I’m still not sure how to respond to your comments regarding how composed I am. While I like the idea of being calm and having my life together, I am more intrigued by the notion of being composed as in refining a poem or piece of prose. I think I’ve been working towards being that sort of composed since I moved to Seattle. To carefully place my words with all of their interpretations considered. To punctuate with actions whose consequences are not only anticipated but weighed and dictated according to my intentions. Conversations as diction and actions as syntax to make sure my friends and loved ones know exactly what I mean. Those composition courses I took though out school don’t help so much in this area, though, and revision was always where I slacked. This manuscript will be a work in progress for some time, I imagine.
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Well this is a new feeling.
And it feels so cold, yet it feels like fire burning through your soul when your one desire seems so far away. It sure burns like fire and you’re not okay when your one desire’s troubling you.
The world is moving a little bit faster than I am. Nothing has my full attention. The inside of my eyelids are movie screens and everything is being replayed on a loop with the things I should have said a glaring scrolling marquee over the top. The things I wish he said are just a whisper from a seat behind me.
My stomach hurts and I want to go to bed for a week.
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Oh Fall, and Owen.
From “Bad News”
Whatever it is you think you are
you aren’t:
a good friend, unique, well-read
good-looking, or smart.
Well now you know.
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Running.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever been this consistently exhausted by the end of the day, everyday. It’s satisfying, but a day off here or there rather than every five days, I hardly have time to catch up with sleep and household things.
The new job is good and hopefully getting better. The commute isn’t bad. It would be nice to have the option of a bus or something, though.
The past few weeks have had so many unusual turns of events. I can’t even process them all yet, I’m too worn out. Life is crazy.
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Countdown.
These last days are going to be really difficult.
It definitely has not hit me yet that after Wednesday, my day-to-day life will be entirely different. It’s already changed quite a bit just moving across town. I’ve even been able to coax my body into waking up at 7 on its own, even on my day off. That means I need to go to bed by like 11:30 every night though, another thing I didn’t normally do a few weeks ago. I’m excited but also sort of terrified, it’s always hard for me to commit to things like that.
My thoughts on bike commuting:
-My legs are tired.
-I’m practically living out of my messenger bag.
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Bad timing, indeed.
Longest.Week.Ever. And it’s almost over, I just have to get through this last Saturday at the shop. Then I can sleep in a bit and go to the farmers’ market and unpack the living room.
Also, I learned that being upset is just as exhausting as being excited. And that oven cleaner fumes + riding a bike while crying + swings = dry heaves.
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I definitely lied about not thinking about anything other than moving.
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“A Stone” – Okkervil River
Hot breath,
rough skin,
warm laughs and smiling,
the loveliest words whispered and meant -
you like all these things.
But, though you like all these things,
you love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it’s smooth and it’s cold.
And you’d love most to be told that it’s all your own.
You love white veins, you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight, the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell, the hollowest tone -
you love a stone.
And I’m found too fast,
called too fond of flames,
and then I’m phoning my friends,
and then I’m shouldering the blame,
while you’re picking pebbles out of the drain, miles ago.
You’re out singing songs,
and I’m down shouting names at the flickerless screen,
going fucking insane.
Am I losing my cool, overstating my case?
Well, baby, what can I say?
You know I never claimed that I was a stone.
And you love a stone.
You love white veins, you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight, the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell, the hollowest tone -
you love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it’s dark,
and it’s old,
and if it could start being alive you’d stop living alone.
And I think I believe that,
if stones could dream,
they’d dream of being laid side-by-side, piece-by-piece,
and turned into a castle for some towering queen they’re unable to know.
And when that queen’s daughter came of age,
I think she’d be lovely and stubborn and brave,
and suitors would journey from kingdoms away to make themselves known.
And I think that I know the bitter dismay of a lover who brought fresh bouquets every day
when she turned him away to remember some knave who once gave just one rose,
one day,
years ago…
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I’ve started packing and I already have five boxes plus a wooden chest of craft supplies and fabric, with out counting my sewing machine. And a box of stuff to give away. I’m going to have to get some sort of storage system for this stuff.
The closer we get to moving the more appealing it is looking. Almost every night for a week I’ve fallen asleep to the sound of whatever terrible music my neighbors or the bar across the alley are blasting. I’m excited to not have to keep my blinds closed so the people digging through our dumpsters can’t see everything I do.
I haven’t really thought about too much more than moving for the past month. Once this is done I might be able to write about something else.
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Anchorless.
It’s amazing to know that you can get so far out of the city without a car. This weekend I rode my bike nearly 40 miles round trip, which isn’t really a whole lot, but it got me to the Olympic peninsula and in the woods. The hills on Bainbridge and the rest of the way to Indianola were tough and I feel awesome for being able to ride that whole way. And spending time with friends and sleeping in a tent in one of their parents’ front yard was also pretty fun. Hopefully next summer will include full-on bike camping.
Moving is going to be stressful, I’m sure, but I’m still excited. I always like setting things up for the first time.
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