A Roadblock of Sorts.

He asked, "have you forgotten?"

And I said, "yes, Dad, I have forgotten."
I was being sarcastic when I put the words together, but when they echoed through the kitchen, I had to wonder: have I forgotten?

No sooner than the winter air turned my hands to ice, was I inside with a heater, the memory of the cold erased.
Faster than I could finish my first drink, I was onto a second and then a third, losing recollection of how many I'd had.
The amount of time it has taken to move a few steps forward is suddenly clouded by all the miles I've regressed since then, and I think it's obvious that when I'm incapable of feeling the bumps along the road, it's because I've forgotten they were ever even there.

One night, twelve of us were crowded on the floor of her apartment. They said they liked when I was around because that way they could practice their English. Everyone was sharing stories and eating pudding, but the longer I sat with my arms wrapped around my legs, the more i wanted to close my eyes and think of something else. Each time I go away, I forget how hard it is to be gone. 

Each time I come home, I forget how cold it is out there.

I was always the first to say I'd forget about this place, although the last place on earth I thought I would be is the place where I am the most comfortable. 

My hands are tied. I'd like to pretend I'm enslaved to the rope around my wrists, this binding affliction that disables me from breaking free; but really I tied myself up because I wanted to be bound. 

I've done this to myself. I have to get out of town.

Yet, by calling it ’full,’ I created emptiness.

Those were dark days. I would consider them empty if it meant these days were somehow full; but a few hours ago, I remembered the time I went missing and realized I'm no further removed from the absolute constriction of vacancy than I was then.

It was freezing. I had determined not to be seduced by the warmth of the fire pit, so I bundled up and set out alone.

A group of 'counselors' told me I had issues and referred to them as being "deeply rooted." I find it hard to believe that something rooted 'deeply' has the ability to resurface so often. I think these aforementioned issues are not deep at all, but quite shallow - directly under the skin, waiting for the right comment or situation to enable them to seep through my pores for exposure.

With temperatures so low, the tears froze immediately on my face.

Something that was, I thought, buried deeply, was uprooted last night by a mere word association, and I spent the majority of the evening unable to shake the eerie feeling that he will haunt me forever. I thought that if I cleaned thoroughly enough, I would rid my life of any memory of him. I thought that if I threw those passions into another source, they would take a new form, one quite dissimilar to the one identified with him.

But when I smelled the smoke and saw the fire's glow, it was hard to turn my eyes from it.

They told me I needed to tackle my issues subjectively and find out what is at the heart of my "poor decisions regarding relationships." They said that because of those decisions, I will never amount to anything. Worth nothing, I gathered my crumbling interior and sacrificed it to the flames, hoping that somewhere amidst the embers I would find worth. The last of me - my humble remainder - drove my body toward the heat, numb to any previous warnings against it.

And then, it started to rain. Pour. The smoldering ashes crawling up my arms and legs were subdued by moisture, and at that point, the air temperature was even lower than before. I was an adult, degenerated to an infantile state, tossed back and forth between depravity and defeat: remorseful, helpless, terrified. 

It must've been what I wanted - at least, what I thought was best - if I so willingly stood in the cold and allowed the rain to beat down on my mutilated skin. The downpour helped me to realize that visible injuries are not prerequisite to healing and comfort is a constant hunger that cannot be filled by just anything.

I am working to get to the bottom of these 'issues' and determine why I do now what I did then, why there is such familiarity and comfort in the pain, how I sometimes long to go back there.

I could have called it empty, seeing beyond that locale to a life more full. Yet, by calling it 'full,' I created emptiness. Never was I so aware of the void until stood amid it. Never did I acknowledge what I needed until I got what I thought I wanted.

The Impersonality of Styrofoam

The Starbucks Coffee Company-- has relatively rigid guidelines for their employees and extremely high standards of business conduct. I know this because their corporate policies are available online:

http://www.starbucks.com/aboutus/US_English_full_kit.pdf
I personally like Starbucks. The coffee isn't horrendous, the atmosphere is jovial and, four out of five times, the barista at the counter is smiling at me.

I have to wonder how it is, then, that this capitalist empire I embrace (c'mon, you know you love the cinnamon dolce latte too) puts such effort into customer satisfaction yet serves their coffee from paper cups.

We were sitting outside a mom-and-pop cafe on Monday, consuming the freshly brewed house blend and squinting in the sunlight. Our drinks grew cold quickly, as the temperature had dropped and we were drinking from actual mugs - no insulated styrofoam, no paper lids. 
As I wondered how that place stayed in business, supporting local art and music and selling beverages at reasonable prices, I began to question how it is that I prefer the charm of a local coffee shop but am so decidedly comfortable with the matching furniture and mass-produced screen prints permeating the Barnes and Noble cafe.

