Comment te dire adieu? Or merci.

So if I don't write on this thing soon it will mean that I fail at my goal of writing on this thing at least once a month. And we can't have that now, can we?

As usual, I have too much of everything to say. For one reason or another I feel like I've lacked the time recently to process half of my thoughts, let alone write about them.

I gave a talk today about agency. It's something I thought alot about over the summer and I went back and I realized I had written pages and pages on this thing in the form of miscellaneous drafts about life, this, that, and the other.

I guess I underestimated the significance of this summer. I thought through a lot of stuff. I've said it before and I'll say it again: it's funny how some of the things I've gone through or done thinking they would be minor have ended up having a long lasting impact. I think half of the reason I like to get away, and relocate temporarily as often as I can is because it forces me to do a lot of adapting and reevaluating. Being out of my comfort zone-though not in a hugely forced or awkward way-has always resulted in this huge upheaval of confusion and questioning and ended up in me piecing my self back together more solidly than before. Maybe it's just age and the fact that most people, as they age, become more conservative, but I feel like the upheavals are less intense and that the piecing back happens more readily with each year.

Speaking of years, this one is almost up. I've been smiling to myself all week as I've thought back on it and on what I wrote on this thing almost a year ago: that 2010 was my year. And it really has been. Not in the outward sense; I have nothing to show for myself. But I know I'll look back on this year as one in which I figured out a lot of things. Hopefully.

Call me freakishly methodical or just plain weird in my desire to ascribe significance to random things, but I was thinking the other day how my "big years" are always the even years.

2000: Um, I turned 16. Fall football as yes, a pep-clubber. Enough said, right?

2002: Graduated Highschool. Freshman at the U. In this first semester I met most of the people I would hang out with the rest of my college years.

2004: Went to France. Toured Europe. Wasn't sure about the whole God thing. Decided I believed after all. Discovered the Shins. Stopped working for my Dad and started working at Lenderlab. A pretty darn pivotal year.

2006: Decided to graduate. English and French, baby. Did the whole diploma thing. I was accepted to teach English in France but decided I wanted to serve a mission instead. Had the best darn summer of my life. Said some awesome goodbyes. Left for Quebec.

2008: Returned from my mission. Got to see my sister married. Picked up the thread of my old life, though I was never, ever the same. I miraculously found out about the school where I work now and got a job there. I am grateful every day for that wonderful blessing. Grandma H and Grandpa B passed away. I decided to not go back to school. (Yet)

2010: A full year of this blog and gluten free eating! The Moab (ie Hundred Acre Wood) and Vegas (ie Horchata meets the 3 Gemini) trips in all their disastrous glory. Third year of teaching-and yes, it's a charm. Nanny job in Colorado. A summer of way too many phone calls and not enough person to person interaction and a lot of thinking. Almost a full year of barefoot running. Moved out. Made a decision about grad school. Passed the GRE! I should probably mention the 500 words smarter I am. As humbly as possible.

But do you see what I mean? The pattern is striking. So I guess next year I can just twiddle my thumbs and wait for 2012 so don't be sorry if you don't hear from my uneventful self. Too bad the world will end that year. (But at least it fits the pattern, right?)

In all seriousness though, this year has been awesome. I'll post some resolutions in a week or so.

What I'm trying to say- really, truly, humbly-is that I'm one of the lucky ones. Not that I deserve it. Not that I always will be. But I hear about how hard life is for some people and I cannot truly relate. I can empathize, yes. But I've had it so good. I chalk most of this up to the wonderful people I know and the rest of it to the big guy upstairs.

But sometimesIgetselfishandmaybedesperateandItrytoholdontoItwiththetightestgripIknowhowto makeinfearthatsomeday,thesethingsmightgo

away.

And in moments like that, the words 'thank you' seem too small. But I'll say them anyway.

For the record. My number one goal for 2011: to loosen the grip. And to really start showing them.

