SheFallsSoftly

Well… This has been maybe the worst few weeks ever. Not in that "everything feels terrible" way, but more just a sudden realization that I’ve been getting screwed over a lot by the world and fate… And it’s not even November yet…

This all started, I think, with getting fired at La Luna which was actually sort of a blessing in disguise, in that I hated that job so much, and doing anything that isn’t going to it is really a blessing. It was a completely unwarranted action by our incompetent manager, and has been followed up nicely by two more firings within two weeks. That’s what I call running a company!

Then, I managed to cut my finger open, but not on the soft tissue-y side, straight through the nail. Yeah, that was an awesome way to start a 15 hour drive to Atlanta.

During this entire time I had a ridiculous flu that made me feel pretty much like death constantly. Everyone’s getting it, I’m sure you know what I mean.

While in Atlanta, battling illness and investigating new crushes, Lindsay and I got smacked around at our first open tournament and I do not say that lightly. 3-5, with one crushing defeat by Emory. We did have a few really good rounds there, though.

Simultaneously, I bought an iphone just before leaving and then was unable to activate it until the last day of the tournament leaving me utterly without phone. It works now, so I guess that’s the least of my petty first world problems.

In the same vain as my other boogie issues, as soon as I got home from Atlanta I realized that my laptop charger was broken and thus went to the apple store to have it replaced. Although they’ve replaced it several times before, they would not replace it this time. And were complete assholes about it. That  was awesome. So instead, I bought a new laptop and a cheap charger that may very well short circuit my machine. But I don’t care. Because I hate it.

Alternately, I’m going to be selling that very machine for parts on ebay in the next few days, offering free shipping to anyone who will crush the unused parts with a baseball bat and send me pictures. I hate that machine so much.

In the realm of dance, I had to drop my ballet and modern classes for a combination of the fact that the classes were too long for my poor body to handle, and a really long illness (flu) and all of the debating… I wouldn’t be able to attend enough of them. But I miss them.

Also, yesterday at dance class I did a jump and then landed on the knuckle-side of my toes really hard. It made a nice cracking noise, but isn’t broken…. I am limping and wearing an orthopedic shoe.

Also, ridiculously callous remarks from exes aren’t helping much either.

However, there is a possibility for turnabout.

Tomorrow I leave to go to Hays, Kansas for a few days, which is a perfect time for my car to break down (she says trying to jinx it). Hopefully it will be a fantastic journey into the unknown.. Or you know… Kansas.

I write that she looks up
And where her face should
Move elegantly arched
Along with my pen,
Nothing moves.
“She steps forward,”
I write. She sits.
“She smiles,”
I write. She stares.
“She laughs,”
I write. She’s still.
I lift her from under the arms
All dead weight,
And move with her.
I tuck in her elbows,
Lift up her chest.
She walks on my feet,
I, unseen,
guide her arms
Hoping that the swing
Is convincing.
My attempt
To wear her body
Like a glove
Leaves her joints all clacking
Gracelessly slack,
Violently erect…
She looks unnatural
And I feel less human
for guiding her.
Do the arms swing
left with left
or left with right
when walking?
Second-guessing,
I stumble through
Kicking and cursing
And push her off of me.

Hearing an old song after a good long while is a little.. disorienting, isn’t it? This little bit of nonsense song was everything he meant to me for so little long. And I’ve written pages upon pages trying to rid him from my bones.
I used to take this feeling and turn it into pain and burning and desire. Today it just makes me a little sad for the girl that I was.
Oh Pablo Neruda… Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I do not love him, but I loved him once. Love is short but forgetting is so long. Words that I have memorized because they’ve become so close to my heart.
Today Seth said, “I do not know what love is,” and I couldn’t help but respond, “I sure hope I don’t…”
Oddly enough, this isn’t even what’s on my mind tonight. It’s the furthest from important so I write about it.

I am busy, forgetful, and exhausted. These are my days. I attend classes and dance for hours and hours. I work. I see Whitney. People come over to my apartment, they get wasted. Sometimes I get wasted. I watch the chaos, I take part. I forget my homework. I forget my debate work. I dance some more.  I sleep for hours and hours on end and wake up still exhausted. I run about the restaurant until my feet hardly work the next day, and then I dance on them. I dance through hangovers. I dance through depression and anxiety. I take pills to normalize, and then drink to enhance, and then sleep. And sleep. And sleep.

I’m living the college life that they said I was supposed to, I’m misbehaving and barely scraping by. Don’t you wish you were in my shoes? Maybe you are. Maybe you were, but you’re tired of being there. I’m here. Where are you?

