Weathering

Do You Want Fries With That?

2011-11-17T14:56:00.000-08:00

The Rehab center is back!

With bells on, counsel and plaques

from years of experience

in fixing you;

from deep rooted heart issues

to getting gum off your shoe.

You don't have to worry

I don’t have feelings, dreams or hopes,

I am only here to help you cope

with your pain and disappointment

your fear of self assessment,

your obsession with the obscene

and everything in between.

You don’t have to worry

about me needing growth,

so please don’t be distracted,

I was just clearing my throat.

Please go ahead,

where were we?

Oh yeah!

The reason that you’re sad

and what made you so mad.

Let me find some scripture

or a song to lift you up

I might know a good therapist,

here let ME look it up!

But just real quick,

just a second of your time

I just have one question…

Is this your fault or mine?

While we’re on this subject..

I have one more question

You can keep talking...I’ll just listen..

But just real quick,

before I give your ouchies a kiss...

Did you want fries with this?

A Visitor

2009-08-23T20:46:00.001-07:00

As if sparked with a surge of high wattage electricity, I slam the door shut; lock and deadbolt it before I can even catch a glimpse of what is on the other side. Why doesn't this door have a friggin' peep hole? I stand with my back to the door and my breath decides to play its sick little games. Before it can even turn to run away and hide I give it the worst look I can conjure up and it slinks back into my lungs, pouting as it goes. Are you nuts, Darci??? What if it's IT? I decide it would be wiser to inquire before I go opening my door to anyone. Or any THING for that matter.

"Hum...Who is it?" I try to disguise the fear in my voice. This was all new to me; usually I just swing open the door and let whoever wants in, in. I obviously have issues setting healthy boundaries. That's how IT came to know my mind, and know it well. IT would knock and I would let IT in. At first we just hung out and IT would show me all these things I had never seen before. They were interesting and appealing, and I always had so much fun doing them. They felt different, and good. I never had to think and there were never severe consequences to anything I did. After a while, however, I realized IT was taking advantage of the place and started staying over for way too long. Sometimes IT would stay for days; trash the place and never clean up, and leave traces of toxic behavior as obvious as daylight. Eventually I felt like IT was a roommate, and while I hated the feeling of IT living in my mind, it was all I knew. By that point, I had grown numb to IT’s presence, and the camp set up in that back room; the same room where IT took me when I was hurting, angry or sad, but especially when I was lonely. My stomach grew queasy at the thought of those lonely nights when IT would take me into that dark room with IT...

"IT? Is that you?" Silence. "WELL? IS IT???" Silence again. I was starting to feel more annoyed than I was afraid. "Well. If it is, you might as well do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around. You're not getting in. I don't want you here anymore. I cleaned out your stupid toxic camp! It's ALL gone." More silence. I pressed my ear to the door and I heard deep breathing. Breathing so powerful it gave me chills. Breathing that sounded like the wind. It can't be Determination or Self Control; they don't play games like this. They are entertaining enough, but they don't mess around, and they would know better about playing a joke like this on me right now. Or would they? “Self Control? Determination? Is that you guys? If it is, I don’t like this joke.” More silence, followed by the slightest shuffle in movement. "IT! IS THAT YOU???!!!" I was getting angry. Finally a voice carried its way through the door.

"I’m guessing that you don’t want it to be?" I didn't recognize this voice. But then again, IT never really spoke to me. IT would whispered close into my ear; a kniving, devious, spite-filled whisper that reeked of insanity. What kind of question is that, anyway? "Well, no! Of course not!" This came out shriller than I had expected. "Why not?” asked the voice so harmlessly. Why not? WHY NOT!! Well if this was IT than it was a clever little devil. If it’s not IT, then whoever is on the other side of this door obviously doesn't understand the hate I harbor and doesn’t have a clue what can they’re opening. I guess that rules out Self Control and Determination; they would know better. So it has to be IT! Who else could it be?

I can't really think of what to say, I have no answers, no good reasons. I just know in my heart that I can no longer stand to harbor IT in my mind.

"So if you can’t give me a good reason, then you must not be too sure, huh?"

What? Who does this…whatever think it is? What does it know? I have been struggling at the hands of IT for years now. You know what? Fine! Fine Mr. I- Won't-tell-you-who-I-am-but I'll ask-lots of-stupid-questions-instead.

"You really wanna know, huh?"

It almost sounded like this…thing was smirking when it said "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

Thanks. Thanks a lot. That's super helpful. At this point I was pretty sure IT was standing behind that door snickering at this stupid, stupid game. I am sure his sick yellow teeth are showing through his crooked disgusting smile. Surely his breath is seeping out invading the pure air around it and taking it hostage with its smell of humid decay. Argh!! I hate IT!!! Maybe this is a good opportunity to tell IT off and get IT out my mind, for good. The anger was boiling inside of me now. Maybe I should let it boil out. It's been stuffed in a pressure cooker on the stove in my mind for so long now. So very long. This was my chance.

Then the voice posed the question "Well... are you going to tell me?" I could hear the whistle on the pressure cooker start to blow as IT continued to taunt me.

"Because...because you are just a HORRIBLE thing. A self-centered, evil plotting, maniacal, narcissistic, life ruining....thing!". The whistle on the pressure cooker whistled louder as it boiled hotter and hotter. "I made the mistake of letting you into my mind and then you kidnapped me and forced me into your sick den of illogical reasoning. Then you got me addicted to your oil of darkness. I was fixed to the high it gave me when it entered my veins. You watched as I would writhe in pain waiting for another hit." I don't even want to mention the dark things I saw in that den. "How many times have I woken up in the middle of the night and found you lying next to me whispering your madness into my dreams? How many times have I woken up in the middle of the night and had to chase you out of my mind so you could no longer draw your twisted dreams upon the addicted easel of my mind? You watched me beg and plead for this obsession to end. You would snicker as you upped my dosage." Why did I let him do this to me? "How long have I walked constantly checking over my shoulder, only to run straight into you?” The top on the pressure cooker popped off onto the floor of the kitchen as it started boiling over. “You would hold my hand as you walked me back into my mind through the hallway to that back room, to one of those stashes and you would open the box. You would tell me that it would comfort me. Remember all those times I told you I didn't want this anymore? You just laughed as you introduced me to another guy who could rock my fears to sleep, and another addiction to numb the feelings of dissatisfaction and deep sadness." How did I not see this as it was happening? "You are honored to see me buckle at your presence. You walk with your shoulders raised in confidence, swaying to your own sick twisted version of a victory song, because you know you'll never go hungry as long as you are feasting on my weaknesses. You're mean. You blow the smoke from your egotistical pipe into my eyes..." I am not even angry anymore; I am growing sad, regretful and lonely. "...so you could heartlessly distract me from the good places I was headed. I would become disoriented, and just as you had planned, I would fall into the arms of the nearest thing that would show interest in this beautiful side of me that I had to fake. I had to sell all my good qualities, my strength and anything truly beautiful inside me for another hit, from YOU.” I allow the sadness to flow out of me as I cry my words. "And every time the interested bloke eventually discovered that you held all my goods, and that I was a slave to your oil. He would grow disinterested or would get ripped apart by the starving addict I had become, when he realized I was no longer sane. I would come crawling back to you, into that back room. What else could I do? And there you would be, propped up on a box, percolating." Practically dancing in excitement, you jerk. "I had pushed everyone else away so you were all I had. I would just raise my arm to you and let you go to work, awakening the sores and bruises that had become merely scars. They would become fresh track marks by the time you were through with me. It was what kept you alive. My addiction kept you alive. I don't care if you die. Die and rot in Hell with the devil that sent you."

My hands are still shaking violently. Very violently. I lean against the door, sobbing as I crumple to the floor; my composure now floating out one of the windows in my mind. There was no way I could chase after it now. It was gone. And at this point, I am too. There is silence. The most significant silence I have ever heard. Or not heard. I could no longer even hear my chest heaving up and down. It was a silence I could almost reach out and touch. The voice broke through the silence like a jackhammer. I could almost hear the silence as it shattered all around me.

"I know." The voice was tender. Wait, what? "What?" I am floored with confusion, still sitting amongst the shards and pieces of the silence that had been broken. "I know, Darci." The pieces of silence rattled.

"Darci, why don't you just open the door already? You asked me to come here."

"No, I didn't!" I haven't asked anyone to come here in a long time.

"But you did, several times. But this was the only right time. I came by a few other times, but you didn't answer. Sometimes you were in that back room, in the darkness, other times you were out; out and about from your mind. You didn't hear the knocking. It would have made no difference if you had, though. It wasn't the right time."

I am totally stumped at this point, and I have NO idea what is going on. This HAS to be IT. I must have hit that point of pure insanity. Maybe I drank myself into an alcoholic coma, or maybe I just worked my neurons into a frenzy and I have finally done it....I have finally gone crazy.

All of a sudden a draft blows in through the open space in my mind and I feel it creep towards me on the floor. It’s warm, and comfortable. I am still unwilling to trust anything going on outside the door, outside of my power. So I plant myself harder to the ground against the breeze. That sounds like the ocean. It smells like the ocean too. As if the wave had come through and swept away any will power or defiance, I have no strenthg left. My body is limp and my mind is mush.

"Please. I can't keep doing this! Just tell me who you are!!" That came out as a soft sob.

"Let me in” persists the voice. Okay, I give up.

"Fine then! Come in!" Silence. "I said you can come in." Silence.

"You have to open the door, Darci."

Oh. "Oh." A voice comes echoing down the hallway from my mind; No. This is how you were invaded before, Darci. You can't trust stuff like this. But something about the wind breathing voice poured life through the door and I feel more than compelled to open the door. Plus, I am learning that the thoughts from that back room cannot be trusted.

I put my hands flat on the ground and slowly begin to push my weight upwards. I shudder at how the darkness is looming around me, stalking me; listening to every move I make. I take my time turning around to face the door. All of a sudden, hundreds of thoughts pop out of the darkness in my mind. I see thoughts of hesitation, fear, anger, resentment. I push each and every one of them away with my shaky palm until I have full sight of the door again. Okay. I'm gonna open it. I have to open it right? I mean, this thing isn't going away is it? You're talking to yourself. I am talking to myself. Argh. Whatever is out there can't be worse than the insanity I feel in here. And I can't stay locked up forever. Yeah. That's true. I can't stay locked up here in my mind forever. Okay, let's open it. Here goes nothing...again. The door knob is very cold to my touch. That's odd; it's always so muggy in here. How could the door handle be this col...Focus. My fingers surround the ball shaped doorknob and I notice they are still shaking. I turn the knob. Nothing happens. You locked it genius. Oh yeah. I reach up and turn the lock. It echoes down the empty hallway and dies at the dark back room. Just like everything else in that room. I place my shaky hand back on the shiny knob and turn it.

The door clicks and begins to creak open. From the other side enters the brightest, whitest and strongest light I have ever seen, and it pours into my mind. The magnificent light races down the hallway into the backroom and hesitates for a second at the locked door. Then it breaks through, breaking the door into shreds and slivers of wood. It invades the room and ransacks it clean of any darkness; all the stashes, the hiding places, and the toxic camps IT set up. It all comes flooding out of the room through this ray of light, out the front door. The light breaks down the walls and invites sunlight into the room. I am blinded and my breath is gone. I think it’s locked in my lungs, which are frozen in fear. The light finishes in the dark room, leaving it open, bright and full of fresh air. It rushes down the hall knocking off the horrible pictures of memories that hung on the wall and all the shelves, on which I had placed all my regrets for display. These things also fall through the ray of light and out the front door. The light makes its way into the kitchen and destroys the stove, the fridge and the dining room table where IT and I would feast on the stashes, for days at a time. The walls are knocked open in there too and the sunlight slowly descends upon the empty room and begins to cover it like a blanket.

My eyes are now adjusting to the light and I can feel my breath dripping back into my lungs. Barely. When the light finishes in the kitchen it comes rushing straight at me, but swarms past me to the entry way closet sounding like a speeding freight train. This is where I keep that parade of crippling thoughts that would come swirling around me from time to time. Sometimes I would have to lure that carnival in there and lock the door. They would knock and pound and make all kinds of racket but I wanted them closed out of my mind. IT would often unlock the door and let them out to terrorize me. IT thought that was hilarious; I hated it. The light broke through that door and caught the whole stampede into its ray as they stomped out of the closet past the broken door splinters. As each item of that carnival was sucked into the light, they calmed. The images didn't scream, kick or yell as usual. They were peaceful images as they entered the ray and exited the front door to my mind. The light then swirled around me like a hurricane with such intensity I had to keep myself from falling over. It swished and swirled, hoo-ed and howled as the walls cracked and crashed. And then there was silence. I feel the sunlight begin to fall around where I stand. It feels like a waterfall of feathers as it pours onto my skin. Still silence. The only thing standing is me and the front door. The light begins to howl as it swirls back to the front door. I inch towards the tail of the light as it leaves my mind through the door. The light fades as it is gathered into a hand; a powerful hand. Actually, the most beautiful hand I have ever seen. The last slivers of light make their way through the fingers as it crashes into the palm of the beautiful hand. As that last bit of light evaporates I see a scar on the wrist of this hand.

No way. I slowly open the rest of the door and look at what I have been wrestling with for hours now. Oh, God…my heart stops. You are beautiful. Splendid. Stunning. You didn't give us words to describe You accurately. My hands have stopped shaking but I feel like my heart is going to explode as it leaps into my throat. There is nothing that will give justice to the glory I am face-to-face with. There is light; lots of light. It illuminates all around Him and shines through Him. I work up the courage and I look Him in the eye. It is like looking into the deepest ocean of the bluest water where the biggest icebergs shoot up with towering strength and where the most powerful creatures swim in the churn of the strongest currents. My breath swims into the depths of my lungs again. Oh no, no. No, breath! This is not the time to run and hide. Did you SEE who is at my door? Hearing this thought, He laughed. I nearly fainted at the sound. It was like hearing the most beautiful bird sing a lullaby to the most innocent child who is laughing as they sit among trees that blow in the wind, creating the most intricate symphony.