Logophilia

11/15/2010

Days till my half-marathon: oh wait, nevermind. Because all the cool, ideal races are planned on SUNDAY! Yeah, not bitter.

Days till Thanksgiving break: 9

Days till Christmas break: 33

Days till GRE: 33

Yep, that's right ladies and gents. The GRE preptest book and I are the latest item. You can find us snuggled up in my lovesac. Sharing a cup of tea in my appartment. Inseperable in the waiting room at the chiropractors office.

You wanna know the sick thing? When I'm not tired or hungry (it does actually happen) I actually really LIKE studying.

I mean, what's not to love:

*flashcards!

*multiple choice!

*right and wrong answers!

*tactics!

*words, words, and more glorious words!

*ball point pens in aching hands!

*latin bases prefixes and suffixes!

*oh and did I mention flashcards!

(Can I interject here and reference Thursday's French lesson and how I taught regular -er verb conjugations and loved it? And how words "I get it!" and "This is COOOL!" and "So easy!" rang out like the bells that signaled the end of school in 8th grade? And how I somehow smiled and sighed all at once? And how it was pure grammatical joy? Oh grammer!)

I'm back to being in my element here, with all these words. I think my word enthusiasm has come just in time to fill in the gaping hole where my enthusiasm for running used to be. Which makes me think that it's maybe a good thing, after all, that running funk of mine. I don't know how well I could have handled juggling that much enthusiasm inside one little me.

When I started to study my words it made me want to write on this thing every day, putting them to use not just for the sake of reinforcement (which isn't a wholly bad idea, you know) but because I love them and I want to welcome then into my life and let them be a part of me.

Thanks to this beautiful list of words, I now know who I am!

I am a NEOLOGIST!

Neologism is the creation or use of new words or expressions. Incidentally, it provides me with new incentive for continuing my trend of made up words. Lucky for you, all this new vocabulary also provides the incentive to look up and learn the words that my made up words are probably trying to express. Histoire de faire ses devoirs. (Yeah, that just doesn't translate).

So yes, you can all breathe a sigh or relief: I do have an identity after all.

Because I rarely get home before 7 these days and still have to nourish myself after that, operation blog-new-words remains unlaunched. I had another ephiphany though when a facebook friend posted this link:

http://westwinducla.wordpress.com/2010/11/05/it-has-begun-november-is-national-writing-month/

So I know that November is the month but it is SO not happening what with all I have to do. But come January, things are gonna get a little narcissistic here. I am totally taking the suggestion noted to just write about oneself. In fact, I was having this conversation with a coworker the other day about my fascination with intense people and situations and how they make me think of characters in a book. The only problem is, I forget sometimes that these people, unlike ink on a page, actually have lives. Interactions. Of consequence. (Or is it with consequences?) So it's all well and good to be fascinated, but life, real life can get messy. (Fuss).

I have, on more than one occasion, felt like I was watching myself from the outside in and that what I was living was terrificly Dostoyevsky-esque. Explain to me the irony of the fact that it makes me feel alive to feel like my life is, if only fleetingly so, like words on a page in a Dostoyevsky novel. And yet, there it is. Reminds me of a quote from "History of Love": "...larger than life...I've never understood that expression. What's larger than life?"

Apparently I suffer from the (if not often recanted) belief that literature IS in fact larger than life; suffer from the weakness of putting my better interest aside for the sake of a making of my life a "good story". And by good story, I mean dramatic, ironic, and deeply psychological.

The good news is, apparently mine is not an isolated case. Co-worker and I decided that writing about ourselves, making ourselves the central character of the story of our lives as lived by our drama-craved alter-egos, would maybe satisfy that insatiable call of that-which-can-only-end-badly. Basically, we would live vicariously through ourselves. And I have to wonder, is this what separates me from a true "Author"; the fact that an author is one to whom the stories come to whereas I can't imagine writing a character and not having it be some alter-ego version of myself and can't fathom how they are able to either.