I find that most people, when searching for a voice of their own, find it within someone else's. Although I have difficulty understanding the mass appeal of loser bands like 3 Doors Down and the cliche writings of Nicholas Sparks, I'm not going to lie to myself and say I didn't watch, love and cry hysterically about the movie Titanic. Probably somewhere within my own quest for personal identity, I learned to silence those neurons in my brain which caused me to be attracted to conventional beauty and lean toward aggregated opinion. Consequentially, the voices of the two opposing sides of my personality instruct me at equal volumes. Conform! says one. Resist! the other.

He said, "I'm sure you won't like her too much, because she listens to music people have heard of and doesn't mismatch her clothes." Today, with my sorority-looking ponytail and gap jeans, I am appalled. Am I wrong to prefer something a little warmer than the antiseptic touch of a Solo cup? And while I say I prefer those things alternative to our culture, the sad fact is that I'm no different from everyone else; and I'm certainly in no place to evaluate a person's character based upon her personal preferences. 

Everything's a psychological power struggle these days. I want to choose a candidate for the 2008 election, believe in him/her with all my heart and exercise my menial 'right' as a citizen, but I can't bring myself to separating one politician from another, as they're all capable of plunging our nation into a state of deeper social/political/economic despair, anyway. More and more often lately, I think I should quit my job, make conspiracy art and cause an uproar; while at the same time, I think it doesn't require a lot of effort to just sell out, work for the man and pay my bills. 

My male friends wince when I mention my love of moustaches and disinterest in sculpted abs. My musician friends don't understand why I can't just play normal chords and straight rhythms. My parents wonder what they did wrong to raise a child who isn't pretty and doesn't care to be.

Most people think I'm reaching so far into the resistance pot that I'm pulling out nonsense. That's probably true. I guess that while normalcy is so socially accepted, there is something to be said for the non-conforming heart of the minority.

It isn't that I can't dance to the latest Beyonce single or appreciate the appeal of to-go cups. Thanks to commercialism, my ugly bird feeders are mass produced and sold in stores like Wal-Mart and Home Depot, thus generating my very income.

I just long for a day - a time, a place - wherein people drink espresso from real espresso cups, laughing blithely and smoking cigarettes at a table outside of a cafe. As our world becomes more globalized, individuals are increasingly less interesting, Is it that drab people are blending into a sequentially banal culture; or is it the progression of cross-cultures that is watering down humanity?

At the mall Saturday night, Allison and I commented on the girl wearing striped stockings and fingerless mittens, and how, between three and five years ago, we looked like her. Annoyed by the lack of variety in our surroundings, we went home to screen print t-shirts that we will wear with our skinny jeans and chuck taylors...just like everybody else. Oh man.

Laughing all the Way (ha ha ha)

I've had this urgent sense over the past few years that I'm running out of time, like whatever it is I'm supposed to do, I better do it soon. I've begun to realize that my anxiety isn't situational or social, but it's something I've created from this notion that I am on some kind of deadline. As a child, I was terrified of failure because it meant disappointing my parents. Now, I'm only terrified of exiting this world without accomplishing much.

It isn't that there is nothing good to read; I'm just not reading anything interesting. And it isn't that there is no potential for amazing conversation; I'm just not initiating it. Anyway, it isn't like there is no art or music or beauty in this town; I'm convinced that it exists, but I'm just missing it.

I have to silence my complaining conscience. I don't hate Jonesboro, Arkansas. I just have a persuasion toward negativity. So what if it's culturally endangered and creatively extinct? If no one else is taking the initiative, I suppose I should. I mean, that's what he said HE wanted to do. 

Over lunch today, I tried to keep my wonder at a casual level as he spoke of how he wants to change things. I was thinking yesterday of a way that I could impact the world, and then I switched over to apathy again. So, hearing his passion about making a difference, interpersonally and communally, reminded me that my good intentions are simply intentions, and ideas without resolve are useless. He started laughing mid-sentece when I indiscreetly spit food out of my mouth onto my plate, and the revelation came to me that one of the two at the table in the corner had grown up; and it wasn't me.

The very thing he has always said during our brief visits over holidays ("You haven't changed at all, have you Claire?") is something in which I used to take pride. Now, however, I realize he wasn't complimenting my consistency, but pointing out the fact that, somehow, I am still fourteen. 

So, here we are, a decade later, in the same place where it all began; only now he is an adult. We've both spent the last half of our lives trying to escape this town and now that he's living here again, he has the maturity to want to service his community and the longevity to actually do it.

Three nights ago, I considered running away. I told him that. I told him that I've just been desperate for some creative counterparts and he looked sad when I said it. 

Somehow, I always think something drastic will make things easier - different, yes; but changes only add to the complexity and frustration of life. I think without frustration, though, there is no room for the sublte interruptions of satisfaction and accomplishment.

For this very reason, I do things I know I shouldn't...because in my recovery from such mistakes, I am able to say and write and create things I would lack the inspiration for otherwise. Admittedly, I am seduced by nostalgia, remorse, heartache and all the other contents of epic art and poetry.