"Thank you for opening the door." My voice had gotten tangled up in one of my vocal chords at the sound of His laughter. I couldn't talk. I nodded instead. He smiled.

"You know it's time, right?" I nodded again. This time with less enthusiasm.

Mind Stashes

2009-08-22T08:35:00.000-07:00

I run as fast as gravity will allow. My feet are being good little troopers. I had been running for a long time now and I am still at the same stamina level as when I ripped out of that observation room. I'm really gonna pay for this tomorrow. I don't care, suffering the pain of an aching body is much better than being run down by... It. I'm not really "running away" from It because it knows exactly where I am going. I just need to get there first. By the time I arrive there and stop running the adrenaline is pumping so much energy through my body it feels like it is going to revolt and keep running against my will. I stretch a little bit to do some damage control for tomorrow and then I try to lower my heart rate. Okay, enough time wasted! I need to get there with enough time on my hands. I stand outside the door of my mind, searching the pockets for my keys. Once again the silence lowers itself around me and blocked out any hint of noise that tries to wiggle its way through the wall. I find the key, open the door and hesitantly walk in. I begin to rummage through the darkness in my mind. A darkness so shallow it was tangible, but so dark in color that I could not see through its slight curtain. I feel around the room and search for the little cabinet. I walk alongside the walls making sure my feet stay steady. Eventually I bump into something and bend over to feel around, and I touch the smooth top of the cabinet. This is it! I squat down putting my weight on the balls of my feet and reach for the metal knob. I would give my left leg... okay, maybe my left pinky toe for a stream of light right now. Buuuut.... I don't have that luxury, so I'm gonna have to make do with my sense of touch. I open the small door and get on my knees as I reach for the top shelf. Nothing. It's okay, there are two more shelves. I move my hand down to the second shelf and feel around, only to find that one was empty too. Not too nervous yet, I slowly move my hand down to the third and last shelf as if my slow speed would make it so that something would appear on that shelf. My fingers crawl around the shelf, encountering nothing but smooth wood. They start to pick up speed as my heart beats a little faster. They speed crawl around spots they already checked, hoping they had missed something. Argh! Nothing. When was this one emptied? I can't seem to remember....

I steady my heart as I remember that there is at least one more place I can look, possibly two. I close the door to the cabinet, and still on my knees I try to find my breath. I am annoyed to find my breath is playing hard to get, probably playing one of its stupid games of hide and go seek. But I don't have time to count, seek and then chase right now. So I put my hands on my knees and push as much air into my nose as possible. Then I open my mouth and breathe in more of the dark colored air. Goodness gracious that hurts my lungs! I really wish my breath wouldn't do this. Finally my breath realized it wasn't time for games and gave in to my insistent inhaling. I slowly stand up knowing that I was going to be dizzy from this quick game of hide and seek. I am. I steady myself back on the wall as I move towards my second destination. My fingertips feel along the walls as I walk slowly. I head through the hallway into another room. God, my hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking like this, God? I already know the answer so all I get is silence. I try to ignore the feeling as I move on.

Once in the new room, I find the fridge in the dark and make my way to it, walking as if I was on a balance beam. How is it that my eyes have not adjusted to the dark yet? It usually doesn't take this long. The air still lightweight but pitch dark carries me to the fridge. I feel for the handle and pull it open. The light from the inside nearly blinds me and I have to close my eyes until the dark curtain lifts a bit from my vision. The cold air swarms around me and enters my pores one by one until it bullies out all the sweat beads. I didn't realize I was sweating that much. The dark curtain has lifted from the light and my eyes have adjusted. I begin my search. I look at all the shelves and find nothing. Trying not to panic I search the top shelf; moving the yogurt and the soymilk. Sliding over the water jug and picking through the eggs. I pull each drawer open and ransack them like I am a starved animal. I search through every can in the soda box. It's not in here, Darci. I stare into my fridge as if I had the mental powers to make something magically appear. I check the freezer for good measure. I check it three times. Three times I find nothing. I slowly close the fridge door and slump down. Think, Darci, think! There is another place you stash stuff....where is it? I rack my brain for every memory I have concerning this situation. I go through every step I can remember taking within this mind of mine and retrace every movement. Slowly the memory comes back and I remember where it is. Oh my, what am I gonna do if there is not anything in there? Ok. Focus. Go check first and then we'll go from there.

I rise using the fridge door as support and move through the dark air back into the hallway. This time I grip the wall and my fingers are shaking as if my body is being rocked by some kind of imaginary turbulence. I move a little quicker this time towards the very back of my mind hoping I'll find what I'm looking for. The curtain remains dark, but as I move through the hall towards the back, the air grows heavier; it feels like it's growing heavier with every step, as if it is trying to stop me. Walking feels harder, even though I am gripping the wall. Somehow it gets darker as I near the back, too. How is that even possible?! My body pushes back on the heavy air and moves clumsily into the room on the left. All of a sudden I realize there is a floor beneath me and it's creaking. Okay, seriously...are we gonna throw in some howling wolves and creepy owl hoots too? I laugh nervously at my horrible joke because I know that I really am afraid. But I don't know if I am necessarily afraid of the heavy creaky darkness as much as I am about not finding what I need. Yeah I do.

I freeze as I hear a knock on the door to my mind. The knock echoes through the hallway into the room and reaches me. It sends chills down my spine. What if its It? What if It ended up getting away from Determination and breaking through the glass into the observation room? I decide not to open the door. Instead I quicken my search, because even if it's not It, it could be anyone or anything trying to discourage me to find what I am frantically searching for. Frantically. Why am I frantically looking? I guess this is just how it goes. This is what I do. But it doesn't have to be. I don't have to rely on those things, right? I have grown stronger in the past year. That stash of attention is not a source of power for my soul. Or is it? I decide I am going to just "make sure" and check anyways. Just in case of like, you know, some "emergency". I know God. I don't believe myself either. The knocking has stopped for now, and I continue gripping the wall until my fingertips crawl their way over a doorframe. Okay, this is the room. This is where I remember putting it. The darkness in here is heavier so my body has to call for back up muscles as it pushes its way to the left corner of the room. I bump into several different things in the dark, but I am moving slow because my body is pushing hard so I barely stumble each time. My feet knock over a few boxes filled with things of which I can only imagine. All of a sudden dust starts to rise all around me and stick to the curtain of darkness. The now curtain of dust starts overwhelming my already unreliable breath, who decides to go deeper into its game of hide and seek. Oh no. As if the dust had the power to ignite memories, I realize what is in those boxes. I packed so many different stashes and detrimental fall back plans in here. This place is like a mine field to me. I had been scared that I would find a graveyard, but this...is much much worse. I just need to get what I am looking for and leave before I set anything off. I carefully slide my feet towards the corner in which I was headed, as if I was ice skating. Yeah, ice skating on the particles of dust leftover from my past.

I finally reach the corner and find the sturdy old box with the broken lock. I take a deep breath not knowing if I want to find anything inside or not. I bend down and slowly raise the lid of the box and peer inside. I see nothing. I start to pani...Duh, chill out. It’s pitch dark in here, you idiot! So I reach into the box slowly and feel around. Nothing. I let my fingertips crawl around every corner of the box. Still nothing. That's it. That was the last stash. There is no more. That's it. I'm ALL out. I don't feel sad. I certainly don't feel happy. I feel nothing. I slowly let my legs drop to the ground and I lean up against the wall. What does this mean? I've searched every place in my mind where I keep the stuff. Gone. When did I use it all up? Or did someone take it all? How would I ever know? So many people have been in and out of my mind since the last time I had to dig into one of these stashes. The knocking starts again and my whole body stops. I swallow a mouthful of dark air and dust and start to feel a little spinney. Again the knocking echoes through the hallway and races over to the corner where I am sitting and masterfully twists my body into a tense knot. After a few minutes of the knocking, I decide it needs to be answered. Usually Self Control was standing guard at the door and Determination was helping me organize and carry all the heavy things through and out of my mind. But I don't know what had happened to them. Last time something like this happened they had already made it back by now. Self Control had suggested that we make up a secret knock, but Determination and I made fun of him and we just never got around to it. I realize that it could actually be Determination and Self Control at the door, because I am the only one who has a key to my mind. They can't get in without me. Or...it could be It. It always found crafty ways to sneak its grimy sharp paws into my mind. But the door had to be opened for him to get in, and thankfully it wasn't. The knocking grows louder and harder.

I pull my twisted knot of a body off the floor to start making my way out. My body pushes against the weight of the dark curtain and eventually I reach the door to the room. I pull out the set of keys to my mind and fidget with them. My hands are shaking harder, making this task a lot more tenuous. Eventually I find the key to the door to the room I just left; the mine field. I turn around and close the door to the room. I stick in the key, and turn the lock. Three times. The clicking noise bounces past me down the hall. Just in case it is the horrid face of It I see at the door, or God forbid It finds its way back into my mind; this room full of ammunition won't be such easy access. The volcano of fear about to explode in my heart is calmed at the thought that I have some protection and control in this situation. The knocking catches my attention again as it quickens in pace. I stuff my keys deep into my pocket and start down the hallway towards the knocking.

The curtain lightens up and my body eases from how hard it was pushing through the darkness. As I near the front door, the curtain has lifted completely and I practically glide through the air. The knocking feels like drums beating through my body as I reach for the dead bolt. I feel the vibration of the knocks on my fingertips and all of a sudden I hear a different kind of drum sound; much louder and coming from all around me. The floor has begun trembling when all of a sudden, a slew of images trample into the walk way and run past me. These rushes were happening a lot less these days. It is like a whirling parade of tyrannical moments that carrousel around my body. I allow the parade to swirl and twirl its way around until it slowly dissipates into mid-air. That one wasn’t so bad. My hand vibrates again as the knock has grown stronger. I have to answer it. The knocking won't stop. They'll keep coming. I turn the deadbolt slowly and place my hand on the doorknob. Well here goes nothing I think as I slowly turn the doorknob and open the door...

The Observation Room

2009-08-09T18:58:00.000-07:00

It sat quietly and sneered hatefully at me from behind the glass. I got goosebumps on my skin as It looked me straight in the eye, and not the good kind of goosebumps either. By the look on Its face it was starving to be back in my head feasting on my sane nerves, infecting them with the insanity that ran through Its own blood. It licked its lips and I felt the nausea rise up from my stomach into my chest. The observation room was quiet, too quiet. I sat in the room by myself wondering when everyone else was going to show up. I fidgeted in the uncomfortable chair I was sitting in and the old red vinyl crackled at my every move. Watching It through the glass makes me so nervous that I am sweating, and if I had worn shorts, my skin would be sticking to the worn material on the seat. But I didn't wear shorts, I want to to keep as much skin covered as possible from this animal. I looked back up and It was still staring at me, but now It was grinning. I tried not to let It see me squirm, but it wasn't an easy task. I was terrified of It, and It knew very well because It could see my thoughts. Hoping to clear my mind, I focused on the coffee I poured myself before I had stepped into this eerily quiet room. It was hot as it touched my lips and I could taste the bitterness making its way down my throat. My sip echoed off the walls, and it added heat to my already perspiring body. The coffee didn't help ease my stomach at all either. I could feel its eyes fixed on my face as I stared into my cup wishing this moment would end. The nausea had now risen to my throat.

Where was the operator? Wasn't there supposed to be a guy that goes in there and talks to It, ties It up, puts something in It's mouth and then flips the switch? I thought that's how they did it. But there is no movement coming from anywhere. This is all making me more uncomfortable than I have ever felt before, but at this point I am very grateful for the death penalty. Plus, I really did need to be here. I needed to see It die with my own eyes because I had been fooled before; thinking I was finally safe because It was gone. Then It would jump back into my life so much bigger and stronger than the time before and my sane nerves never stood a chance. I shuddered at the thought of those moments; the Lord knows they were horrible. Its black eyes would peer deep into mine while its cold fingers would pry open my mind where It would begin to set up Its battlefield. I hate It so much. I realize hate imprisons the soul, but this is different. This, this...thing; It wants my soul and It will stop at nothing to get it. Sometimes I feel like hate is the only weapon I have that I can use. I look up to see if It saw this whole thought process, and never one to disappoint, It was snickering at me revealing Its sharp, yellow caked teeth. Its tongue was hanging on Its bottom teeth and It was slobbering. Its dark, bottomless eyes peered into mine, past the coffee cup I was holding up attempting to cover my face. I shook away the stare and rearranged myself on the crackly red vinyl again. I could now taste the acid from the nausea rising into my mouth.