I know I'm chalking it up to another effort of being my own therapist. I know that it doesn't change the fact that the narcissism is nauseating; that I'm just one garrulous son of a gun; that, like so many of my good intentions, this is probably another idea I will not actually follow up on.

And that writing and finishing this whole post has just been an ill-disguised attempt at procrastination. I have a Monstrous Liar post on its way. But don't be fooled. It's just another sad attempt to not do what I am trying to convince myself that I love: studying.

Oh ambiguity!

THE Bell Tower

I held off so long on posting this. At first because I thought posting poetry on a blog was, as my friends and I say, "cupcakes" (Yes, it can be used as an adjective or a noun. Derivation of the adj form naturally is cupcakey, but sometimes the extra syllable can get excessive).

Obviously, I got over that reservation about a year ago.

And then I wanted the timing to be perfect: when this poem would be the quintessential encapsulation off what I was feeling; the only route of expression I had left to me. The irony is of course, that when I wrote the poem, I didn't understand it. It was like IT taught me something I didn't know. And yet. I can't say it was the product of all these thoughts or feelings at the time for which this poem was the only outlet. It never hit me like that, and I keep waiting for it to and I don't think it will. And yet. It's always been there. Not hitting, but pulsing, perhaps. Or ringing, depending on how you look at it.

And so here it is. The poem whose name this blog bears. Not because the timing is perfect. Not because I even still care all that much about this poem. But because I'm feeling poetic but not enough to write. I'm feeling numb but not enough to want to feel. And so, in my laziness, you're invited to join me as I try to remember what is already there.

The Bell Tower

A crater’s birth was mine,

A hollowing of bone and sinew,

Downside-up, downside-up.

I only want to hear the pealing of bells again.

Yes, the bells have always tolled for me

A stranger’s story,

They call in diatonic scales to fill the gaps between my ribs;

between the true and false pairs whose job it is to protect the peace.

“Together”, the belfry cries, “together,”

Aware, as I am, of the spaces (air) between.

“Don’t you realize that the cage you carry in your chest

is no match at all.”

You might call me a bell tower;

I throb instead to make good use

Of such sound structural design.

Not all bell towers house bells.

And some bell towers have no belfry.

I only want to hear the pealing of bells again.

In the countryside, or in cobblestoned lanes,

On trains that distort the echoes

In my chest and make me catch my breath;

It’s something to feel the life inside the hollow.

Some days, I am the ringer of the bells.

Eventually defeated by the inertia

Of the back and forth that I began;

There I dangle from the ropes,

Follow up to follow down,

Or let go

Entirely. And I never enter

Those heavy wooden doors,

Nor pay the toll.

I only want to hear the pealing of bells again.

And oh, love, how you call

Like the church bells;

I never heed them

But just revel in the sound.

On a out-dated note, happy thanksgiving. I am grateful for a great many things. Things that if I tried to make a list of in my current state would probably end in me hunched over my keyboard and silently sobbing. (Because naturally I cry when I'm happy, haven't we figured that out yet?) Another post for Monstrous Liar. Another night. Note to self: start that list with the letter 'F'.

But for now, for tonight, I am grateful for the copy and paste. For this space on a screen I have that is mine to share and the people I share it with.

But especially that I have heard. The pealing of the bells.

Now off to bed with me before this sentimentality engenders some sick, mutant, sappy and-might I add-poorly written novel. Can I still keep some of my integrity, please?

Play that funky music

10/29/2010

So I've been in a sort of funk that I was going to chalk up to the fact that I haven't run for a week. Just a week. But it feels like an e-tern-i-t-y!

The truth of it is, the funk was pre-run injury. As for the injury, don't ask me what I did. I have done my research. I have formulated theories. It's not that I don't have an answer so much as I don't really care about the what or the how. My question has more to do with the tick tock on the clock (Yes, I did just publicly make a Keisha reference on my blog. I really hate that I love her. But the truth of it is that she just makes me want to dance. Pretty much without fail. And sometimes it's good to remember that buried deep (or sometimes not so deep) inside this composed exterior of mine is still that shameless 19 year old past self). It's not severe enough that I would see a doctor so it's not keeping me up and night. Not in an of itself, that is.