One amazing traveler recently said, "...the time is coming where [you] can either settle down or continue living with a fury, a fire in [your] gut that will never cease...have fun, make art, be the exception." Those words caused my creative urgency to resurface; and in many ways, I'm relieved. I'm glad someone said it. I can be thrilled, I can be excited, I can laugh at the days to come.

arks and playgrounds and that one, great hyperbole

For some reason, I was screaming when I jumped on the merry-go-round this morning and clung for dear life to the icy railing.  Neither one of us balanced well, partially due to the previous night's activities but mostly because we were giggling so hard.  I wanted a picture of that.  

I'm so afraid of being old.

About a kilometer down the trail, when we passed the tree she tagged last summer, I told her to be quiet and listen to all the Canadian geese rustle in the leaves about us.  At that point, I was really beginning to regret that I didn't have my 35 mm.  I wanted images of her running through them, with the grey sky and rows of dead trees behind us.

I'm so afraid of being boring.

A few hours later, sitting with two newly engaged women and sipping lattes, we stared blankly at each other from our respective sides of the cafe table.  I was overwhelmed by the stacks of bridal magazines in their laps and their bubble of wedding talk.  She looked the way I felt: terrified.

I'm so afraid of settling.

To escape the world neither of us could comprehend, we opted for a matinee and ended up seeing the most horrific fairytale in theatres these days.  Instead of walking out, though, we were glued to the screen in absolute bewilderment that the concept of 'happily ever after' actually sells.  Such lies are sweeter and thicker than the gooey holiday candy she snuck into the movie, and when I gagged, it's because I know I'm guilty of tasting it.

I'm so afraid of going there.

I then advised her to break up with him, never get married and be single with me forever.  I think it's the only way, really.

Later, a friend and I were rummaging through the $5 DVD bins at our local supermarche when he asked my professional opinion on the love-at-first-sight bit.  He wants to know that he isn't crazy for thinking that when he meets his matrimonial destiny, her hair will be blowing in the wind and time will stand still as they lock eyes for the first time and just "know."  I laughed at him for being so old and still holding to that ideal which I wish I weren't too cynical to embrace.  I'm an adult and know better than all that fairytale garbage.

But, honestly, I'm so afraid of being right.

Maybe my biggest fear is not of being disappointed in this hyperbolized concept of love or allowing someone second-rate to hold my hand and suck the life from me; maybe my fear isn't so much the failure, but the initial fear-of-failure which will keep me from giving anyone a chance in the first place.  I don't like the idea of my own voice reverberating in an empty room without another, warmer voice to interrupt.  As many times as I've packed a backpack and set off on an adventure, hoping to escape the guy who isn't adventurous enough to go camping with me, I still have trouble navigating at times.  I'm bothered by all the beautiful things I've seen and memories I've built on my own.  Rather than enhancing my story-telling abilities, I think the solitude has actually made me less likely to share.  But what's worse than being alone while laughing out loud is having someone beside me who doesn't understand my sense of humor.

"So, what is it about him," I asked.  "Why him?"  And she gave me the same non-specific, completely unoriginal answer I hear from everyone else.  I have to wonder if that's as good as it gets and if Ryan was right to say that something slightly insufficient is good enough.

Apparently, no one has the answers these days.  