Somewhere outside my head a door slowly creeps open. I fall out of my thoughts and my head snaps around at the door into the observation room; it was closed. My eyes slowly roll over to the room behind the glass where I spot movement. Two more had slipped in through the door into the room behind the glass, and they were whispering quietly to each other. It must not have noticed, and if It did It was ignoring them because Its eyes were still fixed on me, the smile now wider. I was made aware of the nausea in my throat again. When the two new occupants of the room stopped whispering I recognize them! Relief rolls through my body like a tidal wave that releases the block on my windpipe and all of a sudden air rushes through me and out of me, and I breathe deeply. Finally. The first occupant to enter the room, my Self Control, has started measuring the poison that he would need to place in the needle. The second occupant, my Determination, had slowly and calmly crept up behind It and started strapping it down to the chair. It squirmed a little bit but kept its eyes fixated on the fear that lingered in the sweat on my body. It didn't seem bothered by Determination's strong hands that were binding It in preparation for Its death. That curdled my already sour stomach because I hadn't expected It to react so confidently to the death penalty. I felt my vision grow dim as I turned around to look for my family or my friends that I had been expecting. Where were they? This was about to happen and I was going to have to sit here and witness it by myself? Well, me and my coffee anyways. I felt my heart grow a little heavier and my nose start to sting. Oh no, this meant I was going to cry. There was no way I was going to let that creeper see me cry and think It was responsible for my tears, not again. I just thought people would realize how significant this moment was and how scared I really am. I thought there would be at least some support for....oh my. Oh no. I didn't tell them. I am such an idiot! Nobody knew that It had come back into my head and began feasting on my logic. I didn't want them to worry; I could handle this thing on my own. I have been doing it for years. Well, I guess if I had been handling it right, I wouldn't have to be sitting here right now. I should have told someone. My sweet Lord, I know you are here with me, but I should have told someone.

Self Control had finished measuring the poison and was cleaning up after himself. The clanging of the tools beat in rhythm with my heart, which felt like it was no longer beating at all. Self Control slipped the plastic gloves off his hands and washed them thoroughly in the sink while Determination checked all the wires that plugged into the sturdy chair It was sitting in. As Determination finished his inspection he firmly met my eyes and nodded reassuringly. I felt more weight lift off my chest. My eyes follow It as it turns its head to look at Determination dead in the eye. Those two have a history; Determination has been hunting down and protecting me from It for a while now. Somehow, every time, It would find a way to distract or weaken Determination and slip past him through the back of my mind, where it would find its way to the remains of the battlefield it had built and rebuild Its army. Despite our effort, It still found a way to rebuild Its evil where Self Control, Determination and I had worked so hard to clear out. One time, Determination even injured Its eye sight, but It still crept past and found Its way blindly through my mind. After all, It had been living there for more than a decade. Self Control and Determination were new to the area, so It definitely had the upper hand in this battle.

I was caught up in remembering all the times that we had gone to battle with this thing, and how persistent and strong It was. I was so caught up in rerunning the scenes through my mind that I almost missed it. I saw movement from the chair as It somehow maneuvered an arm out of the straps and managed to reach Determination with enough force to knock him over. It began to unstrap itself at an incredibly fast rate; fast enough that Self Control didn't get to It in time. Self Control had leapt across the room at It when he realized what was happening. Almost in slow motion Self Control hit his knees on the ground and reeled around with surprise plastered on his face as he glanced down at a knocked out Determination. By the time Self Control's eyes had spun around, the chair was unstrapped and empty. Self Control's face twisted into horror as his face met the sharp end of one of the measuring tools. Self Control froze for what felt like hours until he crumpled down to the ground. Both Self Control and Determination were lying motionless on the floor behind the glass.

I can't move as I stare in horror at the scene that had just unfolded; I must be dreaming. The skin underneath my jeans has started burning as I realize I have dropped my coffee cup on my lap. I smack the heat off my pants and try to catch my breath. I'm not dreaming. All of a sudden I can't stop my eyes from following the glass window up, up, up...until my eyes rest on It, plastered to the glass, staring down at me. I look around to find the nearest exit to see if there is any way It can get to me, and if I could get away. I plan the quickest way out of the observation room, feeling safe that at least It was stuck in the glass room for now. I glance back at the glass before I get up to start running, and I see it. I am frozen still except for my stomach that is turning so violently I can hear it. My sight is fooling me, surely. Calm down, Darci, you are imagining things. I close my eyes and shake my head and open them back up slowly. Oh...my..... I wasn't wrong. There was a crack in the glass. I followed it with my eyes up, up, up....until my eyes found where the crack became an opening. The glass had broken. More churning, deeper churning. I looked at It who was now laughing hysterically at my slow realization. I glanced back up at the hole in the glass and found one of Its sharp fingers sticking through the break. Oh no. No. No...Not again. My head was throbbing and the nausea had now risen into my mouth and I could taste the acid. I was frozen in shock as its hand started to rip through the glass. I hunched over as the acid taste grew stronger in my mouth, and when I did I saw more movement behind the glass. Determination had come to with a bleeding mouth, but he was strongly starting to rise off the floor...

God Spoke Back

2009-08-03T19:11:00.000-07:00

On an ordinary day of an ordinary week, I was having one of my routine conversations with, well, ranting at, God. But on this day, it became less than ordinary when He spoke back.

Me: So, God. I have been thinking. Well, actually, I have been wondering...Why did you create me like this?
God: What do you mean?
Me: Oh! You're there! Good. Okay. Well, you know...what I mean.
God: No.
Me: Okay, like for a small example. I have a decent looking face. My nose, my mouth, my eyes are all very nice. But I get these pimples on my face and then they scar. I love my freckles, but there are so few of those. I wish you had given me less pimple-prone skin and more cute freckles. It's hideous. Emily has perfect beautiful skin, why couldn't I have that kind of skin?
God: What? You think it's hid...
Me: Well, now that I think about it, my nose is nice, but then I get that weird line on it from when I rub my nose. And then I get those dirty pores that are horrifyingly visible.
God: Actually, I like that line...
Me: Oh and my eyes, I like the blue. But couldn't you have made them a more shocking and brighter color of blue? My cousin has the most beautifully bright blue eyes. Why couldn't mine look more like hers? Oh, yeah! And not to mention the fact that one of my eyes twitches! What's up with that?! What was the purpose of making one of my eyes spastic?
God: Hey! Now wait, I love...
Me: And my teeth are decent and they are white enough. But my bottom set of teeth have this weird crooked thing going on. It really ruins the overall good look of my teeth. And couldn't you have made them just a bit whiter? Oh yeah, and my tonsils are ridiculously sensitive and oversized, God. Did you make them like that on purpose?
God: Well, I actually s...
Me: And that's just my face. Well, I like my hair; you did a good job on that. But couldn't you have made it straight instead of wavy? I mean, I guess it's neat that I can wear it both ways. But it's just so...blah. You know...not great not bad. Average…bland. My friend Lacey, though, she has gorgeous hair, I could use some curls like that.
God: Well, when I made...
Me: And that's just my head. Good heavens, I mean, goodness gracious. Sorry. Seriously, though. How many girls do I know that can eat whatever they want and not have to worry about gaining weight?
God: To be exact...
Me: Too many, that's how many. It's really not fair. Why couldn't you have built me more like my friend Tara? She is proportionally perfect. I mean, I have feminine hips, but did you have to make extra large? And you made my arms strong, I like that. But did you have to add the jiggle fat underneath?
God: I didn't exact...
Me: And my legs. Oh my legs. Why do my thighs have to be so thick and my ankles so skinny? If You had made the thighs skinny to match the ankles, or the ankles thick to match the thighs, that would be one thing. Not to mention they do this weird inverted Y shape they make if I stand a certain way. So instead of looking normal I look like a giant ice cream cone.
God: I thought...
Me: I mean, I guess I am okay, but I really wish I was beautiful. I don't know, like one of those movie star girls? They are perfect. Why didn't you make me look like one of them and make one of them look like me? Didn't you want me to be happy?
God: ..........
Me: Well? Are you even listening to me? Didn't you want me to be happy?
God: Are you asking me?
Me: Well, yeah.
God: Darci. If I had wanted you to look like those women, don't you think I would have made you that way? How long have you felt like this?
Me: .....
God: Darci. How long have you felt like this.
Me: .....
God: Since as long as you can remember, huh? You have spent well over a decade hating yourself and focusing in on your flaws and thriving on what you could look like!
Me: Well, not the whole....
God: And all that self disgust has done nothing but hold you back from enjoying all the beauty I gave you. And I didn't even spend most of my time on the outside physical beauty when I made you.
Me: But...
God: I focused on your spirit, on your abilities, on your talents. I focused on weaving that passion into your heart and that drive into your head. I spent more time preparing your blessings, which seem very quickly overlooked so many times. So I am not going to apologize for making you the way I decided to make you. I like it!
Me: I didn't say that you should...
God: How long are you going to live this way?
Me: What way?
God: Believing all these lies? The lies you tell yourself; these lies that Satan feeds you, which you gobble up like a starved animal.
Me: No, I do not gob....
God: You do Darci. You do it because you are starving. You refuse to fill that space with my Spirit, and those lies are digested so quickly that you constantly need more. So you become addicted to those thoughts because they are so accessible and self pitying. And before you know it your sanity has become insanity and you no longer know where the line is that you crossed so long ago. Does that sound about right?
Me: Uhm...yeah, I guess.
God: .....
Me: So what should I do?
God: Rebel against the media, Darci! Stop beating yourself into the shape they say you should be. They didn't even create beauty. I did. Who gave them the right to say what and who is more beautiful? I sure didn't. They judge solely the shell of the beauty I created, which is what will waste away in the dirt, it's merely packaging. So I ask you, what expertise do you have to tell me that my creation of you is not beautiful enough? How often to do you see pieces of art jump off the canvas and criticize the artist for how he painted the shading? You love the ocean, and I made that. You think that's "hideous"?
Me: No, sir.
God: Those "movie stars" that you want to look like, they spend hours of their day and days of their week working to look like that. They spend so much time on their shell; they never spend any time on the true beauty I gave them within. Do you have any idea how much of true life they miss out on because they are blindly riding around on the coattails of their "beauty"?
Me: No.
God: Well, they miss a lot of things. A lot of the things I created for them to see, feel and experience. I made their spirits and their hearts, and now the person I made them comes in second to their looks. They are slaves to their vanity.
Me: Oh, c'mon, it sounds horrible when You put it that way, God.
God: Darci. You have been walking down that path, in your mind. You know that right? You have become a slave to those lies - they control you. Is that not horrible?
Me: Well, I will admit it doesn't feel great...but this is what the world has become, it's the world we live in. You can't understand.
God: I can't understand the way the humans I created feel in the world that I made?
Me: Oh.
God: This is not what I made you to be, Darci. I didn't create you as a sheep in the flock that belongs to the shallow vanities of perishable aesthetics. Have you felt the fire I put in your soul? How can you even ignore that fire to give any heed to what the world demands of you anyway?
Me: I have never really heard it put like that before. In all honesty, I do hate what you have made in me; I guess that's why I criticize myself so much. Does that hurt You?
God: More than you will ever experience.
Me: Argh. Did I really say I was hideous?
God: Yes.
Me: You're right. Who am I to say you should have made my skin clearer, and my eyes bluer. I guess sometimes I just don't understand. Like the eye twitch, I just don't see...
God: Darci, Darci, Darci. I gave you that eye thing as a trademark. I put the birthmark on the inside of your arm, but I didn't feel like that was enough to show you. That eye thing is a charm; from me to you. Plus, it makes people laugh, and I love seeing that. And so do you; deep down inside past all those lies, you like it because it makes you feel original.
Me: Yeah I guess it does...wait. How did you know that?
God: You know, you forget every day who you are dealing with here.
Me: So you're telling me that the way I am...was on purpose?
God: Completely, 100% on purpose.
Me: You know, God, I have always felt deep within me... I don't want to spend my life with people around me who like who I am when I am trying so hard to be someone that I'm not, someone you didn't make me.
God: I know, Darci. I don't want you to either.

He didn't talk back for a while, and I tried so much harder to wade past the lies. And then one day when I was jogging, in the burning sun over Omaha, God spoke to me again. For some reason I have the most creative and eye opening thoughts when I am running. My head clears up. I suppose God saw that moment and seized it with His own ingenious creativity. He spoke to me through a song, and this is what He said:

"Why are you looking for love?
Why are you still searching as if I'm not enough?
To where will you go child?
Tell me where will you run?
To where will you run?

Cuz I'll be by your side
wherever you fall
In the dead of night
whenever you call
and please don't fight
these hands that are holding you.
My hands are holding you."

Those two conversations were enough to charm my soul. Be still my heart, because now I am in love and there is no going back.

Ghosts of Puzzle Pieces Past

2009-07-08T14:14:00.000-07:00

Reality dawned on me like the harsh sunrise after a long and cold night; when I found something I had lost today as I walked home from the church building. It was somewhat off to the side, in my favorite part of the city. If I had not sat down beside that fountain, and if it weren't for that very hour of that very day, I might have missed it because the sunlight hit it ever so slightly and sent its shine my way. It was so familiar even though I had not seen it in years. It was a decent size, well, the same size it was when I lost it. So I picked it up and put it in my pocket until I could figure out if, and how, it worked after all these years.

I had been strolling through my beautifully cultured hometown soaking it deep into my skin. It has been so long since I was here, not just physically but emotionally. I walked up to my favorite "praca" in the whole city (where they held the weekly Hippie Fare every Sunday morning) and sat on the ledge of a fountain where the water pours out of a stone horse's mouth into the fountain pool; but today, it was dry. I was surrounded with towering Cathedrals, hundreds of pigeons, the brightest buildings you have ever seen, a giant clock made of flowers and the sunlight that reflected its heat off the cobblestone. The construction workers were on their 32nd break today as they stopped to watch the women gracefully swagger by on the uneven cobblestone, perfectly in the highest and skinniest heels you have ever seen. It was not but seconds following that moment when the misplaced object caught my eye.

I picked it up hesitantly, because it had been so long and it had become unfamiliar to my touch. However, the longer I held it, the more familiar it grew. With the object secure in the pocket of my jeans, I got up and began my journey through a trail of meaningful spots, knowing that those places would trigger my knowledge on how to navigate this familiar trinket back into my life. I carried it with me, eager to finally be able to use it. It had belonged to me before and when I found it, I could not believe I had lived so long without it. It burned a hole in my pocket as I walked, and I wished I could take it out and use it already. But this thing...it didn't work that way; there were things I had to do first. People commuted through the city like ants scattered from a disturbed ant hill. The city bustled, it was so alive. The beauty and the simplicity of the people are stunning and it moves me. Allowing that simplicity and beauty to flow into my heart and break down all the unnecessary and complicated poisons that had built up over time must be what finally opened my eyes to that object I had lost.