All my researched is driven by the search for the answer to one question: will I be able to run the Halloween half on the 30th? I had my answer last Thursday, when I ran 4 miles against my whole body's will: "Tu rêve?! And so, now another, still undetermined: What about the Vegas Rock n' Roll Half?

I think that the answer is probably a 'heck yes', if not a 'well sure, if you wanna die trying." And this brings me back to the funk. Because the week, maybe the week and a half before I injured myself, I had to force, coerce, compel, even bribe myself to hit the sidewalk. I don't know if it's the shortened days or the evening chill. But I was not enjoying running like I had before. It had started to feel like........work. A few weeks back, I was going to write a post-more like an ode-to barefoot running. I was going to laud the sunsets, my running track, my vibrams in all their smelly glory. I felt like a fraud doing it in the midst of a funk though.

So, maybe an obligatory break was in order.

11/7/2010

Visiting us today is my friendly facebook status:

What!?!? The Vegas half marathon is on a Sunday!? WHY????? Wow, I fail at using calendars. GAH. I feel like a kid who got their favorite toy taken away. Anyone have a rockin workout/running songs/mix they wanna recommend to help pull me back from the brink of depression?



As you might guess, this revelation did nothing to help my funk. It's like, I no longer care to brave the cold weather, dark nights, or the gym. Incidentally, no one had any musical remedies to offer me so I took upon myself to rewrite the soundtrack to my life and I'll eventually get to a workout mix. I reaquainted myself with Pandora and downloaded the new Band of Horses and the new Weepies and am happy as a clam.

The conclusion: I am not depressed. I've been lulled back into contentment with the help of a overwhelmingly busy schedule and a few choice chords. But I think something in me died and I hope when all this yucky weather is gone I can nourish it back to life again.

So I know that's dramatic like wow. But I really did want to write that ode.

Here's to running being a good thing. And a good thing never dies.

covered in newsprint. staying up real late. just holding out for some fate.

Today I had this kind of delayed realization of how dramatic I really am.

Not gonna get into the particulars, but really. Seriously. I am.

I don't have anything in particular I'd like to commit to writing. A bunch of everything I don't have time to get to. Mostly, I love the line my title is taken from. Call it a summary if you will, or maybe inspiration. But it needed to be put out there.

I just think it's funny how life is rarely balanced. Feast or famine, my Aunt G told me the other day. A subheading for this post could very well be (originating from the genius minds behind the first line), "Everything hits at once". Which is apparently how I like it.

I've been thinking a lot lately about my tendency to try to carry too many things at once. I mean, I have small hands and my arms get tired prematurely despite my pathetic attempts to endow them with strength. Oh and did I mention I have a little thumb. Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about this because I've been moved out about a month now and honestly every time I stop home-which is about every other day-I end up bringing more things home or hijacking miscellaneous objects from my house like say a book or two here and some food and instant breakfast or a corner of a brownie I shouldn't eat but do while I leave a nice bag of laundry in the washer. And I also feel like I live at work now. I bring half of my cupboard with me so I can put together meals there. So I get in and out of my car and my arms are brimming with bags and sacs and books and boxes and groceries. Oh yeah, did I mention that I do my own grocery shopping now? Not to sound pathetic-because I mean, with my freak of a gluten self I have been doing a lot of my own shopping for a while now-but there is something I LOVE about grocery shopping. It reminds me of France, and hiking up the 5 flights of stairs with water. As in, my drinking water for the week. Then followed by my milk. Then followed by everything else. It was a serious feat for my 20 year old self. And this was all after a spending a good hour perusing the aisles and basking in the glory of French food and labels. Not to mention a successful exchange with the cashier. Yes, in French.