Everything feels like dancing, doesn’t it? A set of choreography through which I stumble, steps that I can’t seem to follow, customs that I don’t know. Sometimes, though, I keep up and when I do it feels so good…

I love this part of relationships. The "everything is new and lovely and I can’t conceive of having and argument with you" part. The part where I buy one-month anniversary presents a few weeks too early, the part where we are with each other every second and it’s so peaceful and regular that I could fall into our affection like a reflecting pond.

I touch her, all soft, all feminine, all woman and wonder how I could have ever wanted something harder, rougher, more masculine. Sometimes, though, I wonder how I could live without it. It’s difficult. I want both, but really you can only have one or the other.

I’m so awkward in this skin, sitting, thinking, "Hmm my stomach feels hollow, perhaps I’m hungry? No, that’s just the pill I swallowed on an empty stomach digesting." Physical cues get confused with neuroses, and I sleep and sleep and sleep.. but I feel normal. Truly normal. Sometimes the panic seeps through it, panic over stupid things, "I never got that book back that she borrowed!" "Do I have to work tomorrow?!" and then a few seconds later it passes like magic.  That is not my way. We all know that that is my way. I dwell for days and days until it all breaks down and I’m lost in a lake that I’ve made. I’m learning to swim, I suppose.

Oh god. This is gonna suck. A Ya- Du is a Burmese form of poetry which consists of up to three stanzas of five lines. The first four lines of a stanza have four syllables each, but the fifth line can have 5, 7, 9 , or 11 syllables.

The form uses climbing rhyme. The rhyme is required on the fourth, third, and second syllables of both the first three lines and the last three lines.
e.g.:

—A
–A-
-A-B
–B-
-B—

My body’s numb.
Muscles dumb, hands
all thumb; no grace.
I may race to
Disgrace of my skin.

That sounds so stupid I’m not even going to do another stanza.

Waka is a type of Japanese poem that goes 5-7 5-7 5-7 5-7-7

 

"Well, I used to dance."

I say this maybe once a day.

"Yes, I used to dance."

Only four words hold such hurt.

What is this movement

Whose absence burns so deeply?

My body searches for

A rhythm, dances, shows me

Who I am… Shows that I am.

Villanelles are stupid hard. Look them up yourself.

In time you will see this is the way
That time will pass and death will catch
And light will fade away

There is order to the pendulum’s sway
That rocks slow, slower until stopped with a snatch
In time you will see this is the way.

For now, we may topple onto grass and lay
Look up at clouds and watch
And light will fade away

There is much time to then and we may
Knock longer at life’s door before checking the latch
In time you will see this is the way

It’s useless now to grieve and pray
We will cry, beg, scream, and scratch
And light will fade away

Go gentle toward the end of the day
Worry not about the fallen that you could not catch
In time you will see this is the way
And light will fade away.

I am such a lazy bitch. Tankas are 5-7-5-7-7 syllables.

So, let’s be honest
Love poetry is awful.
It’s always contrite,
Contrived, cliche, ugly, and
I want to write it about you.

So I fight the urges
To wax poetic, suppress
The sonnets and haiku.
I won’t write about your eyes
Like oceans, skin like coco.

Instead I write of
Politics, religion, things fit
For a girl as smart
As I am. In my head I
Compare you to summer rain.

Do you see what you’ve
Reduced me to? Metaphor
A child would call used.
I can’t discuss your skin, soft
Your breath, soft, all of you, soft.

I have no way to
Say these things I think of you.
I’m too smart to
Say what I think, too dumb to
Think something more beautiful.

Beautiful like you
When you arch your back, like you
When you look down at
Me, like you when you smile, touch
My face, kiss me soft, like you.

I can’t allow this.
I can’t let you twist my tongue
From cryptic/graceful
To obsessive/obvious
I’m better than this, I swear.

There’s only one way
To prove myself. Set down the
Pen, and live through your
Kiss. Poetry is living
Sweetly romantic like this.

Spoetry is poetry that is composed primarily of spam email messages. Done as a haiku <3.

Does your cell have juice? 

How much do you want in your

account? Be bigger.

Okay, so Rictameter is another syllable-counting-type-poem-thingy.
Line 1-2 syllables (same as line 9)
2-4
3-6
4-8
5-10
6-8
7-6
8-4
9-2 (same as line 1)

Beauty
Doesn’t know me,
Doesn’t show me a thing.
Beauty doesn’t listen, doesn’t care.
Beauty can be so mean. So can you, girl.
But the way you walk, it whispers low
The way i should follow
To behold your
Beauty.