Willows

I like them when they fall down
like weeping willows
They’re crisp and together at the same time
as being
wispy, faint, there and then gone

Crackle down the barrel
of a gun
But not a gun gun.
A finger lost
A holiday to remember

I like them when they fall down
like bodies
like Tina Turner’s 80s hair
like everything and then nothing.

Happy Birthday America
You did it.

summer violence.

when the sheets
crumble
beneath your sweating body
damp

ugh—
how gross is that word?

but that's all it—

you're cut off—

it's just a bit of moisture

sick, i said stop.

what?
...moisture?
moisture. moisture. moisture.

pushed to the ground
crumble
why don't you just buy a fan
you dumb motherfucker?

On Writing When You're Not Sad.

It's a frustrating thing to be happy — and it seems to infect most people. There's this inkling feeling that it won't last. It's painted best in Robert Frost's poem,  "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

My best writing, or at least, the writing that I connect to most emotionally I write when I'm so sad. That's an interesting concept, too, that in my mind, best equals emotional. When I have too many feelings welling up inside me I can't help but emit them through writing, through performing, through singing. I cannot help myself. Perhaps it's the notion of something good must come from this pain; I have to create something beautiful, something real, something heartfelt to make this moment have more meaning than just wallowing alone in my: "I am hurt. It hurts. It will pass."

But, why, why can't the same be said when I'm happy? Why is it harder for me to express my joy creatively? Is it the distraction of how happy I am, I don't want to reflect on it for fear that it will dissipate before me? There are too many questions.

Periodically I look back on this blog so I can see who I am or was throughout the years. I have often noticed the amount of writing I did or didn't do during years of hardship and during times of happiness. I can so directly see the correlation between my writing and my relationships. At the start of 2010 I wrote a lot. Not coincidentally, my longest relationship ended. And, then the Fall of 2010 happened, my writing slowed to a trickle — I was in a new relationship. Flash to 2012, I wrote a ton again. That was a hugely difficult year full of car accidents, breakups, job transitioning — the gambit. And then again my writing picked up as I picked up and moved to LA. Spring of 2014 happened and again, a flood. It's frustrating to know how much my writing is a reflection of my emotional state. I love what I write when I am sad. I don't love being sad, though; and I don't want to manufacture emotion. I can't anyway. I've tried.

But even right now, as my life is on an upswing, I am all smiles, yet full of lackluster uninspired stories. I have people in my life I'm excited to see, and that are excited to see me. I have parents that love me, that call me unexpectedly, that fly across the country to spend time with me. I have siblings that are kind, that go out of their way. And while it's not as if we don't carry our baggage or throw one another under the bus on occasion, those moments pale in comparison to how my throat chokes up when I think of what my life would be like if they didn't love me like they do.

So, here I am, waiting for it all to fall apart so I can write a heartfelt blog post, script, poem, song, etc.

NO!

That Frost poem always left me feeling so negative. Now though, I'm attempting to grasp how, yes, things fade, but other things take their place. When a flower blooms and dies, in a few weeks or days, or whatever, time happens, and a new bloom takes its place. Life will always be up and down.

That's comforting.

But God, is it tiring to have all those feelings and be writing and emitting so much. It has to stop. There has to be respite from it. So many writers (comedians, screenwriters, novelists, etc) get their material from things they're pissed about, things that have hurt them, or how they have been wronged. It can soften the blow, or cause you to relive it. You just have to know from where it's coming and to where it's leading you. And sometimes, just sometimes it's better to look at the world without a critical eye.

It's too taxing on your soul otherwise.

I carry them with me.

head first
drenched in it
soaked
every inch
sticky clothes stick to a sticky body
in the water
it all feels the same everywhere, and it feels — how it feels...it feels so much, so much all at once, and it is so nice. so nice. so nice —
but it's heavier
heavier not knowing how to navigate

completely and utterly
taken in
taken down

fully clothed
sinking further from the weight
water pressuring every cavity
the air bubbles disappearing
a flight of fancy
fancy
how fancy?

out
out out
the chill of the cool wind
icing from the outside in
the outside in
cool
how cool?
like ice it stabs

you can only jump in head first once,
because you know how it feels to come out
you know the cool
how cool?
not cool at all — cold. like ice. stabbing ice.

wading in.
it's the same thing but different
the water is different
holding your breath from the cold of the water anyway
it feels good, but bad. does the good outweigh the bad?
weight
the weight of the water
clothes drenched
saturated
enveloped

you know the density, the pressure, the weight of the water, and you can't handle it more than once. it feels like drowning, because it's drowning. and you need a life preserver — something to help you preserve your life, someone.

but preserving life as it is,
would you really like to preserve it?

cold. ice.
it stabs.
wind.
water.
drowning.
the weight. the weight.
the waters weight.
it weighs so much.
the pressure.

