thought out

being by the river in southport with dad drinking a beer

being on a boat in the open water

That's a start.

Here's the shit that's under my control:

-Whether or not I go outside on a day when I have nothing to. And I should, more often than not, even if it is hot as shit, just get the fuck outside and explore, this city is AMAZING!

-Money. We have not been friends in the past. I've abused you, taken advantage of your presence, and you, rightfully, abandoned me. I do not need to go out to eat that much, buy more than a drink or two at the bar. Retail therapy is right out. Make myself a damn budget once I get settled with jobs. Damn.

-I'm not even going to touch relationship stuff. That's a beast. A big, sweaty, tired, monstrous bitch blocking the cave opening. So I'ma not even poke at it until I work on me. 

-Acting classes. As long as money is in order, acting classes need to happen. You ain't special.

-Relationship with friends. Social skills. Work on them. Why am I so embarrassed by giving a show of affection? I Shouldn't automatically assume that everyone everywhere wants nothing to do with me. Ask questions, let people talk about themselves. Be interested, listen, take it in...people love to talk about themselves. Let them.

So there it is. That's the start. That's the acknowledgement of some of the things that need to happen. 

Also going to stop saying "I hate myself" - which I have said in jest for the last 2 years probably. I'm thinking maybe it's not so healthy.

AND, going to stop swearing so much. I swear a lot in jest. I like the way it sounds sometimes. But maybe it's making me just a touch more miserable than I need to be. 

Here I go!