Questions and Answers and Gingerbread Houses

It isn't the answer to the question that holds significance. True value is found in recognizing that there are even questions to be asked. He said that now that he no longer has the answers, his faith is deeper than it was when he had explanations for everything. At one time, I was too afraid of failing to try; I was scared of not having the answers, and I was too cowardly, even, to ask questions. Over time, as I've begun to loosen my grip on things, I have found that I've missed out on the fundamentals of youthful ignorance by handing out answers rather than admitting to my own curiosities...what a waste of wonder. Joni (pronounced 'yaw-nee') wanted to teach me to drive a stick one night in the snow. As I swerved onto an empty street and laughed nervously, he put his hand on mine and we did our best to communicate. Even though it was terrifying to glide along the icy road in the dark, I was alright - knowing that my non English speaking friend was guiding us to the local tavern and, somehow, we would arrive. It was difficult to relax with the seat belt choking me, the heater was on full blast, I didn't feel well that day; but any number of excuses still could not erase the pleasure of learning something new and embracing the thrill of the unknown. I had a subscription to Elle magazine all throughout Junior High school. I always felt sorry for my peers, whose concept of fashion was a direct result of what their overweight mothers picked out for them at Gap. When I visited New York for the first time with my choir group, I watched the other fourteen year old girls squeal and express surprise at the items hung on mannequins in the window displays on fifth avenue, and I shook my head saying, "duh." It's quite hilarious that I'm now an average, middle class adult who shops where everyone else shops and carries the same bag virtually year-round. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly original. There was a point in my life when I was a complete music snob, listening only to the newest of the new underground stuff and shunning anyone whose radio dial landed on KISS FM for (clearly) having no taste. I considered my itunes collection far superior to anyone else's, as I was always the first to discover and promote unknown talent. I have since developed the ability to say things like, "no, I've never heard this awesome indie band" to my cooler friends, although the process has been a slow one. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly knowledgeable. I thought I was so cool a few years later when I began cooking. When I realized that culinary art is, actually, art, I decided that only amateurs who can't determine the difference between red and green cardamon use recipes. Every morsel is a masterpiece, I thought. Now that I live alone, however, I have a high appreciation for lean cuisines and all the things I once mocked. Only now am I finding that I'm hardly versatile. I suppose it has taken time in order for me to realize that I really don't know very much, after all. I envy the way my father has marveled at the unknown in recent years in a way he probably hasn't done since childhood. I have to admire that he asks questions with no intention of gaining THE answer, but to discover what he might be missing. I love that he can admit he's lacking. I asked how things were going, and he replied,"Today has been slightly less confusing than the previous days." He maintained that today, amidst the questions and abstractions, he could see a bit of hope and was at peace, despite the complexities of his future. Sometimes, written in the grey, is the most pleasing answer of all: the fact that the answer, often, is yet unknown, and that's okay. Alli and I teamed up in the gingerbread house-making this evening. She and I both tag 'artist' onto our self-assessment, in a way that suggests our ability to create things is, essentially, our DNA. Everyone at the table knew this about us, as we nibbled on corners of gingerbread walls and claimed we had mice living in the house. Perhaps they (perhaps WE) expected a great mansion; but the end product resembled some abandoned house in the ghetto in need of condemning. The roof was caving in and each side had icing sloppily flung to its corners and gumdrops scattered sporadically about its surface. We laughed at our work and had no problem admitting that we had successfully made the ugliest one. It was fun to admit that I had no idea that adding water to the icing made it shiny. We admired the big, hideous mess we made on the kitchen table and I'm pretty sure it's safe to say we both felt pretty good about it. I am highly interested in researching the reason why I've been so prideful all of my life. I'm interested to know why I spent my childhood, unable to admit to being a child, capable of failure. I'm wondering how it is that, at my age, I feel like I'm beginning to grow up. Most of my life, I've failed to ask questions. I didn't want anyone to know that I didn't hold the explanation to things; the fact is, my hesitance to ask has hindered me from discovering much truth in the quest for answers. It isn't the answer to the question that holds significance. True value is found in recognizing that there are even questions to be asked.

Honesty, at its best...

Before my most recent ex-boyfriend asked me to marry him, he consistently informed me that he found no satisfaction in my physical appearance. It didn't bother him to tell me daily that he was disappointed in my face and hair and body; but rather than allowing his words to motivate me to make the appropriate changes (like, kick him in the sack before telling him to screw off, for example), his 'honesty' was the key to unlocking a million repressed memories and feelings, while transforming me into a mere shadow of the person I could be. 

Piecing together the remainder since he's been gone has been a little bit like gluing back together the bits of a shattered porcelain doll face - it never looks quite the same after it's been broken. 

Now, as a result of his malice, I have these seams and scars and reminders: evidence of honesty, gone wrong.

But truth done right - honesty, at its best - should be the very thing sustaining and stimulating me.

When I talk to my best friend on the phone, the role she plays is that of the Voice of Reason. What makes her my best friend is that she rarely tells me those things I long to hear. Instead, she is brave enough to speak the truth in a beautiful and comforting way.

She said, "Now, I'm going to tell you something, Claire, and I want you to listen. If you recall nothing else, remember this..." The noise of the road disappeared as her voice filled the car with simple truth and I pretended there weren't tears in my eyes. Just because her honesty slapped me in the face, that didn't mean her intentions were to be anything but helpful and loving. I heard her; and I'm still remembering.

Now, as a new year approaches, I begin to wonder what I should do differently. As I examine things internally, I realize more and more of my neurotic insecurities: It seems that every year has been a little more chaotic than the last. 

I watched as he stood over his stove and concocted some mixture of chai tea and various other ingredients, and even though his observations about my nature made the back of my eyes burn and my stomach twist into knots, I wanted to hear it all. Even if what he said about me was said out of narcissism and diffidence, his unfavorable observation was definitive of who I am, unabashed, to another.

Later, he said that if he's going down, he wants it to be with me. Whatever he meant by that, it wasn't a compliment; but as I watched him scramble to remove his foot from his mouth, I realized that he had just said what I was never going to admit; and, truthfully, I needed to hear it.

Now, with the changing of seasons and impending holidays, I'm packing away the flip-flops and tanning oil. When I think of where I was on this day last year, it seems that I was once a little more sincere. 