Preludes and Post Scripts

"I am moved by fancies that are curled 

Around these images, and cling:  

The notion of some infinitely gentle 

Infinitely suffering thing." 

-T.S. Eliot, Preludes

I regularly find myself remembering snippets of poetry that I had memorized due to my high school pastime, Forensics (also known as Speech Team). If you've read back to old entries I talk of my love of T.S. Eliot often, specifically The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which to me, sums up the tone of loneliness absolutely.

People say that those who surround themselves with people the most are typically the loneliest. They're trying to fill that void. I feel as if I am that way. It's easy to get lost in others as an escape from ourselves. I've been trying to get away from doing this — but instead of feeling like I know myself better, I find that it's daunting to realize I may not know myself as well as I assumed. It's strange to spend all day every day being myself without thinking about it, and then with others I am someone else, a hologram. I am there, but not present.

To be in the latter half of my 20s and finding these findings seems so old. I know, I know, "You're not old!" But I'm not young, either. I'm not like a spritely young graduate. I'm not a bourgeoning teenager. I'm not a child. I'm not a young adult. I'm not an old adult.

We call people in their twenties, 20-somethings. We can't even come up with a real name for it. I'm a 20-something. What that something is, no idea.

I am a person chasing after it — what is "it?" There is no label. I could say I'm chasing after a career in the arts. I'm chasing after a dream to be a creator. I could say—. I could say it all — but what is it that we want in the end? When people die are they shouting from their insides, "I wish I had written just one more play!" "I wish I had just finished putting the shutters on the house I wanted to flip." "I wish this," and "I wanted that."

Doubtful that it is things or a to-do list accomplished. A bucket list, sure, yes, we want to do things, but to what end, who for or who with?

What turned out to be the preview to when my grandpa Harry died, when he thought it was the moment to go, that is, his 10 children and numerous grandchildren, his wife, were all surrounding him. Father Trout was there to anoint him with last rights. He asked my grandma Celeste to sing Danny Boy for him. It was very climactic, truthfully told. And we kept waiting for him to close his eyes the last time, breathe his last breath, say one last thing. But it didn't happen that way. The doctor came in after what seemed like only a few minutes, but was in actuality much longer, and said Harry was not yet going anywhere.

It was the strangest thing. We all had collectively decided this was the time, and then it wasn't. But, I got to see what my grandpa Harry wanted to be like in his last moments. He was lucid until the very end. And in some ways, he got to be there for his last moments twice, instead of just wasting away sedated. That seemed like such a gift to me.

Surrounded by the people who make us who we are — I suppose that's what I want.

"Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death 

Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death

Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death 

Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death 

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind, 

A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog 

By this grace dissolved in a place" 

-T.S. Eliot, Marina

And I love that.

There's a cat in the alley.
And I hate it.
But she belongs to someone.
Some little girl.
A neighbor perhaps.
And that's nice.
I can recognize how very nice that is.
And I love that.

There's a smile on the face of the man.
The old man in the stairwell.
I see his crooked teeth.
And his inviting face.
He is one of those people.
Those people who smile just because.
Because they can't not.
And I love that.

There's a girl on top of her roof.
She's alone there.
Taking it all in.
And there is so much.
She can't possibly soak it up.
But she's there.
She's not going anywhere.
And I love that.

Hello, My Name is.

I'm forgetting
what it's like
to be a human being
to breathe breath
to talk words

there are beads spread out
all over the floor
of this small apartment

you always said it was so little
with your big house
and your big bigness
how very big of you

when the sapphire
fires
there will be a blue haze
overcoming me

and i will be there
but not
because i forgot

that's what happens
when you can't breathe breath
you lose yourself
bits and parts of that little brain
how very little
how little of me is left

circular circles
with holes cut out
strung strings
the stuff of paupers

this is the stuff
stuff's made of
atoms and bombs and car phones
and hearts and bloody bloody bloods

don't forget about me!
i forgot me at home
i forgot to pick me up at school
i forgot that today's my birthday

any day is a day
every day feels the same
erase it restart it get over it forget it

make believe 3

as we sleep
we imagine all of each other
as we really are.

