It will set you free

There is a tide inside of us, that whips and tosses all of our sanity until it is frothy and trapped in undercurrents of despair. I have felt this, the strength of the ocean. Recently I have found myself walking up to it and letting it chase me up the beach until the game grows old and I know longer have control over how much I am made to run.

And I thought, the cacophony of the ocean could never be silenced. And if it could, is there any joy in it? For when we are given silence, are we not holding our ear out to to the sky just waiting for a speck of sound?

But this, it is too loud. I do know the difference between a hymn and the sound of a broken string.

Through grace, through months of beatings by this body of water, I have sooner found that no matter where I stand, I am an island. That I am made for others to want to destroy but I reach deeper than my land shows, and there is hidden strength beneath the line of water.

And perhaps the waves come for me not because I am weak, but because I am that glorious land that has risen, risen above the sea.

Now, as I lay my head to sleep, the ocean cradles me in its fury until I am woven in its ways and we create a work of art that has an incandescence.

That incandescence is what will set you free.

Honesty fits a little smug

Alright, so.....I am supposed to be honest so I will be. I guess I do as I'm told. I woke up this morning, rubbed my eyes with the unnerving feeling that my roommates had left the house over an hour earlier. But, they are getting fat checks so no bother to feel TOO guilty, as my "part-time job" so far has paid me nothing for the HUNDREDS (dare I say thousands?) of hours I have been enslaved to its creation. So, I decided I would take a trip to the library given my particularly flexible schedule. I was gathering up Dylan Thomas, throwing him on top of D.H. Lawrence while slipping in the fabulousness of Gertrude Stein. While I gathered six wonderful books, including the one I LOVED about the friendship between Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, I found myself pondering....

Why am I so reluctant to let GO of books? In every city, most small towns even, these books are readily available and in circulation. And yet, I find myself wanting to OWN OWN OWN them. I have grown used to how their spines rest on my dresser, how the colors of their covers add contrast to the others. It is like a big messy painting over there, and when I remove even one, their is a significant loss in vibrancy.

I would like this to be the ONLY reason. But, if we are being honest, then I to admit that a part of me wants people to KNOW what I read. For them to see a copy of Dante or Kundera and know that I have read them, digested them. ICK. That is painful to even write. But, it's true, isn't it? I mean, I think a lot of people feel this way, which doesn't validate it in any way, but it does make it a much more interesting topic to delve into.

Think about it. We are choosing books based on the complete trajectory of not only the great literary canon (which is painfully limiting) but also by how the books represent US. They tell people how smart we are, how meta-cognitive, how worldly and well-travelled. They even tell about our fantasy life; can you be swept up in the allegories of C.S. Lewis? Facebook, mass-produced clothing, Target, you are constantly trying to chisel the individual statue that is you. You want to look so effortlessly polished and unique that sometimes the statue becomes too thin in places, from over-exertion, and it begins to disintegrate.

I am guilty of this too. Certainly the US heightens this feeling of wanting to be ORIGINAL. But why do we pine for it, when it is already innately true? My fingerprints are the most rare things in existence, because they can not be replicated or copied or seen on anyone or anything out there. But somehow, I want someone to see an old floral Victorian chair and think, "That is so Kristen."

Strange, because no inanimate object can BE me. Only I can.

Why are we playing this elaborate game of cut and paste, where we run around trying to glue claim on simple things? My hands feel sticky from it, and sometimes the scissors slice too deep and we end up losing more of ourselves than we intended; all while trying to claim territory for our selves. We can't just shove a flag into a style or song and say it is ours, that it is the reflection of some fickle piece of our soul. It is just ridiculous and, dare I say, SHAMELESSLY self-indulgent.

But I am guilty of this a thousand times over. Every day, every minute, I am trying to cultivate a uniqueness when all I really want is to feel a sameness with someone else.

So for today, I will drop the library books off, push them away like precious jewels into the unyielding tide, and I won't look back because there are thousands more waiting, breathing on the shelves, for me to choose them and bring them home into the cozy nook of my room.

Maybe this time I will read them as they are, and hate them or love them based on the guttural, not the societal. I can let them speak to me, in whatever language escapes the dusty lips of the page, and I will listen.

(We can dream, can't we?)

The Epoch slots of being

I sit here in a coffee shop named "Epoch." It is, so far, my favorite coffee house that I have found in my tour of Austin. It is a neat pocket of Hyde Park (a northern neighborhood) that stretches from a funky street filled with vintage clothing stores and ambiguously-named businesses. After being in the mind of my 17 yr old character, Ian, all morning I find I am quite excited to write from my own perspective. It can be quite exhausting keeping up with the elaborate plot of Ian's life.

I start to wonder about this Epoch word, and learn that it is a subdivision of the geological timescale that is dependent on rock layering. We are currently in the Holocene epoch. What most intrigues me is the obsession of man to label increments of time. That we are so dependent on these labellings to quantify change, when innately, change is endless, inevitable, and impossible to swallow.