That, ladies and gents, was how I came into the world of grocery shopping for ones self. It was a beautiful, complicated thing. And I still love grocery shopping today, if only because I associate it so deeply with something so wonderful.

But yeah, back to this bad habit of mine that my Dad likes to give me grief for. Rather than make several trips, I tend to pile everything possible on top of me. Using every finger, crook and sometimes toe. The irony of course is that I rarely make it anywhere without gravity and physics getting the best of me. Though technically I suppose physics wouldn't be physics without the gravity and that physics is an all encompassing term but hey, emphasis on the gravity. And on the toes. Which usually end up suffering the consequences.

Saturday in fact I was returning from Costco and lost the strawberries twice to the grass on account of the fact that I couldn't see where I was going because said strawberries were obstructing my view. I had to squat twice to pick up and rearrange. The best part of the story is that my roommate was a witness. She was in her car, watching, but occupied. I was really glad that someone else got a laugh out of it because there I was in squat #2 and I thought that this whole gravity thing was wasted on me if I was the only one who got to see it. Because let's be honest. Been there, done that. It's not that impressive to me anymore.

This gift that I have for overestimating my capacity to juggle what I'm carrying and my ardent attempts at defying gravity are starting to seem like a metaphor of my entire life. Not that this cycle is necessarily driven by an attempt at cutting corners-more an attempt to streamline efficiently.

For example, recently, I feel like I'm in a relationship with my running that started off as a fling which then turned on me into a serious, committed monster. This is kind of the story of my life. It's weird how the little things I take on have this ability to morph into big, life consuming things. They just sneak up on me, imperceptively. And afterward I think, as I so often do when I'm gathering up the fallen spoils of the war between gravity and I, "should I have seen this coming?"

Most of them are beautiful things in their own right. Most of them I wouldn't take back. Because if I could have foreseen the potential mess I couldn't have foreseen where that mess would bring me.

And therein lies my problem.

Because here I am. Trying to add just one more thing to the top of my stack and my burdened arms. But hey, I'll count my blessings: I carry around one terrific pile of things and I'm gonna do it like I've only got one trip. And ain't that the truth.

Getting crafty

So it's fall break. The plan was to read a little from Manual del Guerrero de la Luz and get up sharply at eight and spend all day tomorrow being very efficient.

So not going to happen right now.

My efficient day tomorrow hopefully will revolve around a service project we're collaborating on as a ward. It's a fundraiser and by collaborate I mean we all come up with crafty things to sell at a boutique and then the money will go to support the non-profit charity group Mothers Without Borders. My roommate is kind of the one who put us in contact with the organization and is spearheading our efforts. She's inspiring, so I figured that I could summon the artistic/mime buried deep inside and get crafty.

Now I'm not particularly big on the whole "vinyl" thing on the walls of houses. I'm not too big on vinyl on wooden plaques either, to tell you the truth. Like, I don't know if I would actually ever purchase them. But supposedly people like them and my dad has a vinyl machine so it seemed like a nice marriage of means and demand and lack of originality.

And, I probably don't need to mention this here of all places, but, I do love words. So it kind of makes sense, right? In fact, one of my projects to do before I die or turn 30 (isn't that synonymous?) is to find favorite lines from some of my favorite children's books (we're talking the classics here) and illustrate them. Watercolor. Colored pencil. Sketch. Modge podge collage. Whatever. And then I want to frame them, complete with the test/line at the bottom of the frame.

On second thought, maybe I should postpone my deadline till 35 because obviously the idea behind this is that this potential "series" would go in a kids room. And well, there's me getting ahead of myself. Though with 4 sisters one of us is bound to have produced a mini-Hendry over the course of the next couple years.

If I ever type the number 35 in reference to my inevitable future age again I think I might puke. I'm still in denial I ever stopped being 22.