we imagine the people there
the ones whose bodies lie, that
we see inside each other.

our quiet forms
quiet from dreaming
our quiet dreams.

we trace our hands 
across each others faces
we do it, and we don’t know.

as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we’re someone else.

we pretend we're not who we are
that we are unaffected 
we're not.

our quiet forms
quiet from not sharing
our quiet selves.

make believe 2

as i sleep
he imagines all of me
as i really am.

he imagines the person there
the one whose body lies, that
he sees inside me.

my quiet form
quiet from dreaming
my quiet dreams.

he traces his hands
across my face
he does it, and i don’t know.

as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we’re someone else.

he pretends he’s not who he is
that he is unaffected
he’s not.

my quiet form
quiet from not sharing
my quiet self.

make believe 1

as you sleep

i imagine all of you

as you really are.

i imagine the person there

the one whose body lies, that

i see inside you.

your quiet form

quiet from dreaming

your quiet dreams.

i trace my hands 

across your face

i do it, and you don't know.

as we wake
we put on clothes
as if we're someone else.

i pretend i'm not who i am
that i am unaffected
i'm not.

your quiet form
quiet from not sharing
your quiet self.

the shape of your mouth.

a whisper takes you in.

come here.

hot, damp breath beckons.

come here.

air breezes by.

no suffocation and no hesitation.

come here.

as subtle as an arms graze.

gentle and inviting.

there is no waiting.

"come here."

She said.

She said I loved the kind hearted man.
The one with a soft soul

The old tree without leaves
Hugged by the earth as it dies a slow death

She said I wanted the one who didn't know what want was.
The one with an empty unfillable hole

The grass matted down
Crushed from the weight of the sun

She said I hoped to find that which cannot be found.
The one whose existence is a myth





*For Colleen.

don't peep, you'll break it.

when there's a creek in the door
the door isn't broken.

it can't.

When there's a flower in bloom it's so small.

It's so incredibly small.

It's incredibly small.

Small.

But remember all the other flowers?

They used to be there too.

They were so small too.

So small.

Small.

But the blooms can't stay.

None of it can stay. 

None of it stays.

Stay.

When the bloom is gone the stem is there.

It's hearty and full of promise to stay.

It's full of promise to stay.

Promise to stay.

Stay.

Un-unique

Elaine Terre, Ellie to her friends, leaned gracefully over her egg white porcelain sink. Her eye make-up smudged all over her upper and lower lids. Trapped in the corners of her hazel eyes were the remnants of tears she was attempting to wipe away.

"I'm just done." She thought it out loud. "I'm just," a pregnant pause, an exasperated sigh, "done."

She'd been fired. It felt like a glorified dumping. Broken up with by the career that didn't want her anymore. Left alone on the skirts of Unemploymentville Co. Population: her. She felt like a cliché, and all of her thoughts backed that feeling up.

It happens to everyone. The phrase echoed in her head from a conversation she'd finished earlier that evening with her sister. Her sister, Carolyn, was an attractive young woman, aged 29, single, with a semi-high-powered career on the way to an actual high-powered career in fashion merchandising. She had little empathy for anyone when it came to relationships, jobs or general livelihood, likely due to her lack there of.

Carolyn and Elaine had a tumultuous relationship growing up, not unlike most sisterly relationships. Elaine, being the younger, found talking to Carolyn exacerbating, and would dodge opportunities to do so regularly —that is she until Carolyn would figure out a way to corner Elaine into conversation, often by trapping her in actual corners.

During the summers the pair would play a game in their country club swimming pool called, Spider. Essentially, one of the girls would hold onto the sides of the pool, often in a corner, with their legs spread while the other would have to attempt passage through the triangulated legs and arms of her sister without touching. If one indeed touched, even a hair, a strike would be marked. Three strikes and you would have to run around the perimeter of the pool. It doesn't sound as bad in retrospect, but summers in the midwest still brought about a cool air that made the pool a warm sanctuary once you were in, as the outside world remained an icy fortress.

Ellie thought about all those memories as she starred past her own reflection, wiping away her history and whatever Revlon still clung to her cheeks. Still, more tears clouded her vision.

Was I wrong? She questioned for the nth time. But she knew the answer. No, she wasn't wrong. And, she shouldn't have been as upset as she was.