My mattress was in the living room again that day, when we avoided the football game to lay side-by-side atop a pile of blankets. As we talked about the past and it's affect on our future, he offered that maybe my feelings of insufficient love for him were indications of actual, raw love. 'Maybe,' he said, 'real love is recognizing one's inability to love wholly.'

In the past, he had told me that he would prefer my selfish love to none at all. He said that if that was the best I could offer, it was more than enough.

Now that it's getting dark earlier, my evenings are extended, leaving more time to reflect. It seems every time I've thought I was right, there was still more truth to uncover; but if I had known this before, I might have been too lazy to seek it.

I'm not sure how it is that honesty is welcomed as rare and refreshing when it comes in the form of undivulged flattery, but when that honesty is delivered without the accompanying 'warm fuzzy,' we are offended and become withdrawn. We want to be coddled, but never challenged.

When my best friend failed to hold anything back, she allowed me an opportunity to stop being a fool and start being truthful.

When a new friend began to question my integrity to my face, he did it out of genuine concern; and the image I knew he had of me was, at least, a real one. Thanks to his effrontery, I can begin to make things right.

When an old friend fanned the flame of my public-display-of failure by mentioning my short-comings, he meant never to harm me. He meant, rather, to hold me in his arms as he walked me through the truth. Together, as we are walking, I desire to do the same for him...

...something tums can’t aid.

He said he was making a fool of himself, but all I could think of was the fool that I had been.  I felt responsible for bringing him when I alone should have skipped out on that one; and once I got there, I should've just stayed.  It was a mistake to leave, as I was dragging another down with me in my grandiose exit march.  Beyond that, I have little recollection until a few hours later when it was early morning.

The small space was warm and smelled the way a room smells when a heater is turned on for the first time in the winter.  Light shining in through crimson curtains fell across the bed, turning white linens a warm shade of pink, so that the rhythm of restful breathing was innocent and somehow safe.  But the scene, which might have appeared peaceful to most, was problematic in far too many ways.

More than anything, it was the pain in my stomach that really troubled me.  

My eyes shot open and my heart was racing.  I rubbed together a pair of dry hands and shook off the tangled nest of blankets, then I sat straight up and began asking what day it was.  My brain could not process thoughts at a pace as rapid as my pounding heart, but I had enough sense to know what was wrong: I had done it again.  

Back to the beginning, once more - and our promises mean nothing.  As if shifting from bad to worse, the very reason for those once desperate promises means less and less.  We have said it before, so we say it again.  We have felt it before, but do we feel it now?

Continually, we tell ourselves it will be different, that this time we mean it, that we care enough to avoid such mistakes; but if we truly meant that, we would be so far removed from such situations that they would never become even an option in our minds.

When we make vows to ourselves and one another are we not then making those vows to God since we are making them before God?  And does our word lose merit before Him as we repeatedly "cry wolf?"  I have to wonder at what point my tears of sincerity and my cries of humility begin to fall on deaf ears.

When I was in second grade, my mother began having babies all the time.  Having been the youngest for seven years, I was not thrilled about my status falling to "middle child."  It was around that time that the stomachaches began.  At the onset of any change, new responsibility, or even the mention of another "baby," everything inside began to hurt, so I would cry.  We visited the family practitioner, the gastroenterologist, the emergency room; but every test and evaluation said the same thing: nothing was wrong.  

But something WAS wrong, I just knew it.  I secretly hoped for appendicitis or some form of illness for which invasive surgery and serious bouts of chemical therapy were imperative.  My stomach hurt because I didn't like the situation.  My stomach hurt because I knew I could no longer get by at the same pace.  My stomach hurt because I was lying to myself and everyone around me, but I was comfortable in those lies and afraid of making resolutions for the better.  I saw an opportunity to disguise my self-loathing and reclaim some attention, so I played the stomachache card on a daily basis to get out of school, avoid tennis practice, receive special care.  At some point, my mom caught on to my tactics, and eventually, she stopped responding to my tears.

The fact is, my stomach really DID hurt.  It was hurting on Saturday morning and it's hurting again today; but the pain isn't something to be diagnosed by a literal examination.  And for all the tears I've cried and remorse I've felt over the origin of this very perpetual stomachache, I have to conclude that if I were sincere in my apologies, I would not still bear the pain associated with my ceaseless wrongs.  

If those promises I have intermittently made were genuine, I would have followed through and not cycled through the muck yet again.

My stomach hurts.  It hurts because it never seems to get better. It hurts more for the vows I've broken than for the things I did when breaking those vows.

How much relies on butterflies?