I checked on the object on the inside of my pocket, and it felt like it had grown a little since I held it last. I stopped at the first stop of my trail, and sat on a small wall. Just the feeling of the object sent excitement through my veins. As I had predicted, the trail began to inspire old feelings and thoughts. This specific stop was obviously a personal invitation for ghost number one, because it popped its gloomy head into my peripheral and grinned at me. I felt the object in my hand, and realized that this time; there were things I had to say to this ghost. So I did: “For some reason when you described your love for the smell of this city, and the sewer, I thought of this street; this exact one. Maybe it's because of our friend that lived in that salmon colored building. Either way, I brought you here with me...and I am leaving you here when I go. Ironically, there is a cemetery right across the street, so you won't be alone. Now you can dance with all the ghosts of this street, of this city, instead of mine; because I am taking mine off the dance floor. I found this...thing I had lost. So I am leaving your ghost here, and taking this with me instead.”

As I moved past the skate park, on my way to the second stop on my trail I checked on the object in my pocket, and it had grown a little more. The sound of skateboards hitting the concrete echoed past the music in my headphones and the boys without t-shirts whisked by the girls who sat on the railing hoping to be noticed. I sat on the bench and sure enough, ghost number two appeared on the bench and stared at me quizzically. It surprised me that I had anything to say to this ghost at all, especially after all this time. But I did, so I did: “You know, we parted ways here once, holding our pride ransom to another huge fight. This journey began with you, and I will always remember that piece of time and how it felt. I allowed you to make me crazy and push myself past the breaking point. But you were always comfortable, a reliable ghost to fall back on when the others were busy. But I don't need a fall back anymore. I have carried you with me too long now, and I think we are both ready for a new place to live. The cemetery is across the street from here too. So I know that you will not be alone either, when I finally leave you here on this bench after all these years.”

I crossed the street and entered the cemetery to the third and last stop of my trail. It was always so eerily quiet in this cemetery, even though it sat on a main street. The noises of the city remained outside this little village of the deceased and their house sized graves. Silence clung to the walls, as the cats quietly slinked by as if they were rubbing against the leg of the old patriarchal ghosts. I propped up my elbows on one of the grave “buildings” and the hot marble warmed my skin. I heard footsteps behind me, far too close to me, especially when I'm alone in a cemetery. I turned around abruptly and caught the eye of a very sketchy looking man whose gaze lasted a little too long. I shuddered at how creepy the scene had become of all a sudden as Mr. Sketch continued on his way down the cobblestone road towards the back of the cemetery. I turned back around to face the marble grave top, and though it caught me at a creepy time, I was not surprised to see the third ghost sitting on the marble, shaking its cold head at me. The warm marble suddenly served no purpose for the chill that ran down my spine. My heart skipped a beat and trapped my breath; I was not as prepared to face this ghost. So I hurriedly reached for the object in my pocket for reassurance. It wasn't there.

How could it not be there?! All I did was cross the street, and I haven't even messed with my pock....oh! Ok, wrong pocket. I told myself to calm down as I breathed through my nose, and I felt reassurance wash over me as I found the object where I had left it, and it had grown again. I felt my head spin as the words came to me. The ghost cocked its head at me, daring me to find the strength I always promised to find, but never did. Regardless of whether or not I had the strength, I still had something to say to this cocky ghost. So I did: “We walked through this very cemetery together, holding hands, amazed at how beautiful the graves were. We were corpses, except that we didn't know how dead we were at the time. Ironic, I know. I held out as long as I could, holding onto you and letting you haunt my heart and convince me to keep my grip on to your friend Potential, as well. But Potential has slipped from my grasp, so you are all I have had to cling to. Remember when we watched that man carry that box of black magic and pig pieces to the back of this cemetery? I've tried everything else, so I was thinking that maybe the pig's snout in that box could bring some life back to your eyes, but I can't; I don't practice black magic. Plus, being the stronghold has lost all its glamour. I will leave you here, in this cemetery to chase after all the things that might heal what's eating you. I have been waiting too long to live, to die here with you.”

I continued my walk home, past the naked angel fountain, past the hospital, and the gas station. The walk seemed lighter, almost like I was gliding. But I know these moments, we go way back, and they don't last ever forever. Soon there would be new ghosts. But I hoped and believed that this thing in my pocket was the answer to all those ghosts, and like a compass it would guide me.

I had heard a line in a song recently, and I had never realized the significance it held until I arrived home from this walk. The line read "Sometimes goodbye is a second chance." Personally, goodbyes are like a bruise on my heart that never ever leaves, and every time it is touched, it stings. I have been saying goodbyes since I was six, so that bruise...it just grows deeper and deeper. But this line, it gave me a new angle on goodbyes that was fabulously enlightening. I realized that I had been given this SAME opportunity before. I had been back in this SAME physical place and the SAME emotional place, with a future ahead of me and fire in my heart. However, within 6 months I had lost that fire and I had begun the building process of a home for of a new ghost. I had to do things differently.

I looked back in time and put the pieces of the puzzle together by tracing my mistakes and analyzing my failure. As I finished the puzzle, I realized it was missing a piece. So I took the object from my pocket. It grew to be the same shape, same height, and even the same weight as me. The puzzle was lacking that object and could never be complete without it. I gazed at this object wondering why it had taken me so long to realize it was missing. But the object was mine now, and I wasn't letting it go. It's a rare occasion that people are able to find their self worth when they lose it. So I placed the long lost self worth in the missing part of the puzzle, and it fit perfectly. I looked at the finished puzzle and saw that the missing piece not only completed the puzzle, but it also brought out the self respect and value out of the puzzle, thus making it shine so much brighter. I was amazed at how simply everything fit together when I added that piece, and I realized that I didn't have to do things the same way this time around. The goodbyes this time are a second chance, and I fully intend to take it. And the missing object was a gift, and I fully intend to use it. My spirit relaxed as it dawned on me that times would never be as rough because God game the sight to complete this puzzle. I hope those ghosts like their new places, because they are definitely not missed by this one. Reality set down on me giving me relief, like the cool dark night after a long hot day.

Fences in Abliene

2009-07-06T08:51:00.000-07:00

*Inspired by true friend; Lacey Lee....

Fences in Abilene

Darci Nealeigh

My head is a scrapbook

of faces and voices

songs and choices

a beautiful capture

of the loveliest moments-

the permanent raptureof our innocence.

Her laughter is the soundtrack

of greener days,

my voice is the feedback

of our mistakes.
We're not the same

and oh, how our games

have consequences

in time forever...

And we no longer ride the fences

of time

with each endeavor.

But that strength that

has saved you

has made you

so much more beautiful

than ever.

Homerun

2009-06-24T06:32:00.000-07:00

I'm swinging bats
and breakin stats
right outta your league.
So stretch
and beat the fatigue
so you can hear
my footsteps
and see my face
when I run past
you on home base.

You've become a blur
I can hardly see
So you can keep
those material
unfulfilling fastasies
because I can no longer see
I'm picking up so much speed.

You better get smart
and catch a head start
The stadium's closing
due to the rain.
There are more concerns
than your personal pain;
Death from starvation
or overpopulation,
priests with bruising hands
and dark plans,
death toils
over oil,
mass shootings
because of the spirit looting
by the popular flock snooting
the different,
murderous chemicals
that are polluting
our earth,
people buckling
from media sucking
away the life
from the happy
and feeding the pockets
of people
who have sockets
where hearts once beat.

So get up and run now
we all have to run now
we have no choice
but to voice
our gifts
and quickly sift
out the weak
who refuse to run strong
from all of the places
where we have gone wrong.

So let the strong sift you out
or run hard and shout
to crack the darkness.
Either way this part is done
I have broken my cast
I've seen the sun
and I'm celebrating now
because I made a homerun.

Stability? Ha.

2009-06-04T09:23:00.000-07:00

My life has, once again, drastically changed. I was walking through La Vista (outside of Omaha) and I realized that I have done a workout in three different cities in the past month and a half. Yesterday I was walking through the flatlands of Nebraska. The sun was shining off of the streets and reflecting on my face as I walked next to the perfectly cut grass. Trucks and semis were driving by, parents picking up their kids from school, construction workers; you know the day to day stuff. In Brazil, I ran the hilly terrain amidst swarms of people getting from one place to another, children standing on the road begging for money, buses crammed full of people headed towards the different places in their lives; you know the day to day stuff. In Oklahoma the college students bustle from one sidewalk to another, chatting excitedly as school comes closer to an end, and the people that aren't tearing through the campus in their vehicles, are rolling around on their long boards. The wind blows spitefully violent as if its lover has left it for someone calmer. I have come to realize that while my heart resides in those cobblestone streets and within the simple hearts of those tan-toned people, I find all these places beautiful. When I visited my doctor in Edmond last week he seemed disappointed as I told him about my summer plans. He told me he wished I had more stability in my life. I just nodded and thought to myself “Yeah, doc, me too.” But truth is I wouldn’t know stability if it were staring me straight in the eyes, and even if I did recognize it I probably wouldn't know how to handle it. I have not had much stability in my life; and that is my stability.

So now my jogging has been replaced with chasing two precious children around my sister's house. The culprit is usually Carter, my 4 year old nephew. The follower is usually Kaylen, my 1 year old niece. Like I said, my life has changed. Instead of writing, I am playing cars on a race track. My calm morning cup of coffee has been replaced with a 1 year olds tiny finger fishing in my mug. My time on the internet has been replaced with sharpening my videogame skills (which are horribly blunt by the way). Instead of reading I play on a queen sized bed, and pretend that we are abandoned on a ship and that there are sharks waiting to devour us if we fall out (and that's while the kids are napping). My time in my headphones or on my iTunes has now been taken up with creepy singing bears that have their own original version of the ABCs.

The Lord's Sweetness can surely be found in these two when they smile. I cannot believe what it does to my heart when that little girl smiles that shy little smile at me. Or when the boy grins at something I said. Ah. If I were to say it melted - I would be underplaying my emotions. A couple of days ago I received an unexpected phone call. When I hung up I was very much shaken. I was holding the baby, so I sat down on the couch next to the one Carter was laying on. I allowed the realization of the phone call to weigh down on me as I sat down; so I started crying. After a little bit Carter said:

"Tia (Tia: aunt in Portuguese), are you sad?"

"Yeah, I am"

"Why?"

"Because my friend was ugly and said some mean things to me"

"What kind of mean things?"

I tried to think of things that he would understand, so I picked things my sister reprimands him for saying.

"Hum...like Shut up, go away, and I don't like you"

I was stupefied at how silly that sounded and wished that was all we "adults" said to hurt each other. If there was something I could do to keep this boy from knowing only those kinds of words, I would. But I figure someday more than those words will hurt him, but until then I can pretend like I can protect him.

"Oh."

Silence. Meanwhile, Kaylen was placing her little index finger on every single tear that fell onto my cheeks and wiping it away (which of course made me cry more).

Carter was curious.

"So is he a mom or a dad?"

Which I guess was his way of asking the maturity level of this person.

"He's Tia's age."

He was quiet for a minute and then he said:

"One day I'll be bigger than him."

"You will?"

"Yeah. And I will be a good grown-up"

My heart almost exploded at this point.

"You will? You won't say mean things and make people cry?"

"Yeah."

We were quiet for a little bit. Apparently his mind was working in over-drive over there on that couch, because he said:

"I think he'll say sorry. Maybe when he's eight or nine. Or maybe ten."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. How old is he?"

I told him.

"Okay. Let's start at the beginning." (He sticks out his fingers; this means we are now going to count) "Does he count in English or French?"

That was completely random.

"He counts in English."

"I can count in Spanish, English, and....hum, Portuguese."

"Yeah you can!"

More silence for a bit.

"Maybe a song will make you feel better."

"Yeah I think it will. Can you sing me one?"

"No. We can only sing at the nighttime."

Another random one.

So some time went by, I put Kaylen down to sleep and I came back.

"Tia are you still sad?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we can't play videogames until you stop crying."

This is what we tell him when he is throwing a fit.

"Okay."

Some time goes by.

"Are you ready for our big game of Pac-man?" he asks me.

I felt better. These two kids of 1 and 4 single handedly made me feel better. One just touched my tears with her baby finger and the other used his 4-year old wisdom to reassure me. It's unbelievable how better these two made me feel, even though they had no experience with "calming someone down". It amazes me so much how much love little kids possess within them and how they show it. This time here has been a much needed break from the drama of adult lives. Like I said, my life has changed drastically.

Down

2009-05-15T13:31:00.000-07:00

I just watched this video about God's chisle, and a part of the dialogue between God and the guy went:
Guy: "I have let you down so many times before, God. I don't want to let you down anymore."
God: "You never let me down because you were never holding me up."

I have never ever thought about it that way.
I also put it into context in my life. And I thought "If you don't allow other people to hold you up, you won't be let down." So many times in my life I have allowed other people to hold the pedastal I pulled myself up onto. So any time they messed up, I was let down. But if I would only just let God be the only One to hold me up, I would never be let down again.

And just because I struggle, which I always will, doesn't mean God is down because of me. He is never down. He doesn't function like us. If you are like me, you have this mentality that we are trying to get to a better place in our lives. And once we get there, we will let God down less. That's not gonna happen. I will always struggle with this imbalance that I battle every day. And often I will make the wrong decisions. God is not down when that happens. He is holding me up, which means I just crumble in His hand, not that He crumbles in mine.