I wonder, about the layering of rock, and how humans can be labeled in the same fashion. How we are each just layers of experience, that are stacked from our ribs to our softest, most exposed pieces of skin. There are so many things that make up the rock; heartbreak, sadness, loss, joy, hope. When I start to feel that I am crumbling, it is nice to know that I am made up of many levels, and that when a part of me disintegrates, that it only makes way for the next, fresh layer to become exposed. That the pain is part of this grand stripping and the only thing we really fear is the anticipation of the transition. My layer now, is sandy and feels like it sinks into every part of me. But, I know, in the parts of me that are open to truth, that I am made from the holiest parts of earth. Even when it all falls away, erodes and violently cracks until our ears bleed, that there is always more beneath.

Sometimes, the shininess of the redemption can make you cry.

And there are some people, that can dig in you, feel your grittiness in their hands, and love you anyways. They are the excavation team that are trained to find every last uneven part of you, that will flatten you out when you become uneasy mounds of self-deprecation.

Maybe you have to own a shovel, to be my friend. Or, better yet, maybe I am only given people that enjoy geological surveying. They wear those white safety helmets and goggles, and smile with fat grins at the challenge.

I hope, that I am at least that piece of earth that feels like home to others. That when they're tired, no matter which layer I'm on, that they can roll out their sleeping bags and lay upon me. And as they stare up at the sky, and I cradle them and weep, that they see all the complexities of the stars and translate that into something wondrous.

For, I ponder, what is the point of being constructed like this, formed by symmetrical compartments of evolving land, without being able to feel the weight of your lovely little feet?

Drumsticks that can't be eaten

Yeah yeah, you live in Austin and you think you are a ROCK STAR! I am sad to say that your geographical location doesn't make you Kurt Cobain. I mean, if I was moving to London, I would not start saying things like, "Oh! I've to go to the loo!" Ick. So why, I beg you, must you pick up a guitar and strum with your fat little fingers and yell incoherent words at the blue walls of my house? I feel that my weird hobbies only harass me, only batter the skeletal structures of ME, so it is especially irritating when someones pipe dream comes splashing into the precious spaces between my ears.
But, I do want to support musicians, and that infiltrating creative energy that slips in the cracks of Austin's steamy streets, so I let the music continue and try to string thoughts that can be rhythmic on SOME level. After all, I live in Austin, and there is certainly a plethora of goodness swirling around for me to reach up and smile at, to let a few slinking irritations at my ankles be left as nothing more than minor annoyance. Every one's an artist, and hey, everyone sucks at some point.

Did someone say a raccoon tail and whip?