We didn't know what we were talking about when we talked about the "future." Still, we have exchanged countless late-night phone calls and inbox-jamming emails concerning hopeful prospects and possible perfects, all the while excusing away the blatant fact that he is so not right. Last night, watching the 1997 blockbuster rendition of Romeo and Juliet, we found that most of our youthful optimism about love has been replaced by cynicism. We took turns exchanging sarcastic remarks about the ability Hollywood has to set ridiculous relationship standards, while clouding the realities of life. Seeing as how life is not a movie, we are beginning to put things into perspective, asking ourselves, "what is it that matters, and what doesn't?" How much of it, we ask, relies on butterflies? 1. He remembered what I wore on the first day of school and he was the first artist I envied. It was my erratic behavior at the end of each night when he drove me home that made him hold me so close. I broke his ribs and his windshield, but not on purpose. I was simply breaking things in order to break free, although I didn't know why. I had no intention of fighting the emotion I had lived fourteen years to at last feel; yet when I felt it, I was terrified that it could be at once so powerful and yet so fleeting... 2. We had fights. He knew I hated it when he rolled his eyes and I knew he hated how I always ran away; but we mistook the passion we had when we made up for something far more significant. We were sixteen, and sixteen year olds know so much about love, we reasoned. 3. "Why do you love me?" I would ask through pitiful tears from the bathroom floor. And when he gave replies such as, "I love you because I'm meant to love you, Claire," the butterflies would turn to rocks, tumbling around in my stomach and making me heavy with all the reasons why I am inadequate and will never offer enough. It was painful, being that selfish. 4. I clung to him tightly, riding through open fields to the bluff, and then he watched nervously as I frolicked along the edge of the cliff. My recklessness suprised him and he admired that in me. We admired each other. I think he was drunk on the phone the night he said it, but then it developed into a habit. And so, love became our reason for everything. 5. I doubt I will ever forget the morning we sat on the cold kitchen floor, eating brownies and talking breathlessly about the future. I watched his face as the rising sun crept in through the window blinds and painted stripes across his forehead; and I told him lies. Lies about love. No more than a week later, I fell to the ground, face in hands, and sobbed miserably; but for disappointment, not for affection. And, so "love," this supposed emotion, this created feeling is something hopeless romantics and commitment critics alike long to experience but are terrified to delve into.  Love, however, in its pure form - in a body pierced for my iniquity - has become confused with sugar-coated pop songs and saccharin-sweet chick flicks to the point that "love" is no longer love. It's like a big bowl of  candy corn: all flashy and seeming like a fantastic idea until the aftermath. The more I experience it, I'm afraid, the more sick I feel. Time and again, we are surveying the wrong source. The butterfly-infested, self-pleasing, movie-material love can be most closely associated with the anticipation of a junk food feast. In the end, the excitement of it all was the only worthwhile part of the ordeal. Thousands of empty calories and all that  is wasted, and a few hours later I'm crashing from a sugar high - hungrier than before. Not only did we have no idea what we were talking about when we were talking about the future; we also had no idea what we were talking about when we were  talking about love.

"the sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises..."

I blinked hard a few times and then opened my eyes. I didn't like where I found myself, because the overhead light was on and it was 4:30 a.m. The past, pointless three hours felt only seconds long: from the moment I chose a poor decision until its aftermath, time erased and blurred; and in the end I felt all the more empty. I like that we use the phrase "killing time," as if time well-spent were somehow alive, and time  spent poorly has breath until we slaughter it.  Something about "killing time" adds a little mortality  to our own hearts. I'm always talking about not being wasteful, not settling, not succumbing to defeat; still, I am sucking the vitality out of each moment simply with the way I occupy time. Occasionally, I will believe that I'm the only one who  maintains such ideals: that there is more to time than  living thoughtlessly and there is something to be done about it - not that I am any different from others, as I  spend the majority of my days in wasteful, meaningless  activities. Even still, I would like to see another stand up  from his recliner and say, "...yeah." Or, even, not in  agreement, but of his own accord, without first knowing  my thoughts. Time spent poorly is, in essence, wasted. Dead. Grades below the very potential it could have, as it might never be redeemed. So, recently, I'm considering moments -  one by one, actually. Each of them must mean something. Since givng up the nail-biting, I've been chewing the insides  of my mouth. Apparently, I'm still concerned about something. It could have something to do with the countless hours I spend,  lying on my living room floor, staring up at the rotating celing fan, trying to figure out my next move; or it could involve the time I spend awake, when I could be sleeping, and how my activities in those hours are mundane and empty; still, I could just be  freaking out that I'm getting older and I have to continually learn the same lessons again and again, because for 2.4 decades, I've hardly grown. I always wish to be wiser, but I'm not. I want to be mature, so I'm  trying. I am hoping not to get so caught up in the adventure that  I lose my head and begin killing time once again. And in relation  to all things: am I just killing time? Waiting for something better to occur? Looking to the brighter days? Or is there something to be said for the very moment I am living... "...the sun rises and the sun sets, and then goes back to where it  rises..."  Somewhere in between these things, it's a good idea to make proper  use of time.

"Integrity," she said.