It happens to everyone, El. 

done

--> There’s a place I’ve been where the walls are wearing skin

Where no one lives inside, it’s just an empty hollow hide

The snow falls briskly, leaving you thin, so prickly

Where short, short skirts tend to silken shirts

and we are all so low.

There’s a place I’ve been where you would only hear that pin

Where no one says hello, how dare you consider your friend your fellow

The sky turns purple, orange, red, you might as well rip yourself to shreds

Where wavy hair meets a woman’s stare

and she whispers hello, goodbye.

There’s a place I’ve been where all you want is out

Where children fear

and I tear

Where there is no air

and I tear

Rip it. Deface it. Call it Nothing.

There is a place I have been.

i'm a memory

i pace inside daily, and sprint outside come night.
i wake you up when sleeping
there's no escape
im wrapped around your throat tight

there are no words spoken
no feeling of air exiting your lips
i cannot be pinpointed.

there are blades of grass. they are lime salted
margarita mixed
you think about them in a blink
and then
they're gone

like me, but ever present.
so not.

i drive a fancy sports-car
it goes incredibly fast
so fast you might miss it

feel the blade of grass, that one
yes
that's her.
the one beneath your big toe.

can you feel it?
no

i whisper gently to you
lulling you to bed
until tomorrow when there is nothing
for you're surely dead

there are sheep above you
count them
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
you'll be up there with them
dead so quickly soon.

i live inside your heart. your brain. your candy-coated skin.
i live inside you until there's nothing.
and no one knows i was therein.

i cannot be pinpointed.
im a squiggle on your notepad in the middle of the night

count them.
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
there is no deciphering my meaning.
it'll all be over soon.

settled

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. After returning late from an improv show at iO I was stuck thinking and rethinking about everything that had happened before, during, and after the show. Since I'm moving to Los Angeles in about a month all I've done lately is reflect on my years in Chicago. I had a few things to do on my checklist before I could leave here. I've done them all, and now I'm more than ready. But it's been all the things and people between those bullet points that have made Chicago everything. I landed here by default, but I chose to stay for as long as I have because I loved it.

All night Monday I was up going through drawers in my bedroom, clearing out what I assumed would be junk, but what I found instead was treasure. I found countless notes, cards and keepsakes from nights out. These were things I knew I would want to look at again before I boxed them in an old shoebox. I know myself well enough to know that these are the things I'll want to look back at when feeling low, maybe in LA, maybe wherever I go after that.

One of my favorite little things I found was a piece of white computer paper that I had written some thoughts on one night while at my parents house. There were existential questions like, "Why are we here?" and hopefully non-predictive statements such as, "Eventually, I will be broke," accompanied by an arrow pointing to the name: Peter Francis Geracy, Illinois' premier bankruptcy attorney. I can't decide if I meant PFG will say this or if he's whom I should call about going broke in the future. Both seem like viable options. But, what I liked most about this note I'd unintentionally written to myself was this poem:

They never loved you
I never loved you
I loved you, but I didn't
I did as much as I could

-and I was timid.
I was nervous. and I acted like we were new. and then it was old.
we were old. and we weren't supposed to be together
-and now I'm scared that I'll be alone and you were it.
and now I'm alone, but I never settled
Is that better?

-I wasted your time.
-I wasted your time.

It was followed with this:

If I were me right now I'd run. I'd be fine, until right before. My heart would race like crazy and I'd convince myself it wasn't nerves -- until I'd realize that would mean I'd have a heart condition. I have it all prepared. I have it played out in my mind. Why does my body convince itself it's not ready. Not prepared. No one else up here is really all that special. Every day I think -- I could do that. But here I am failing at the one thing I want. It'd be sort of funny to want to be a banker. And every time you count money you can't count because money made you so nervous. Living in general would be difficult. Money is such a big part of life. It really is.

There's this constant push to be moving forward, and I love that push. I love that drive, that fire, to pursue life fully despite nerves, despite fear, despite obstacles. It's a funny thing to never feel settled, and perhaps it's less in the destination, but more in the people where you're settled. Once you find your people, that's where the comfort is. So for me, I'm settled in Chicago. I'm settled in Iowa. I'm settled in the U.P. I'm settled in Lake Forest. I'm settled in San Francisco. I'm settled in Los Angeles. I'm settled all over because everyone I love is out there pursuing their lives, as I am.

So no, I did not waste anyone's time and no one wasted mine.