Poetry that slams

2009-05-05T14:01:00.000-07:00

You needn't tell me
you're coming back for me
to salvage me
because I'm rare
I am already filled
to the brim
with air
and its burning hot
on my back
as I lay here
in a knot
that you tied
that I am trying
to untie
but it seems
that your lies
are the best way
to create a tie
that is impossible
to untie.

"You're pretty"
is so very
unecessary
because my beauty
only lasts
as long as your
promises last
and I would hardly
call that
time a length
But I'll take the compliment
because I know it's
to supplement
your lack of strength.

Is it really so hard
to look me in the face
and ask me to discard
all the things "set in stone"
that only death itself would postpone?

Is it so tough
to look me in the eyes
when I call the bluff
reflected in your eyes
that you're not the Samson
you claimed
you would become
when this was all
said and done?

Is it really that difficult
to hold my hand
and admit every fault
like a dignified man
who takes a stand
for the unplanned
amount of pain
in full
of which you are
greatly responsible?

Oh? Yes, you say?
It is indeed?
Then you just stay,
and take a seat
with the rest
who are waiting
for that big test
that life is writing
for them
as they sit
prepared with courage
and wit
with widsom mesmorized
and strength found
only in their eyes
Waiting for the chance
to prove they can dance
in this world as a man.

But hey, make sure
you find a chair
that comfortably reclines
because you will
be sitting there
for a very, very
very long time.

Traveling Stories

2009-05-01T17:41:00.000-07:00

DALLAS BOUND...

There was an ocean of the thickest and fluffiest clouds underneath us as we glided through the endless sky away from the Will Roger's Airport. I have been an airplane passenger since before I was six, but the turbulence...it gets me every time. To my right and a few isles up, there was a pair of sisters (if they weren't sisters they had found their doppelganger) who were lifting their hands and praying as the airplane climbed deeper into the vastness of blue. The sister I could see clearly looked utterly mortified. When I was younger, and I would get scared enough, my older sister would hold my hand and she would smile at me and say "I love the turbulence! It's my favorite part! It's just like a huge roller coaster!" I found out later that she was lying to me because she knew it would make me feel safe. Now, let me clarify; this is the only lying I personally find acceptable - mostly because it's cute.

As the turbulence rattles the plane, our bodies bob like rubber ducks in a pond. Except that we are not in a pond, we are thousands of miles up in the air where we could plunge to our deaths at any moment. The sisters gaze out the window like they saw that creature from the Twilight Zone perching on the wing. The stricken look of terror on the girl's face is not helping me relax. I grip the arm rest with my left hand and wait for the next turbulence dip to become a free-fall drop and my stomach to shoot up into my throat. I start wishing my sister were here to hold my hand. I was tempted to reach out and hold the guy's hand sitting next to me. Then I remembered he was a very, very tall, large Native American man with a raspy voice and a northern personality. Maybe I'll hold his hand if the turbulence gets bad enough. After all, I offered him gum and he accepted, so technically we are BFFs now.

The plane dipped more violently this time and my knuckles were growing irritated at the amount of air pockets this pilot was chasing around. Then the clouds began to chop at the bottom of the aircraft, which pushed the girl with the raised hands and rosy cheeks to the verge of tears (bless her heart, she was making the ugly cry face - and it wasn't pretty). She lifted her right hand and covered her heart with her left hand. I was starting to feel really anxious when Sitting Bull turned to me and pointed at Rosy Cheeks with his thumb and mouthed "she's really scared!" I nodded and giggled in agreement as I looked back out at the menacing clouds. "I used to jump out of planes", he said, reeling my attention back in. "Oh? Was that scary?" I asked enviously. "Well, the first couple of times I jumped, I was high on acid." Apparently that was his "drink" of choice. "Woooow....?" I said, encouraging him to please keep talking. "Yeah, the first three times I jumped I was strung out. The fourth time I jumped I was straight, and I did not have the chemical courage influence in my blood. When I realized what I was doing, I thought, well actually I yelled WHAT THE F*** AM I DOOOOOOING?" (Except his story contained no censorship stars). I laughed and asked him if he liked it. "Yeah, the minute I hit the ground, I wanted to be back up in that plane." His nonchalant demeanor was beginning to ease my nerves. He continued to tell me about his fears of mice and rabbits and I couldn't help but laugh at how cliché the whole scene was. Big ole Sitting Bull afraid of the little rabbits in his garden. The turbulence seemed less evil. We were only flying through a thunderstorm. I've weathered worse storms than this; ones that lasted a lot longer, too.

SAO PAULO BOUND...

My boots clicked against the smooth airport floor like the seconds hand on a clock. My flight had arrived an hour later than scheduled. Sitting Bull had hurried off the plane to catch his connecting flight to Omaha because he was trying to make it to a restaurant before it closed. They served the best catfish he had ever had. You know what they say "One man's trash..." I was chanting a prayer in hopes that my flight to Brasil was also late as I arrived at the sky tram. A Middle Eastern man smiled at me, and I smiled back. Apparently this is airport lingo for "let's visit". I don't dislike friendliness, actually I love interacting with new people. But I haven't flown in a year and half, and I haven't flown by myself in over three years. It's kind of like when you start dating after you have been in a serious relationship. Have the rules changed? Can I behave the way I used to, or will that give the wrong idea? Anyways....I appreciated the distraction from my anxiety. For some reason, I felt much less productive standing on a tram then walking. After the conversation had died down, I avoided his overly friendly eye contact by staring out the window.

Dallas was soaking wet and the gray hue covered the view from the tram like a giant mosquito net. This kind of weather makes me reminisce, which is not always a good thing. I carry a lot of memories with me in my "airport pocket". Mr. Muhammad over there reminded me that we had two stops left until we reached our destination. I nodded and continued to stuff the memories back into their pocket as we arrived at Gate D. My friend wished me good luck and I started off towards my gate. I went the wrong way at first and then again a second time. Finally, by the time I had established myself as a total idiot, I found the way I was supposed to go. I ran down the escalator and made it to the bottom with a short prayer; "thank you God that my mother's generous genetic gift of endearing clumsiness did not show its embarrassing face right then."

I ran up to gate D35 and the people sat patiently waiting to board. Phew! My eyes gazed past a young blonde guy as I was walking towards the counter to make sure this wasn't a whole new flight (You know, with my luck it would be). The sight of the boy sparked a memory in my head and I shifted my eyes back to him. He was smiling back at me, too. Rafael. My thoughts took me back to an old bus we rode to and from school. That's where I first learned how to braid; my friend used some leather strands that had shredded off the chair in front of us to teach me. My sister once threw an apple core out the window of that bus and made it into the window of a car beside us. Anyways, Rafael was one of the cute little kids that rode our bus. However, he was no longer a small child, and when I noticed his facial hair, I felt like it stole the years of my youth and reminded me of my age. He now went to school in Canada and was about to graduate. "What did you study?" he asked. Ahhhh, great, I thought. I love that question. I love explaining those years; the same years that were stolen from me when I noticed his facial hair.

The plane was surprisingly empty. The woman on the end of my row had jewelry on her forehead and she looked like she had just stepped off Aladdin’s carpet. We had the whole five seat row to ourselves. I was excited about having that much space because my body hurt every time I switched positions from all the moving I did the day before. I moved out of my apartment into storage for possibly the 63rd time since I moved to the US 9 years ago. When I laid my keys on the counter of my apartment and closed the door, I was officially, once again, homeless. I wondered, is it normal that I feel more comfortable when I am homeless? Okay, well I know normal is a generous word, but...at least...is it sane?

Jasmine hung up her phone as we started taking off the runway and the huge grin she had been fashioning was still lingering on her face. She's probably in love. I really hope he looks like Aladdin, I giggled at my own joke (I am finding I do that quite a bit). At dinner she ordered two bottles of vodka and tomato juice to make a Bloody Mary. The Disney princess Jasmine I knew would never drink two bottles of vodka with dinner. She would drink rum. I picked a movie and waited the 11 minutes it was going to take for the next showing to start. I wonder if her Aladdin loves her back. Probably. She stretched out across the row with her blanket and pillow. She slept peacefully most of the night. I, however, did not.

I stepped off the plane into the Brasilian sun. Something I have been waiting to do for almost two years now. People spoke Portuguese around me and I was so confused at first. It didn't take me long to adjust, and I felt a whole different personality begin to exude from inside me. Customs, waiting on my bags and immigration were all pretty easy on me. When I walked into the main part of the airport, one of the girls walking out close to me broke into a quick jog when she saw her love waiting for her. They had reunited. They must have spent a long time apart because he could not take his eyes off her and she couldn't take her lips off his. "That's beautiful, really, but do they HAVE to do that here in public? So unkosher. Just rubbing everyone's nose in their happy little love." the lady next to me said as she saw the scene I was watching. Okay, fine. So there was no lady standing next to me. I actually thought that. I just didn't want to sound bitter. Because I'm not. Really....I'm not....

I patiently stood in line to get my ticket for my final destination; home. Once again my mind began to wander as I waited. Now that I think about it, that glimpse back into my high school life had shot inadequacy through my body and insecurity into my heart. I looked around to see if anyone noticed I was standing in the "cheap flight" line. Why should I feel embarrassed to be in this line? Because my parents down own Volvo. And I'm fat. I looked out to the streets of Sao Paulo and for a second I could feel how it felt to be 16 again. It doesn't matter, I shook the thought away. I would soon be taking my first sip of Brasilian cafe com leite and enjoying my first cheese bread. I headed towards my favorite coffee shop in the airport and was delightfully surprised as I walked around. I forgot how alive this country was. I forgot how beautifully simple the lifestyle was and how much love was eminent. Oh yeah, and I forgot how extremely handsome Brasilian guys can be. Okay, I hadn't forgotten, but I was reminded...quite a bit.

The coffee tasted just as I remembered. The coffee shop clinks and bangs as the people work through the aromatic steam and busy away at people's orders. There is hardly any room to stand. Brasilians have no concept of personal space. It always catches me off guard how close people stand to me when I am here. I know a lot of people in the US that are really uncomfortable with it. I can understand why, but it doesn't bother me at all. It actually reminds me that I am surrounded by life, and that there is a rich amount of humanity in this world that goes overlooked. I found a spot at the bar, and took in my environment. This is a scene that Starbucks could never ever capture; even if they tried. The couple next to me is fervently discussing this girl and how false she is; "I just can-not believe it," the woman said, "I cannot believe she was being so fake to me!!" The man responded "I know, its incredible how false people can be sometimes". I smiled to myself and realized that when it comes to humanity not that much changes across the oceans.

I was writing in my journal and sipping my coffee, feeling extremely cultured when a I realized a man was standing behind me. He was standing far too close, even for a Brasilian. I turned around and a man, who was obviously physically handicapped, grunted something undecipherable and handed me a little packet. It contained a tiny little address book and a small pen. There was a note taped to the package that read "I am deaf. I work as a salesman of a variety of things, I would be very grateful if you collaborated with R$3 (equivalent to $1.50) Thank you." I didn't need a telephone and address book. I had just packed like 87 pens when I moved my stuff. Plus, I knew they would be hoarded to the next 16 places I moved. I looked at the man. The struggles of his life, he wears on his face like a mask. A mask he was born into; a mask of the unfairness of life; a mask of constant rejection; a mask of inferiority; and a mask of deep sadness. A mask that surely haunts him, and stabs at him every time he realizes he will never hear music, the ocean, wind or a baby cry. I had just been writing in my journal about how blessed I was to be born into a life that was full of opportunity and resources. So I began fishing in my bag for the money. I laid the R$3 on the bar top and smiled at the man as he took the money and walked off. I watched him leave and thought to myself I should have tried communicating with him, maybe show him some love, but I just fed him money. It was at that very moment I realized that part of me has been sucked into the Western mindset as I heard myself think, "Who has the time for that anyways? I was having coffee."

Springing Life

2009-03-10T17:44:00.000-07:00

To the left, purple and pink swirl and dance around the sky as if to aggressively offer decorative tips to the stubborn somber blue shadow casted on the right side. I imagine it smells like a mixture of the ocean and cotton candy up there. The sun is descending, leaving the colors alone to battle. I see my reflection in the library window. I look tired. I feel old. Young girls run across the parking lot headed towards their cars to savor a night in a life that will last forever, or so they think. Hoping to avoid a stream of cynical thoughts, I turn my attention to the Bradford Pear trees and notice that they have started to dress their branches with the purest most beautiful white, as if they were preparing for a perfect and flawless wedding day. The birds chirp music through the crisp morning air singing attention to the sun as it rises. It adds an annoyingly lovely melody to the wondrous festivities of the beautifully dressed trees. The sun has started to come up earlier in the morning and stay later. I guess it stored up its energy during the winter months; because whenever I squint my eyes ever so slightly in the morning the sun is there, lavishly pouring the brightest light straight through the cracks in my closed blinds. This time I open the blinds. And I breathe in the light and let it soak into my body, hoping it will melt away the moldy clutter that has set itself into my skin. It does, and I can feel it start to melt. I can’t describe how amazing that feels; not in words anyways. It whispers secrets softly into my soul giving me the most intrinsic feeling that makes me feel like my lungs are going to burst. Like my body is laughing so hard it can't breathe. But all that happens in the morning, because the night time...well, the night time is not quite that kind to me, not yet.