It's not raining yet, but it might as well be. I fell asleep, thinking of our conversation, then overslept and awoke groggy and scatter-brained. All the fragmented thoughts surging through my mind (along to a sad, melodious Damien Rice soundtrack) were making it hard to focus on birdhouses, as if everything is fine. Because, if I delve into it, things are not fine; and hopefully I'll never begin to feel that they are. The moment I think it's all good is the moment I'm too proud to admit I have so much left to learn.  I wanted to be a paleontologist as long as it meant I would be one of the few working on the sight of some massive Tyranosaurus Rex excavation.  I wanted to be a musician, only if it meant becoming a famous one. I assumed I'd be a designer; but in my mind I would build an imperial fashion line, my name plastered along the skeletal waistband of every debutante from sea to shining sea. Considered becoming a tennis pro, as it would increase my chance of hookng up with Andre Agassi. Thought of just taking the easy road and becoming the world's greatest living artist. Even where a (small) more selfless side of my nature was concerned, I likened myself to Mother Teresa and Anne Frank - women whose acheivements and courageous acts alligned them with all the prima donnas I so wanted to stand amongst. All throughout childhood, my reflection was a timid, four-eyed girl with long blond bangs and hand-me-down jumpsuits, identifying with heroines in fairytales and Disney movies - misunderstood and capable of greatness. My ensured destiny, these visions of grandeur, was something narrow: a notion for good, slight by the immaturity of a kindgergartener's perception of reality. The commonality among my every aspiration has always been one, terribly off-focus thing: me. Nearly two decades later, my hair is a few shades darker, but my parochial mind still envisions I have the efficacy to acheive some idyllic lifestyle, some great success which will eternally define me. And all the while, I am still hurting feelings. I am still the worst friend ever. I am still as insecure and self-involved as before, only by now, I should know better. It is as if I am walking in darkness. She told me to choose integrity every day. She said that when given two choices, she will always choose the wrong one. This is why we are the best of friends - because we are the same in that regard. I suppose if my actions were out of integrity rather than self-fulfillment, then all the "good" I do would be done in silence. I wouldn't befriend someone because that person needs a friend and I want to fill a void and be the hero; I would befriend a person without thinking, because love, in my mind, would be completely inherent. To break down my intentions, I have to wonder: does my desire to serve truly come from a contrite heart, laying down my longings to follow God, or is it from a darker, more human place - a need to please others and be some kind of celebrated saint? She said to pray for integrity. Am I, after all these years, walking still in darkness?  God is light. In Him, there is no darkness at all. If anyone claims to have fellowship with Him, but walks in darkness, he is a liar and the truth is not in him. Yikes. If I love God's people, really love - the way Christ loves the church - then who I want to be when I grow up, and the perception I'd like others to have and all the hiding and concealing and pretending would be the furthest things from my very nature. If a selfless, charitable, holy love is not intuitive, then do I even know anything of love?  And if I find a balance between being proactive about it and loving both wholly and unintentionally (because it should be first-nature), then will I not have figured it all out? There is no such thing as pure and complete enlightenment when it comes to knowing and also fulfilling a "right" way of living, because no man but Christ himself has done it.  Still, the darkness I fear I'm walking in - being a dear friend out of sheer convenience or to be loved back, storing up knowledge so that others will see the wisdom in me rather than the wisdom imparted on me which is not mine, hoping to acheive some kind of piety for the sake of being great instead of an instinctual response to the grace offered to my worthless existence - that darkness in and of itself has given me cause to turn within. Seeing as how there's very little light in there, it's hard to keep from running in circles. It's hard to break the cycle. It's hard to admit that I'm swimming in a sea of self-absorption, but the only real light is this simple truth: I am a giant mess, as always. A sinner in need of a Savior. Suffice it to say, love is typically the furthest thing from my palette and anything in me that resembles an aspect of love (faith, hope, compassion, mercy, integrity, righteousness, whatever) is more than likely a lie.  She said integrity should be a concern of mine. I can see that at the beginning of seeking it is finding some honesty within myself, no matter how unnatractive it is to peak inside. She told me her current struggle, and how it so closely mirrors my own. She said she is praying for the wisdom to make right decisions every morning. She said she is praying that her life will be one of love. She said she is praying to be bent on integrity, and that it will be out of love for Christ - not something sought or found on her own accord, but that as an extension of grace, she will begin to understand what really matters in life and live accordingly. I could hear the humility in her voice and knew that she meant those prayers she was praying. I admired her honesty which said, "I know no more than I did at fifteen, but I desire to grow," and I was reminded that no matter how far I've come, I have unlimited miles to journey yet, and I will never really get to the bottom of things or reach any absolute conclusions that cannot be further developed. It's not raining yet, but it might as well be.

Spring Cleaning (In Autumn)

He compared my recent dating travesties to a person substituting a McDonald's filet-o-fish sandwich for fresh seafood. No matter how good of an idea it seems to be at the time, it's really NOT a good idea. Whatever it is I'm looking for, I have yet to find it. And all these substitutions will only leave me with a bad taste in my mouth. Regrets. Stomachaches. Heartburn. Heartache, rather.