Have you ever wondered what happens in 'Writing Groups'? Yeah, you know you have......so did I, at least the occurrences in random meet ups with strangers. I was genuinely interested, so, what do we DO with interested minds? We indulge them. So I have started going to a writing group here in Austin and it is pretty sensational. It isn't just the allure of talking about writing styles for two plus hours, but it is being exposed to a certain KIND of person.
Now, some of us hide our artsy interior better than others; I for one own a dismal amount of tight pants and battered instruments. Instead, I hide behind my bubbly exterior, secretly enjoying that the artistic community may find me to be an absolute bore when it comes to looks. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I can wear my feathered earrings or Thai dress, and my hair does have that out-of-control curl thing happening, but overall I scream Kindergarten teacher more than free- verse voyeur.
That is what I like about the meet ups. They are pretentious, but in a "prove it" kind of way. No one is in awe that you can write, they are there to make you better. They can't be too hotty if they are meeting with us nobodies, because if you're really good, you've got print on your fingers from your last publication.
So, we meet at Dominican Joe's which has such a pleasant atmosphere I would consider giving birth on the bottom level, should the occasion arise. People scatter in, one by one, and I of course come up guilty of judging. But, right away I like them. There is one girl, blond with small pointed features and a conservative black dress, that I secretly think may be here because she wants to exchange cookie recipes. As I think this, she introduces herself and says, rather blase, she writes erotica. I am pleased by it, by people knocking me off my lovely horse, and I remember why writers are such an amazingly diverse crew.
We are everywhere, don't you worry, sitting next to you at work, sleuthing in the park for that one clue that will finish our character's personality. And we steal, OH HOW WE STEAL! You don't want to meet me, because I will take your name, your mannerisms, and maybe even your deepest darkest fears. I will gather them from the scrapyard of your life, and start building a lopsided house that faces west and gathers sunlight in the evenings. You may see a dark piece of you past nailed to my roof, keeping the rain from coming in. How else do you expect us to find enough parts to build the edifices of our imaginations?
After the introductions, I pulled out my newly revised poem, "Exodus" and timidly place it on the table. The erotica girl smiles and puts a stack of papers down, too. This, I think, is going to be interesting. The last person to contribute is this amazing woman with corn-roes in her hair that look like fabulous little wrenches coming out of her head. She is boisterous and published already, and of course her resume includes being a poet in residence as well as a coordinator for the Austin Women's Festival. Instantly, I am intrigued and embedded in her fabulously crafted self.
So we start reading, and I find that the erotica pages are turning themselves. The writing is so honest, so free, and frankly I feel like a cave woman that has been living under a big rock labeled "PRUDE". But hey, I am still young, right?
The writing, all of it, is amazing. The poems from Ms. Fabulous are sexy and violent while also bewitchingly insecure. The erotica piece from the teacher lady, has not only proved to be informative but it has also caused our group to unite in a way only overt sexual awkwardness can do. We go over each of the works, mine first, and everyone gives their comments with a level of professionalism and emotion. Then, Bam, I am getting complimented and I feel like maybe I can hang with these cats. I swear their is an abusive boyfriend in me that keeps whispering, "What are you doing here? You can't write like THEY can! Look at her hair, and the way she dresses, you are out of your league country bumpkin." Usually, I find a large, sharp object to whack him over the head with, but sometimes he makes me feel genuinely plain, like a white t-shirt at a craft store you buy for $6 because come on, everyone knows there must be something MORE you can do with the pathetic rag. I guess if you're gonna be plain, you want to be Banana Republic plain, at least.
And we digress, as writers do, when the editing is over and we have discovered that the erotica author is writing about her own REAL LIFE experiences. Somehow we are all in deep discussion about what kind of narrator is best to explain the innovative acts within a sex party. Sometimes, people add in too much of their own personal desired, and I secretly note that I do not want to do that quite yet. Then, Ms. Fabulous starts talking, and I am in rapt attention. She is so exciting and passionate that I want to roll her down a hill just to watch the grass light on fire. We talk about women's rights, of course, and of course a poetic gal with cropped hair chimes in, and I forget the poor men in the group. Of course, I guess that is the price you pay being around a poetess, most of them use men as catalysts to an experiment, not someone they actually go over their data with.
Finally, I look at my watch and realize it is probably time to go. The married guy next to me looks eager to leave, but I can tell he is too nice to jump up. I start to shake my keys, the leaving dance, and finally find an opening and we leave together. I wonder if he will come back next time, if any of the new guys will, and I unlock my car.
As I'm driving I wonder why I always want to leave things. Why, when it is still good, to I feel like time won't permit any more. I am UNEMPLOYED and yet I felt like I had "things to do" at home. I guess that is our sick little tendency to not overstay our welcome. Besides, it is always good to keep people wanting, right? No one wants to be the writer that was all talk and no prose.

As the flames flames were rattling her world, she thought, at least my death would have an incandescence.

I wear sunglasses when I want to lie to myself

The fan roars in my room, perhaps it wishes it were a helicopter, and I almost want to rip it from the ceiling and set it free out my window. Its artifical wind moves the inanimate particles around my room, and I see a picture flap. As I move closer I see something amazing, and utterly impossible for me to digest; the version of myself as I was as a child.
When we are babies, one of the things we are drawn to first (other than our darling mothers) are mirrors. We are fascinated by the matching thing that moves with us, and we struggle to understand what that thing is in front of us.
As children, our faces are compact. Our noses are cute, little markings, a hill with slits. Our lips are narrow ways to filter a smile. And our cheeks have the loveliest texture, one you will spend your adult life pumping with moisturizer to try and excavate.
But as I stare at a picture of myself, I wonder who that girl is. Why is it so hard to accept that she is me? I see her, looking at me, and I think that accepting the Self is that daunting equation that never balances on both sides. But there is one thing, one thing I see that tells me that she is me, I was her; those eyes.
Our eyes are the only constant we are given. They are the same size, refusing to grow, to shrink, to comply with gravity. The sit, huddled in the socket, seperated from the weak parts of the body. And how strange to use them, these blue eyes, to examine ourselves through a picture. So many levels of self-image collide that I am floating between shattered perception and the concrete certainty of being alive.
She is adorable, I think. Does this make me a narcassist? I think it does. But it's true, I was so sweet once.
I think there is safety that there is still a part of me locked away, unshaken by the quakes the years have upturned. That one day, when my back is arched and my skin hangs like forgotten streamers, I will hold my youth beneath my brow, slightly above my nose. That though the world may become more blurry, less poignant, these eyes will still hide beneath the curtain of my blond eyelashes, secure in their steadfastness.
And yet there is a sadness in it. A sadness that I am the one person who sees these eyes the least. That my moments gazing into the mirror, hoping to dip into my head through my tear ducts, are a seperated vision, nothing compared to how others watch me. They see me from the angles, the sneaky sides and forgiving heights. How unfair, how angry it makes me, to not know myself as well as them. But perhaps that is best, for I do not wish to fall into the lake of my own pleasant reflection (as our poor Greek friend).

So for now, I will stare at pictures, aghast yet satisfied that I am unchanging in the ways that are most important. That no matter how my hair lightens, body expands and thins, I will look out with the stoic poeticness that makes up the best set of all: my eyes.