But, soon there would be white seeds from the trees that start flowing like magical pieces of white cloud dripping down and drifting through my air. That will mean it has been a year. It feels like more. The trees look far more beautiful in their white than I would have in mine, anyways. The birds sing a more beautiful song than any rendition of the Beatles that would come winding out the speakers and bouncing off the trees that were tied together with white ribbons in that garden, too. These thoughts don't sting as deeply anymore, because there is no earthly creation that is more beautiful than God's enduring hand, in which mine is wrapped up. I cling to such faithful hands; such perfect and balanced agile hands that know exactly when to act and when to hold back; such perfect hands that know when to let me cry and when to hold me and make me face myself in a deep mirror with the most humiliating reflections; such perfect hands to take the punches I throw in anger and the words I throw in pain – to let me beat on His powerful chest with my tired fists and sit by me while I writhed uncomfortably begging Him to change the situation. There is nothing more beautiful than the hand that holds mine.

Yet still, this place is bittersweet to me, especially in the spring; especially this particular spring. I need to get out for a while...

As I walked out into the smug Louisiana sun, a distinct smell comes wafting into my nose drawing memories upon the easel of my mind. It is a smell that can only be described as – West Monroe. It's the smell of the local Paper Mill. But to me, it is also the smell of the lake and my uncle's boat. It’s the smell of my aunt's hair shop. It's the smell of green apple cigars late at night on the back of a Jimmy, as my cousin and I deciphered the deepest meaning to life. It's the smell of the Louisiana wind blowing through my hair as my friend drove me around playing his rap music that pulsated into my body, so that I could dance away the ghosts in my head. It's the smell of understanding mortality, and the plague of sickness. It's the smell of seeing loved ones finally break. It's the smell of the knowledge of my beautiful nephew, who became my reason. It's the smell of family, the smell of love, and the smell of one of my many homes. It is also the smell of mistakes, and of pain. The smell of the words "what was I thinking" forming a heavy fist and laying its weight into my gut. It’s the smell of my past.
The pollen has formed a layer of yellow dust on my car and all over the outside furniture at my grandparent’s house. That means spring has begun to bloom in Monroe, too. I guess I was thinking that while I was driving away from Edmond, I was also driving away from spring. I wasn't, seeing that it had followed me the whole 500 miles. The flowers in the yard were blooming and we sat outside looking at all of them, while my granddad named each one. The winter months had been cleansed with a week of rain and it soaked through the dry land. The ground drank until it could drink no more and the leftover water sat above the land waiting for the saturated ground to grow thirsty once again. This extra water gave the crayfish a place to dwell, so it worked out well. The sun was shining bright through a chilly air; my favorite kind of weather. This meant spring made it’s way here to wash away the darkness and chill of the winter. Much like the spring of the year I had moved to Louisiana. This means it has been 4 years...

So many memories flooded my mind as I drove up and down the streets of my past. I avoided the dark corners and looked out for the sketchy agents that played such a habitual part of the scene in my past. However the houses from which I did run back and forth... were a dream. The people in the house on the right made me laugh. We held hands as we walked down memory lane stopping to look in the windows of all the different moments of the year I lived there. We sat around and soaked up each other's smiles and studied what changes time had painted on our faces and in our lives. We hugged each other attempting to make up for the years of separation. I hugged them a little longer; knowing that their touch was healing some of the pain those 4 years had antagonized into my heart. We gave the stars a good run as we stayed up until early hours in each other’s company. Those hours, however, were not enough to fill that void where I had missed each and every one of them. So the stars had the last laugh. We played and listened. We discussed and teased. But most of all, we laughed. They made me laugh. They reminded me how I was loved past all the dark corners and wound-creating mistakes of my past. They reminded me of being home.

In the house to the left I sat with two people whose faces had been sculpted by the hand of father time. Laughs, tears, smiles, disappointments and all the other emotions they had offered the years have set into their faces and formed a beautiful imprint of history. Their kitchen shelves were full of pitchers from different countries and their words were full of wisdom. She gazes off into the distance, at the sky, out the window, past the bird feeder that sat on their windowsill, while he talked so intelligently about the birds that flew in and out of their new yard. They could sit and watch those birds for hours. The "Mr. Robins" on Crestview lane in Monroe were well looked after now that the Grays had arrived. I wondered what she was thinking as my eyes followed the brilliant lines on her beautiful face. She ran a hand through her hair and I was so glad she was mine. She moved around slowly, yet gracefully. She once said that we are soul mates. I would have to agree. His eyes have grown softer with the years but they exude the same light they always have when he tells me his stories. Sometimes I have heard the stories he is telling, but I never say a word because I love to hear them again. He speaks with such emotion, such wisdom and such…brilliance. I sit at a pair of feet that have walked so many paths and I feel as if his stories are coming to life around me as he speaks. He preaches of his Father; a Father who has been so faithful; a father who has been gracious and blessed him; a Father who has walked alongside my grandfather upon the roads of time. We sit in their dining room listening to instrumental versions of new songs and they hum along. They laugh at a memory and sadly shake their heads at a pain. I soak it in. I feel like God has places two sources of light at the table with me, and their glow warms my soul. I feel at home.

Once, I wandered out into the night, away from the safety of both houses and found myself walking into a field of memories. Some of the memories scratched me as I walked past them, others bruised my ankles. Some of them tripped me up, and others took so long to clean off my legs when I stepped in their puddles. The sky over this field was darker and the air was heavy with guilt. The smell of cheap cologne stung my nostrils and brought tears to my eyes, so I cried. I continued on through the field that was bruising my body and plaguing my soul. The weeds of my mistakes that grew so rich and rampant in that field grabbed at my ankles. They weaved themselves up the calves of my legs and intertwined with each other. I recognized the cold feeling of them on my skin, but they felt so much colder and clammier this time. They slowed my pace but I continued walking. The weeds were surprised that I did not immediately give in to their persistence so they wounded around my leg tighter. My pace slowed as I grew tired from the grip of the vines. I thought to myself that I should sit and rest; my legs could use the break. I crouched down and gave in a little, so the vines let up some. Right then a light came on, so I reeled around to see the light that was flooding out from one of the houses. I turned around and walked towards the house, and the vines tugged a little but gave in to my conviction this time. I take a last look at the field and thought "I haven’t missed you at all". And I walked back towards home.

Back in Oklahoma the crisp and cold wind blows through me, intensifying the sadness I feel in my heart for being back here, as I walk the street alone. I stand outside my apartment and the snow floats around me (which will forever make me feel like I am in a giant life-sized snow globe). I wonder what everyone at all my different homes around the world are doing right now. The thought of them warms me. So does the coffee I am drinking. The silence of this romantically snow capped Saturday reflects its scene into my mind. The snowflakes dance freely with the cold wind and they fall to the ground where they either melt into puddles or decorate the green grass with the most beautiful and purest white. The grass looks far more beautiful in white than I would have, anyways.

Sweatpants

2009-02-26T17:30:00.000-08:00

My dad says that if you wear sweatpants in public you have given up on the world. I am wearing sweatpants right now. Maybe I have given up. Maybe it’s because I want to go home. I want to breathe Brasilian air. Maybe I want to un-remember all the moments that broke my devoted stride. Maybe I want to learn life from outside of these four walls to which my attendance is counted. Maybe I want to hear poetry spit from the mouths of people who have the credibility of living the words they spew. I know I want to wipe the hideous grin of glee from Satan's sick and crooked mouth from my mind. Maybe I want to break away from these impulsions that hold me prisoner to the twisted dismay in my head. Maybe I want these unhealthy thoughts to stop trailing through the sane parts of my brain like heavy trains carrying polluted shards of glass designed to cut bleeding wounds into my mind.

Dark, I know. But the sun is out. And it's being a little feisty. So I pulled the blinds down. I sit amongst the clutter that has grown into my skin. Prescriptions for medications that promise to disinfect the wounds float around me like little pieces of white plastic inside an overly decorated shiny snow globe playing the kind of music that makes you cry. I have attempted to escape into the TV screen but it only snobbishly reflects the ugly scene that did not quite fit with the images it attempted to play into my living room. I have tried filling the void inside of me with comfort food and impulsive treats of indulgence only to find they turned my mirror into an antagonist that sits waiting in a dark room. I tried numbing the awkward silence by filling my lungs with a buzz that would hum past the quiet, but it has only numbed my sense of smell. I sit here uncured. So I play Tetris, making the pieces fit perfectly together, wishing I could do that in my life.

These incessant moments of cowardly careening have worn me down to a very small nub. During these times I have allowed people to come and pick from my tree and now there is no fruit left. Truth be told, I have no desire to produce any more fruit for the spring picking of people hungry for an extra dose of sugar for their daily diet. How long have I been sprouting this produce to feed the emotional appetite of people through whom I sought validation? An appetite, might I mention, that is broken and can never be fully fed; much like my ability to feel validated by their passion for my fruits. Broken. Un-fillable. Somewhere along my gypsy journey with my "fruit delivering" business (where my slogan became "I bring my fruit tree right to you, and all you need is somewhere I can store my stuff"), I lost several things. I still have Tye, my ever my faithful bear with invisibly small eyes. I still have pictures and scrapbooks telling the stories of all the places I planted my tree. But the other day I was looking for my dignity and I must have left it in one of the cities. I then thought if I could find my self-respect, it could get me by for a while. That was nowhere to be found (that one might be in a trailer park in Alabama, actually).

In a sickening epiphany, I realized that dignity had become a commodity I could not afford and I didn't qualify to receive self respect to pay collateral for that dignity. So I decided to look a bit harder. When my mom lost something, she would always send me on a mission to find the object because she said I had an uncanny ability of finding things. Well, I guess that quality paid off. I discovered traces of my self-respect and pieces of my dignity. Most of it was behind some photo albums, under a couple scrap books, and tucked behind my "kiss book". I didn't find either one in its entirety, but the pieces I found are going to be enough to for a foundation.

So after this precious discovery and another enlightening session where my South African mentor compresses 26 years of my parent's advice into 1 hour, I decided to dust the pieces off and start shining them. The final push might have been the violent pinch of having yet another piece of fruit ripped off one of my branches. The fruit was sweet and satisfying, they said. But the tree was disposable. That was the last piece of fruit. I gathered the leaves I had scattered and walked out of the room.

It turns out the tree is in fact, not disposable. It's actually not disposable at all. Not only is the tree not disposable, but the fruit it produces is actually good and useful fruit. Yes, the tree is useful. And it’s good. I am not....disposable. In fact, I was walking through a field the other day and the sun was shining so brightly on me. I was awe struck at the realization that somehow I ended up in Oklahoma...alone. The sun shone through the cold winter wind. As if God was telling me; "Just so you know, no matter what you find about yourself, or about life...it doesn't change how much I love you". Although I have been picked into a nub by my selfish ambitions and the selfish ambitions from those around me, God's power has never been so limited that it cannot make a nub transform into a beautifully shining tree. In fact, there is nothing God's power cannot transform.

I guess all this is to say that I am strengthening myself for the next punch. Satan brought his little posse out and they wreaked havoc in my life this weekend. They pulled out all the stops and let out all the demons. I am still standing...but only because God has planted some amazing people around me that help me remain upright when I sway too low. This year started out with a big wave that knocked me off my feet in an attempt to uproot me. I am still standing...because the roots run too deep to be pulled out of the soil. Even after years of falling. Last night I was talking to a friend who knew me back in the days when I dreamed of being a grown up with "real" drama ( I thought drama meant some really cute guy named Dawson would chase me around while Blessed Union of Souls or the Cranberries played in the background). She told me I had matured as a woman and that it was just a little wave that hit me and I need to jump back up and keep swimming. It just made me realize that the next time a big wave comes I am going to have to be rooted so much stronger. So that is what I am going to do.

For so long now I have convinced myself that "holding on" was so much harder than letting go. For so long I have believed that it made me such a stronger person to press on past someone pushing me away and keep producing my fruit for them. But this weekend, when I started shining off those pieces of dignity and self-respect, I realized I was wrong. It is harder to let go and allow yourself to be pushed away, thus risking the belief that you are disposable and that your fruit will be taken for granted. That is especially bad news for someone who finds validation from the "likability" of her fruit.

There have been those who believe the tree is disposable and that the fruit is readily available for their luxurious snacking urges. And that hurts me. Deeply. That will never change. But it doesn't have to keep happening. I am discovering that if I am being stonewalled out of someone's life, it is harder to let that happen, because of the blow that I take to my heart. But as they say...the harder road is always the most fulfilling. However, it is going to take more strength to take this stand. Which is why the next time a punch gets thrown, or a wave gets blown...I will be standing more firm.

But I will probably still be wearing sweatpants...

A Lovely Night

2009-02-08T22:05:00.000-08:00

The moon was full. It looked down on me so bright. It was showing off it's thick and rich shine with bursts of streams of light through the dark rain clouds as they rolled by. The air felt like a night on the shore of a beach in Brasil. I could almost smell the ocean and feel the salt lingering on my skin. I was almost at peace. The flags clanked against the tall and heavy flagpoles. There was no other noise. Just the wind. My head was clear of any thoughts.
Except the light of the moon and the sounds of the empty parking lot.
The night was so lonely
and so lovely.

My clothes were filthy and the woman at the checkout aisle complimented my coconut ring. There was a couple from Oklahoma Christian in front of me in line. The guy smiled at me. The girl was focused on...her groceries, I guess. I recognized them. They didn't see how tired I was. I walked past the door greeter. She was slightly bent over and her shiny silver hair fell behind her shoulders, except for a couple of rebelious strands. Her glasses and her smile revealed she was probably in her 60s. She was sneaking in a text on her phone. Someone on the receiving side of that text
probably loves her.

I walk out into the night and it was raining. I appreciated the comradery of the sky matching the weather to my mood. The cold rain brushed my skin as if it was trying to clean my dirty clothes. But it couldn't clean my soul. It would have to rain so much harder. Even then... I could walk through the heaviest rain storm dropped by the most menacing clouds.
All it would do is make
my fingertips soggy.