Today, I explored a sunken ship. It was a German warship from the second world war. The captain of our diving boat said the crew sunk the ship themselves after being refused fuel in foreign waters. What they left behind is now an ancient, gnarled bit of debris: evidence of a war, which initially began with some really poor decisions. None of the crew survived. A waste? Or a warning?

I keep forgetting things. Like, who I am, for example. Months will go by. I'll make lists. I'll save money, plan trips, set goals – and most importantly, post sticky notes everywhere with little reminders. Still, one by one, storms will rush in, and at once, I will lose all the data – data, which has taken months to record, gone in moments.

All because of a pretty smile. A timely word. An idea that seems, at the time, good.

I've observed all the couples this week. Honeymooners. Lovebirds. People celebrating anniversaries. I have to wonder what it is that causes two people to leave everything behind and commit. Forever. What is it that sets one person apart as the ideal companion? The till-death-do-us-part perfection that is supposedly found only in one other being on this earth? What is idealistic and romantic also sounds a little nuts; and as a skeptic of most things, I just have to wonder: when women gush over finding "the one," do they really believe that? Is there someone for everyone? And if so, what percentage of couples have interrupted one such fate by taking the plunge…with the wrong person?

It was really big and shiny. I'm a sucker for shiny things. So, for 24 hours, I wore it on my left hand, but I never showed anyone. I couldn't do it. I couldn't admit that this was what I wanted, what I needed, or – as some put it – my destiny. No. No, no, no. I meant to say no. It was bad timing. Worse. It was a bad idea. Far worse. It could have been avoided. 

My fingernails have been growing lately. Mom asked me what kind of vitamins I've been taking to make them grow, so I told her there are no vitamins, but a new lifestyle: it's that I'm suddenly anxiety-free. Lately, I sleep at night, I'm considering becoming blonde again, I'm even thinking of singing. I feel so awkwardly normal – myself – and it seems so new.

I had the best birthday ever. I recall saying the same thing last year, as I spent the evening with my family and was entirely content with being single. 

Some people, people like my best friend Ashley, are perfectly organized at all times. They cannot stand the feeling of things being out of place, so they make every necessary effort to keep things tidy. There is never a dish in her sink. It seems so peaceful in her home. Other people, people like me, make really big messes. Every time, it takes a great deal more than my clumsy house-keeping efforts to tidy things up again. It always appears to be tornado season in my life. And it is not the fault of another or of the weather; I have received no bad hands but the ones I've dealt myself. It's all mine: the mistakes, the filet-o-fish wrappers, the wreckage. 

I'd like to keep it clean this time. I went to an imaginary landfill recently and dumped all my garbage. From this point on, I will not look back. I will not give into ideas that appear to be good without first examining them. 

Even though the trash is where it belongs now, my hope is that the ruins I've left behind will serve as reminders - to myself and others - of how quickly disaster can infiltrate. I wish for no repeats. No sequels to these dastardly mistakes. Organization is all about damage control. It begins with some serious cleanup; but it is maintained with consistency.

I can't tell if it's light or not: a case of stolen identity

I said it felt something like lunchtime, downstairs at a get-rich-quick conference.  There were too many men and the chicken was dry. We could blame death on life, if we needed an excuse for everything.  Just because things go wrong when he's a part of them, doesn't make him the culprit or a bad luck charm.  The fact is, I never should have come home at all. I still find myself witholding when necessary and fabricating when needed and I can't help but think that my biggest flub of them all has been burying my head in the sand.  Wishing the situation away while saying nothing is no different from telling lies.  And he isn't the only one I fail to tell the whole truth, but because I once swore to uphold his integrity, I've told no one of his strange requests.  If anyone knew, they might tell me what my logic has failed to say: he is draining the life out of me. It was a week after I met him when I was trying on old hats and furs at an antique shop and I decided who he was.  Since we were close in height and shared an identical personality when drinking, I assumed too much.  All along, he was shopping too.  He borrowed my vocabulary and another's musical library, then he scared me into thinking I was too mysterious.  The more he conned me into thinking I didn't give enough, the more I set out for him to steal.  It was a real mess, that one. When I first began to mistake red for green, I thought I was just tired.  Or, perhaps, I though, I had drunk too much the night before.  We consumed a lot of alcohol in those days.  I'd occasionally run a traffic light or wear mis-matched socks without knowing, but such things could be blamed on my absent-mindedness or preoccupation with a new romance. Had I known he was altering my vision, I might have done something to stop it.  Or would I have?  Eventually, when the color was drained from everything, I knew I had evidence that things had gone terribly wrong, but the darkness of those days took their toll.  Something about his sadness drew me to him and intoxicated me. If I had left for good, none of this ever would have happened. I continued to have my eyes checked. Everything was blurry. Colors were dull. I was left in the dark.