8/31: bad habits can cartwheel too

how could a song call this much grief to my heart… so hard and humble.

i always wondered if my parents felt bad when they yelled at me. how could they look at me, a small five-year-old child, after, and not feel bad? I always wondered this until i was preparing to leave for college. i got my answer one random afternoon in my high school gym.

my mother cupped my face, held it close—- it was the first time we really looked at each other without pain, hurt, anger, something rigid and rough, buried inside.

i could recognize the brown for what they were in her pupils. but i would figure the morning stung. where i urged her not to come to my awards ceremony hosted for seniors at the end of the year. i won two scholarships that day. it was a grateful blessing that i like to confess i owe to the universe as there was some peak of abundance i realized we were all rambling towards throughout the long pathways of life.

it’s strange how those hard brown stones— her eyes—- have long turned over, likely melted, wrought with red— dreading the aches of the remnants of something serious to cry about.

i could never really recognize nor publicly acknowledge my deep entanglement with faith. something about admitting this preconceived notion about the south played like conniving dancing shadows i couldn’t really grasp as hard and honest as this fleeting reflection of depths i wouldn’t dare to dive in alone. "texas conservatives” were a patch of modern day America—- to the rest of history, it would be known as the American Empire, crumbled and admonished as most empires would, inevitably.

inevitably…

today was my last day in texas. again.

this time, i hadn’t hugged my mother goodbye. rather, we prayed at the dinner table. the new one, the replacement of a familiar sitting arrangement where she sat across from me, so far but so close apart. something humble depolluted those misunderstood valleys—- the same trenches many former mothers and their daughters had no choice but to hike through.

learning how to plough through the mud, faced besmirched by an unbaiting icing.

we prayed, and as it always felt— it remained magical. cuts bled into bruises that reminded me of my ultimate red flag: my ceaseless indulgence in all things. new, old, and entirely something that reeked of love, care, importance, history, pain… memory

they could take anything from me. my crosseyed fingers and tortured callouses.

this morning taught me more than anything the half returned arrow cupid shot through the lawns of my pattering heart. as here it was—- i felt so committed to rocking on the balls of my feet, waiting for the endurance of karma— as here it was, the casual appetite of my kindness expanded out too loosely.

i wanted to win. i wanted to keep onto this streaking star, tearing through the night sky as a stripped myth had ultimately undressed itself into a nude truth my naive heart and chest had no choice but to accept.

once again, i feel drunk beyond my means, and i fear, i fear what it whispers and cements into what it demands to be.

as a feat of my reality i can’t accept because i will always be silent obligated to that commitment of discretion. something about friend ship always reminded me of all

On the night I accepted my temporary absence from my childhoods beds, I secretly wished my escape would be as easy as my first, in which I physically flew past my odd natures, slowly walking down the walkways of the past. I don’t know how I got here so fast, but I’m hoping the rest of time can obey some view of reason.

That perhaps I can accept my trips and falls as something I could obey. Yes, it was true— I had to go on to different styles and places that had festered with other plans that felt comprehensively compressed, tacking on other faults and guilty guidelines and pleasures.

There was something different in the way I was acting. Loosely, I was incomprehensible…. But… I was just myself? I goaded on a different and somewhat difficult behavior in what I was saying, but I don’t figure it so, can and betrayal by those I had reasoned would want me forever.

My sister’s friend Jonah had confessed I brought him onto the whip of a spell. He physically used the word, and I was understandably shocked. Apparanently, I was giving him “fuck me” eyes. I was eye-fucking across the table at the Chicago riverfront. Josh—- creatively, my victim. When my sister brought it up to me the other night, I was surprised to hear it. You could clearly listen to the rungs of shock her words thrung through me. My spine relaxed into new abodes, and the farewell, the aftershock, still had a complex residue that my mind had no choice but to garden and flourish. chronic overthinking let me live a life well lived, as i would have to predict that my former boyfriends and not-lovers were becoming beckoned to a different itch outside of me.

i knew it happens eventually. i had to do the same, but i must admit, all of the potential i revealed myself to relish long in as a way to access some probable acceptance my type was horrifyingly not in my league.

maybe i’m pissed. maybe i’m onto something. but i know that i am a woman, and to relate to such a word in such a tortured, intimate, formerly longing, and gratefully embraced way felt like the most honest and surest thing i can say. my tongue tingled in a way that feels like “now”, in whatever “now” would entail for you and outside and beside myself.

i felt apologetic and worn out by karma at the end of the week. i terribly confused sunday for saturday, and i felt like a spilt yolk. fuck this. i need to get up.

Writing at the ratty again on a Sunday, I was her again. I kept accidentally missing my mother’s calls, and hers mine. I want to know how to grammatically put those words, filled with fair hair and ripped guts, so treacherously close to each other that any reader would figure my testament to syntax was dead.

As I went back to Farfarf, bringing me back to Boston for the second time that week, I was addicted to rushing back to that particular note of foray, particularly for how I was a bad student who flailed and cried like a baby blubbering oddly in the lobby of the most prestigious scientific buildings in the history of the universe. That’s how refuel I wanted my knowledge I wanted to slave myself to be.

And it was all that I could do.

I think I’m going to take a break from the blog to focus writing on my book, so maybe my writing addictions can be reframed temporarily? I would be so embarrassed if I could not refrain from relinquishing my tongue’s officer. it patrols and controls, but I have no choice but to swim amongst darker waters and get deeper into a particular plot for the life I’m writing.

cheers x