His voice on my messages sent a chill through my skin. I could hear the mistaken conviction in his voice. That helped me shake off the chill. I endulged in the innocence of moons past. Three times. Then I deleted. How long have I been endulging on this mold? I have my grocery bags filled with sugar and a fresh pack, both meant to comfort me. This morning the preacher
said we glorify God with EVERY dollar we spend.
Yeah... I am just
a shining success.

The wind violently shook my car. Maybe it was trying to rock me into a lull as it slapped my cheek with the rain through the open crack in my window. Maybe it was trying to show me discipline and comfort, but it was confused about the order of such endeavors. Who cares. It was raining now.
It smelled like the earth and the
streets were getting purified.
I wasn't though.

My apartment was empty. I recognized it. The wind blew me in as I pushed the door open with my foot. It always drags on the carpet. I would have them fix it, but it's my flaw. I like it. The flaw whispers reassurance that I have a spot where the wind can't slap it's discipline onto my face with rain.
The apartment was so quiet when I closed out
the howling wind with the heavy door.
It's such a lovely night.
Such a lonely night.

In Between Roads...

2009-02-03T20:04:00.000-08:00

These roads...have been so justifiable. They have been so easy to travel. Easy to explain out of one's conscious. They are so deceiving, though. They are so inviting. The lights always catch my attention and the music always lures me in like a hungry fish to a big fat colorful bait dangling in the water. The people always seem so...accepting. Loving. Especially when I begin to partake in the same feasts as they. Once you sit at their table and drink from their chalices and eat off their plates, you are family. Handling problems is so easy on those roads. We just fill our glasses to the brim and raise them to a toast that blames everything else, thus abdicating us from truly taking on responsibility. We dip our heads in our bowls and avoid eye contact that will convict us of our self injuring misdemeanors. We fill our glasses and make another toast to the personal strength we possess in not needing anything or anyone. We succeed at escaping our thoughts with enough toasts and our bowls are empty. Our glasses never are. So we dance on the table, celebrating the fulfillment in our lives. We laugh. Oh, how we laugh. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes there are fights. But we can always make another toast and blame the glasses.

So many toasts hurt my eyes when the sun decides that the night has had enough fun and rises. The road always seems rougher at those moments. But the others around me awaken. And we all see the emptyness in each other's eyes as we travel the road. It hurts our feet a little more. But as we toil the road we grow weary and we sit to rest at the table. The troubles of that day call for a toast. We all raise our glasses....

That vicious circle rolls sickeningly down those roads.

However, one of those times when the sun decided to cut in on our nightly routines, I woke up more empty than usual. I caught a glimpse of something off the road. Something brighter. Not like the lights on the road I was on...something more...pure. I mentioned it to my friends. So we toasted to it. And filled our emptiness with the poison in the chalices. I guess I spent enough nights in this love affair with the poison that it made me wander off the road. It felt lighter. There were not as many sights, but the sun was so much easier on my eyes. I took deep breaths of the air and it didn't pierce my lungs like stabbing spears of smoked tar. I spent some time there and eventually wandered back on the road. I could feel whispering in the air around me as I wandered. It seemed like I travelled a long way back there, but it never felt like I was moving.

And then...one morning...I woke up back on the road. I felt the sun soaking me with a heat of disappointment, but the cold wind nipped at me like a lonely puppy at it's owner's return. The whispering kept reassuring me that the table was waiting. All those people were waiting to raise their glasses and say a toast in honor of the heartbreak I endured and drink to the pain we all felt. They did raise their glasses. We found many toasts to make. This was the same road, but it was a new table and new people. Somehow they knew I had returned and they celebrated. So did the whispering. When the table was empty I invited those voices in and allowed them to guide me to a place where people were joyously toasting. Night after night I would find more things to toast about with my glass filled to the brim. Morning after morning the sun tore through the night breaking up our party and sobering our minds from their altered state.

This morning I woke up so tired. The sun was shining through and the wind was still nipping coldly at my face. The voices were still whispering. But the road feels different today. There was nothing to toast last night. There was no other entity to blame. I did not sit at the table for the nightly toasts. So when the sun woke up it did not hurt my eyes in the same way. The pain seeped out of my mouth through my voice and I could feel the exaustion down to my bones. I saw the road a lot more clearly, I guess the poison is leaving my system. The road hurts the bottom of my feet and the lights seem so pale in comparison to the sun. The air is choking me and I longed for a breath of that purity that does not sting me. The whispering is still here, but it has begun to scare me. I no longer want to invite it in. Night has fallen and there are toasts being made and chalices being raised. The voices whisper that those people miss me. I am drowning them out. This road felt much more fun the first time.

Somehow it was justifiable. I was young. I was searching the roads in my journey and figuring out which one to travel. When I was hurt, those roads provided me the releif I needed without actually having to trek through the difficult terrain. I thought this road was a shortcut through all the hard terrain...straight to the right path. But it wasn't. And it's not. The right path is to the North of where I stand. There are dense woods to travel and high mountains to climb. There are difficult dangers to fight off and survival skills that need to be learned. But past all those challenges is the right road...and that's the one I need to be on. But I'm too tired right now. I have stepped off the painful road, but I hurt. My head hurts. The bottom of my feet are bleeding and my vision is blurred from all the flashing lights. I can't hear clearly from the loud beat of the bass in the music. My lungs are still filled with the heavy air, which is making it harder to breathe and wearing me thin. I am altogether...numb. I feel like I am standing here. I can't move to start walking and I can't sit to rest. I am just....here. I can see the road and all the people at the table. They are raising their glasses. I can see the rough terrain with the pure air and the sunlight. I am immobile. The voices are telling me to come back to the road and find relaxation. The rough terrain is offering me peace. I am stiff where I stand. I feel something watching me so I glance towards the smoky road, and I see a silhouette of darkness. It just grins. The whispering chuckles. I shudder and shake the whispering out of my head. I still can't move. But I think I feel a tingling movement in my toes...

My Hunger

2009-01-30T19:58:00.000-08:00

I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. All the time. There is this hunger that gnaws at me...deep inside me. I am not talking about this metaphorical hunger or a poetic description of some vague feeling that has to do with missing a stoic lover. This hunger is literal. A couple of times I would even think "Why am I hungry like this? I just ate. How come I never get full anymore?". The thought would enter my mind that maybe I was hungry for the romance I used to share with Christ. Maybe I was thirsty for the way I used to feel when God would speak to me. He hasn't been speaking to me lately. So, of course I take the human approach and say "Fine. If you're gonna be like that...I'll be over here doing ---*insert your own personal sinful treat here*--- until You come around, God." And if you are thinking "Well I can't really relate to what she just said, I don't really do that", then your personal sinful treat is probably lying :). When in reality, as I mentioned before in my blog, He did not distance Himself from me, I fell back and pushed myself away from Him. In the meanwhile I fed myself with everything I could find to fill the hunger inside me. When one thing wouldn't fill me, I would try something else. I would fill my stomach with almond m&ms or my lungs with smoke. And I would always fill full for a second. But then I would hate myself knowing what I really should be filling it with. So here is how God has been speaking to me;

Apparently I have developed this keen ability to become numb to pain inside of me. I imagine it developed over time and it is a habit that comes from running from God all the time. I have never experienced Love like the Love He gives me. So when I am running from it...how could I NOT feel pain? Anyways... the past couple of weeks I have been struggling with a decent sized lump of pain in my stomach, and it has been swallowing up these temporary escapes I use and leaving me hungry. A couple of days ago I looked in the mirror and realized that I have aged so much in the past couple of weeks. My blue-grey eyes weighed heavily on the grey side. My skin was lifeless. Not only was that brightness gone, but there seemed to be shadows cast on my face from a source I could not see. The lines on my face that linger from smiling and laughing had been ironed back into my skin by the constant starvation inside me. I realized this even more when I was standing in chapel, and my friend Candy and I were observing the different hair styles in front of us...and she pointed at this girl with cute curly long hair. I studied her profile. The skin on her face seemed so flawless as if life had not taken a cent of a toll on her. Everything on her was in it's right place. I have never felt that way. Each strand of her hair curled perfectly into a calculated pony tail. But her skin was almost translucent. I thought to myself "she probably has never weathered a storm in her life". But then some voice told me "Or she has, and she weathered it with grace and did not feed her life the junk that you have." Either way I realized I felt like old; like my skin was rough and my smile jaded. Later on that day I was sitting on my couch and I was about to look for something to do. And the thought ACTUALLY crossed my mind: "Maybe I should go pray some, I haven't talked to God in a while." It didn't feel like myself as much as it felt like God was asking "Come spend time with me!". I surprised myself by LITERALLY shaking the thought off and telling myself that journaling would prove to be more affective. I felt God's heart break inside that starving lump in my stomach. Days went on and I dealt with a number of things on my own. Carried the weight. As Dr. Laan would say, I walked through the desert with my own strength, avoiding any bit of shade God offered me. So, surprisingly enough I was not scheduled Friday night. Perfect because I have been feeling drawn to attend Celebrate Recovery. So I go. I even attend the dinner to make friends (although no one that Candy I sat with spoke to us...but we still had fun). At one point the guy that was speaking that night used such a trite line I have heard so many times before. He said there had been a God-sized hole in his heart. I mentally scoffed off the thought by thinking "How big would that be? It would be like the size of...well, infinity. And that guy's heart is definitely NOT the size of infinity. Pssssh." (Mature, huh?) During group time, we had to answer a question concerning resentment. A lot of different thoughts came together in my mind and they whispered their secrets at me in unison, as if to bring me to this conclusion. I was holding onto SO much resentment towards my ex-fiance. The first time I had gone to that group was because of the situation my ex-fiance was in. Needless to say after we broke up and I stopped for a second in my life. All the things I had been running from for seven years all settled around me. It was almost the same effect as when the dust and debris settle after a violent twister. I've never actually seen that happen, but I can imagine that the most intense part would be that silence after the storm that allowed people to see the damage this violence had caused. That's how I felt. It all caught up with me. Anyways, I am getting side tracked. In that time I faced many issues and there was no way I could solve all of them. My ex...we'll call him Bob. Bob caused me a lot of heart ache through several actions which I DO NOT hold against him. He was engaged to a crazy person. However, there was a pain in me that resulted from some of choices he made. That pain was very deep inside of me, because it tied to so many other ghosts that I keep caged. So, sitting in group last night I realized I resented Bob very much for this pain I would have to work through. I had been so angry at him and so bitter towards him. These harsh feelings I wished towards Bob kept me from realizing that he is in a very lonely and dark place right now. How could I wish ill on someone who was already spiraling himself there? And whether or not I feel the same way about Bob as I used to, I love this man. I should have been on my knees for his soul. Not on my tippy toes so I could get a better view of all the sickness I was wishing his way. So that was a very eye opening experience. The night ended and Candy and I left to continue on to this ceremony that consisted of burning things from my past as symbolism that I was moving along from the past. We incorporated wine into this ceremony. The ceremony went well, and I was deeply grateful to share with Candy those moments. I was able to share hurts with her and she was able to just...be there.

However, I woke up today with this feeling...of emptiness. I have felt it before, but never this solid. I knew this hunger would not be filled with a bowl of cereal. I knew I could no longer run from these thoughts. Candy came over for a second, and she must have seen that realization on my face because she asked if I was ok. She had to go to a birthday party so she told me she loved me and left. I sat here for a minute and that "God-sized hole" in my heart started aching. (The God-sized hole makes sense to me now. God means SO much to me that if He is not residing in my heart, my heart might as well have the hole the size of the universe, because that would make it non-existant, and that's how I have felt lately). So I felt that call again, "come talk to me, Dars". I had heard it earlier, but had decided to make coffee instead. This time when I heard it, for a second I thought "I'll finish my coffee first or it'll get cold." But that thought lasted two seconds because the heart ache inside of me was bigger than my need for caffeine. So I went. And I cried. I would like to think I cried in His arms, but I couldn't feel that. I haven't cried in a very long time. My heart has been hard and my spirit has been coldly going through the motions. I went to Him this time. And I am pretty sure He met me there. But I have to learn that God is not my yo-yo, and as much as I hate people rolling me up and down on an emotional string, I can pretty certainly say that it's not God's favorite thing either.

So here I am at this place I have been so many times before. Wanting to put all my faith in Him and walk away from the life I have drawn up for myself...hand over the pencil and let Him take over. I will pray that He will have me as I find my way back to Him. I will ask Him to romance me and show me how He loves me. But even though He has proven Himself to me over and over and over again, I still have this fear...that He won't be there. That this time there really is nothing loveable. That I will not be able to have that glow in my soul when I feel His love. But I am so hungry for His love, and nothing else has satisfied that hunger. So I come back like I have so many times before asking that He can fill this God-sized hole in my heart and fill me up. Because I am hungry...

A Fine Line...

2009-01-27T09:05:00.000-08:00

I was recently told by a very... close friend that I needed to develop more of an "Eff You" attitude. As I shared this idea with other friends, I seemed to receive a lot of "agreement smiles". I guess that friend was right. Maybe I care too much. But can a person care too much? I have been involved in all sorts of relationships in my "adulthood" years, and a few of the most significant people in those relationships have sheltered a coping mechanism that involved pushing away the closest people to them and finding a very non abrasive way of hurting them so that they would not get closer. I have two problems with this; 1)It always ends up being abrasive and hurtful. And 2) these were significant people in my life, which means I was that close person they were pushing away. Now, I totally respect that mechanism. Especially after last year when the "so-called reality" of my world fell away from my eyes like poisonous scales, I realized that I had a very hurtful coping mechanism. I also learned that this mechanism was being used to distract my soul from the fact that I was trudging through a very thick case of depression. That's right, I said it...on the World Wide Web. I struggle with depression....

However I cannot reconcile this idea of hurting the people closest to you so that they will leave you. I suppose I did that in my own way. I would get involved people in my life (especially romantically) that were not quite what I was looking for. I would then seek out their potential and challenge it until I wore the person out and they left. And then I would dance in a pity party about how I was "leave-able". Not healthy, I know. It was a very thick layer of icing covering a big fat cake of insecurities that was baked way back in my childhood, and my heart was denying it's existence. I guess the rotting smell caught up with me. Anyways, all ridiculous analogies aside. I realized this about myself, and I realized that I chastized the people closest to me and placed a whole stage in my head that featured those main people acting in scenes that I assumed to be true; which usually included a plot where they did not really care about me and love me the way I loved them, and they were taking while I was just giving and giving and giving. The final scene would usually be some dramatic "meltdown" by yours truly in which I stated that life was not fair because I kept finding people who I loved and did not love me back.

As I realized I did this, I began to let those people into my life and cut them slack for not reaching my expectations, which I should mention were, in fact, UNATTAINABLE. As I released them of this forced role in my narcistic scenarios, I began to realize they did love me. They did care. They did want me around. Because they loved me. Which led me to believe there was something loveable about me (my therapist shot me the "It's about stinkin' time, Darci" look at me when I came to this conclusion). Those people have become my stronghold.

Therefore it is hard for me to understand how some people choose to push the most significant people out of their lives. These past three weeks I have fallen back onto a darker path on my journey and I have found it hard to leave the shadows and catch back up with the "sunny side" of the road. During this time I have felt a lot of my old insecurities creeping up behind me, and those demons whispering lies in my head that make me feel worthless and unloved. Oddly enough I have not put the people around me through a marathon of drama in order to make me feel appreciated. I have just...fallen behind. Sometimes I would feel like they were drifting from me, but somewhere within my logic I would be reminded that it was, in fact, me that was drifting. I also realized that at these times I did not hurt those around me to keep them away. I hurt myself to keep them away. I have entertained all the things that are destructive to my body, heart and soul. I have embraced all the things that create disgust towards myself. I checked off all the things on my "Don't Do This If You Want To Be Healthy" list. So basically, I tear myself down and fall back so that few people will realize it. Except for a few.

So when I am told to have a "Eff You" attitude, I totally agree that I need one for a lot of reasons. I tend to care FAR too much what people think of my actions. I nurse people's weaknesses because I want everyone to feel...loved and uplifted. I find joy in seeing other people find joy. I will hold on in a relationship...until the very end (I have even dabbled in the intense side of "holding on". And not intense like "wow, she is really persistant", but intense like "Why are you standing outside my window in the middle of the night" intense. Just kidding.....but seriously). Even if it means I get dragged through the mud. I just find this strength somewhere in me...and I hold on until either I am asked to let go, or I realize my strength has me running in circles. And while I believe people mean well because we are all just trying to make it through...people I care about tend to mistake my kindness for weakness, because they play off of my devotion of the love I feel for them. I end up wearing myself into an emotional exaustion... Now, there is a very fine like between kindness and weakness for me. And what worries me, is that I think I mistake my weakness for kindness...

Sobering Sunday

2009-01-26T00:34:00.001-08:00

It's been a week now. I find myself caught in between all the moments that have shaped where I currently stand, confused and often misguided. Isn't it funny how sometimes when the surrounding noise dies down, we can hear our demons haunting us? Or how a song can just clothesline you off your feet? Or how a smell can send you to a place in your mind you have nestled and protected from any influence that could taint it?

I finished closing up the bar tonight. I turned the TVs off. I switched the lights off. I wiped down the counters and there was some "Red Lobster worthy" slow romantic song about heartbreak playing in the background. The lights were dim and the hum of the coolera had fallen away. I thought about my drive home. I would take in all the events of the evening. Contemplate all the dramatic encounters I had experienced. Soak in all the heartbreak I felt. Inhale the cold air, the smoke, and the smell of loneliness. In that moment I was...consumed...with this feeling of contentment. On a night where I should have panicked, or been upset, maybe even worried - I felt content. I knew that I would make the drive home (which ended up being 30 minutes longer because my precious grandma called) and I would walk into an apartment which I have made my home.

My grandmother, who happens to be one of my soulmates, got me on the phone tonight and went on and on and on about what my mom had told her about me; "She said you are just doing sooo good. She said you are just determined to carry on and to keep plugging forward. She just did not have enough good things to say about you. You were so beautiful and doing so great". Cute, I know. I felt...dirty. I hated to think that I wasn't...doing well. I wasn't determined. I spiraled from the level I was on. She went on to talk about how proud she was of me, and she always knew I was a great person, and when I got all these things sorted out, I was going to just be soo great and God was going to do great things with me. But little did she know...

I had recently revisited a place that once took me in as one of it's own. I have been spending time with my past. The air is a bit heavier now and a little more dense than I remember. The walls are mustier and it smells just as sweet, but with a hint of sour, now. The color of the hue was different, but it was just as dim lit as it always was. I returned. I stepped in slowly and cautiously and stayed close to the door. But before I knew it, I was dining with my favorite agents of escape and dancing with the ghosts in my closet. And at the end of the night I was going home with the tall and handsome figure that seems so comfortable and safe, but just ends up being a different shape of loneliness. I wake up...wondering where I am....and how did I get here? The taste of dissapointment in my mouth and the smell of despair in my hair. The visits have offered the temporary joy they have always provided. I reach the same heights and scream the same laughs. But sadly enough...I returned to this place I once felt at home, and I no longer feel like I belong there. You know that feeling when you go home and your parents have gotten new furniture? Or they have a whole new house all together? Yeah, whether we want it or not....we have this sense of loss. Betrayal. We realize something has been lost that will never be regained. And I no longer felt at home amongst this place I once called home. Which is a feeling I recognized. But maybe I always expected that place to take me back if I needed...but it's no longer a place I can be.

Which leaves me...in between somewhere...once again....

Hiding Meaning and Seeking Depth

2008-11-10T12:33:00.000-08:00

A unique array of music notes played its way into the international music business in 1998 when Imogen Heap emerged as a musician with her album i Megaphone. The tracks were self produced, and the songs that were not created by her were co-written by her creative mind. Several of her singles were released until the debut of another album named Frou Frou, which was created alongside a Guys Sigsworth. In 2002 they released the album Details along with several other singles.

She decided to produce her second solo album in December of 2003 and in August of 2005 announced that she had licensed her new record Speak For Yourself to Sony BMG to be released in the United States, Canada, and Mexico. It was one of the tracks of this album that captured my ears with it's mesmerizing sound and poetic lyrics. She was later nominated for several Grammy Awards and is currently hoping to finish her next album in December of 2008.

The highlight of her 2005 album is a song titled Hide and Seek, and as a listener, this song created a new angle of music to me that would raise the bar for all other creative art in music. The song is a solo voice accompanied by a vocorder which creates an eerily beautiful harmony. I know very little about musical jargon and details, but due to the fact that one of my passions is writing poetry and lyrics to songs, I choose to focus on the lyrics of this song. However, I read quite a bit of feedback on the quality of the instrumental and musical aspects of this song. One blogger commented "It is jammed full of tweaky effects, and is wildly inconsistent. One minute we have large concert hall reverb, the next the room is dead. There is exactly one industrial hammer sound in the 4 minutes. One minute we have bright (almost painful) treble-rich pop EQ, the next we have mid overload: muddy distorted vocorder. This inconsistency should make it really bad. It makes it really good." I did not understand most of this language, but it served to increase the value of the song as far as I am concerned.

These are the lyrics of the song (if you want to watch the video, click here):

Where are we?
what the heck is going on?
the dust has only just begun to form
crop circles in the carpet
sinking feeling
spin me round again
and rub my eyes,
this can't be happening
when busy streets amass with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy

Hide and seek
trains and sewing machines
all those years
they were here first

Oily marks appear on walls
where pleasure moments hung before the takeover,
the sweeping insensitivity of this still life

Hide and seek
trains and sewing machines (oh, you won't catch me around here)
blood and tears (hearts)
they were here first

Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmm that you only meant well?
well of course you did
Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmmm that it's all for the best?
Of course it isMmmm whatcha say?
Mmmm that it's just what we need
you decided this
whatcha say?
Mmmm what did you say?
ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs
speak no feeling no I don't believe you
you don't care a bit, you don't care a bit
(hide and seek)
ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs (hide and seek)
speak no feeling no I don't believe you
you don't care a bit,
you don't care a (you don't care a) bit
(hide and seek) oh no, you don't care a bit
oh no, you don't care a bit
(hide and seek) oh no, you don't care a bit
you don't care a bit
you don't care a bit

Obviously the message of this song is very powerful. So powerful that there are several blogs and websites dedicated to finding the meaning behind this song. This website is a blog that has dozens and dozens of different perspectives. One perspective that stood out to me was by a blogger named Anon, who claims the song is about a house and what it experiences as the last member of the house lay dying. I do not agree in the least bit with his opinion but that proves nothing about whether it is right or wrong. One of the beautiful things about music is that it can transcend all differences that most things cannot. Regardless of age, gender, nationalism, religion, or any other defining characteristic, music can mean millions of different things to different people. I can write a song about experiencing a break up, and someone else can read it and connect to the song thinking it is talking about the trauma of moving to a new country. Music connects people from so many different places in life, and I believe music holds far more power than we understand.

Personally, I strongly believe the song is written from the perspective of a lover, either close to marriage or in a marriage, being left. I took some time one evening to dissect the song and analyze the meaning behind it, and the conclusion I came to was that this was a song written about the painful loss of love and how it shakes the narrator's world, and how she suffers from the aftershock of such turmoil. Here are my arguments:

"Where are we?
what the heck is going on?

the dust has only just begun to form
crop circles in the carpet
sinking feeling
spin me round again
and rub my eyes,
this can't be happening
when busy streets amass with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy."

This verse of the song describes the unreal feeling and shock that takes over when her life abruptly changes. She is dazed, soaked with confusion, and wondering where her reality is and how she got to this point. The dust begins to crop circles in the carpet describes her situation as if there has been so much turmoil, and only now is the truth setting in and the dust begins to settle around her as it all comes crashing down. Then comes that sinking feeling that we all have felt at one point or another when our grieving truly begins. She hopes to be spinned and woken up from this nightmare and asks her tormenter to rub her eyes because this surely is not real. She has entered the phase of denial in her grievance, where reality is impossible to swallow. Just as we have all felt the sinking feeling, we have probably all had those moments where we asked "How is the world still going on when something so horrible has happened?" This situation is causing her deep sorrow, yet the people still travel the streets while she feels like they should stop and hang their heads in mourning along with her.

"Hide and seek
trains and sewing machines
all those years
they were here first"

I believe she uses the words hide and seek to create an image of innocence, and simpler days before this all happened. In analyzing the trains and sewing machines, the commonality that seemed to speak the boldest was that of a wedding; the sewing machine that would create her wedding dress, and make the train that would flow behind her, in happier days.

"Oily marks appear on walls
where pleasure moments hung before the takeover,
the sweeping insensitivity of this still life"

As she analyzes the situation, she begins to sadly accept it. The oily marks on the walls are from where her fingers touched the wall and removed the pictures, the hanging pleasure moments. However she cannot escape the pain that this lover caused her when leaving. She describes it as sweeping insensitivity of this life taking over. This is also another emotion most of us have felt when life seemed to come crashing down on us.

"Hide and seektrains and sewing machines (oh, you won't catch me around here)
blood and tears (hearts)
they were here first."

Here she repeats the same loss of innocence and happiness in her wedding dreams and seems to enter the more bitter part of mourning that is particular to a break up, because there is resentment from the one who left. Her feelings have developed more of a painful anger as she uses words like blood and tears to describe her emotions. When she says "they were here first," I think she is stating that heartbreak has been happening for thousands of years, which is perhaps a form of comfort for her grieving.

"Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmm that you only meant well?
well of course you did
Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmmm that it's all for the best?
Of course it is
Mmmm whatcha say?
Mmmm that it's just what we need
you decided this
whatcha say?
Mmmm what did you say?"

The bitterness takes root to anger and resentment in this verse as she repeats lines that were used to justify her lover's abandonment. She describes the statements that were made and her responses, which seem to be powerless against the will of her lover to leave. She then makes the simple statement "you decided this". In that statement she confides in the listener of her rejection, because all of those choices made for her were not her own. She continually asks what did you say as if to portray the disbelief she is feeling towards ths situation.

"ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs
speak no feeling no I don't believe you
you don't care a bit, you don't care a bit(hide and seek)
ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs (hide and seek)
speak no feeling no I don't believe you
you don't care a bit,
you don't care a (you don't care a) bit
(hide and seek) oh no, you don't care a bit
oh no, you don't care a bit(hide and seek)
oh no, you don't care a bit
you don't care a bit
you don't care a bit"

The ransom she seems to be speaking of here is everything she ever gave her lover; commitment, love, time, thoughts, emotions, secrets, irreplaceable moments, emotional investment, and all the other things you willingly pour into a person that you love. The lover that abandoner her holds these things of hers ransom. The "newspaper word cut outs" create a powerful image of her loss as she compares her lover's

rejection to a kidnapping.This gives the lover a much more antagonistic characteristic, due to the fact that we always cheer on the victim. She wraps up her painful artistic realization by simple stating "you don't care a bit" and explaining that she no longer believes her former lover. This is where her grieving develops into a loss of hope.

This review is, of course, my personal opinion. However as I mentioned earlier in this blog, music transcends several layers of society and culture and is very based on the perspective of the listener, or the eye of the beholder. So it is more than likely and highly possible that my perspective of this song is based my personal connection to the song and on an opinion shaped by my own experiences.