Anyway, so you get the appeal with the whole words thing. My dilemma is that I love words excessively. As in, a lot of words. As in, the quotes and poems that I want to dedicate to vinyl are probably longer than most people care to have written on their walls. And I can't really help the starving children in Africa if I make something that doesn't sell. But, like, I'm not a mind reader. Nor a marketer. Soooo.....

Truthfully, I'm not sure how this dilemma will work itself out. This week though, with this project in mind I came across a book with some beautiful silhouettes of children. And some of them I might try to make work for my project. A lot of them though just made me think of "project nursery" (a word that I am only able to type without nausea because my sister is decorating hers so I'm getting immune to it: much more immune that the number-which-shall-not-be-typed). And one of the pictures (which I cannot scan because my scanner IS NOT WORKING) would go oh so perfectly with this quote from Alice Through the Looking Glass:

Alice: You see, Kitty, it must have been either me or the Red King. He was part of my dream, of course -- but then I was part of his dream, too!

Wish I had the silhouette. Anyway, one thing led to another and this picture and one on the opposite page reminded me of something I wrote years ago in a creative writing class and have been wanting to edit and dedicate to print. Like maybe bookbags or something. I don't think anyone would care for it on a wooden plaque in vinyl with the silhouette. But I might be onto something with the last two lines. They've become my own personal mantra and I know that's super lame to be so self involved that you take your own advice way too seriously but well, is it so crazy to say that maybe the words speak to me because they came to and not from me. (This is another cryptic Elizabeth Gilbert reference. You can get the full context here, under the news section and her TED talk on creativity). And I might actually start up my own project once Mothers Without Borders is done. I blame Etsy for these desperate, hairbrained ideas. Among other things. Thought more than Etsy knick-knacks (all of which, coming from me, would probably involve words) I really want to collaborate with my sister and write and illustrate a children's book. Like really. But most of my ideas and wants never come to fruition which kind of leaves me just wanting to post the thing here. In the meantime, I tell myself.

So whatever, enjoy. Hopefully my scanner will start functioning and I can get the images. They kinda tie everything together.

You are here to learn the world by heart. One plus one, two plus two. The sky is blue, and the grass is green. But sometimes the sun likes to remind us that we shouldn’t get too comfortable with that simplicity, and plays tricks on us by way of surprises. (Especially at sunset.) Dark clouds mean rain, and if there's going to be rain it’s best to have a coat. And maybe some rubber boots. Sometimes, being in the rain without a coat isn’t such a bad thing. You are here to learn the world by heart. You get what you pay for (most of the time). You won’t always get what you give. Sometimes you will get exactly what you give; and more. Everything is qualified. You are here to learn the world by heart. Always bring an extra pair of socks. You can never own too many shoes. Socks don‘t always have to match; shoes probably should. Don’t let your feet-and most especially your toes-forget the feeling of the raw earth under them. You are here to learn the world by heart. There are times when it’s best to remember to forget. Sometimes the little things are disguised as big things and sometimes the big things are disguised as the little ones. What matters most cannot be seen. Do not see what isn’t there. Look both ways. You are here to learn the world by heart. Please and thank you really are magic words. A seed plus soil plus sun plus water all just right makes a plant. And that is magic too. The worst of times can also be the best of times. The soul speaks many languages. You are here to learn the world by heart. Take time to listen. To people. To music. To the streets and the wind. To the sound of you breath and your heart beating. Stand up straight. Smile. Fake a smile. Never fake tears; but don’t stop them either. Fear doesn’t always mean that you aren’t brave. Maybe just too careful. Gravity is that thing that pulls you down when you are trying to fly. But don't keep that from stopping you. You are here to learn the world by heart. Beginning, middle, end. For every breath you take from the world, the world will make you give it back; it's like you're breathing together, if you do it right. You are here to learn the world by heart. Learn the world by heart.

I have several other posts that never made it past a few lines in my head that summarized an entire web of feelings and thoughts. I wish I had time to go back and write them but I likely won't. In summary:

I miss Colorado. I miss my CZ family. I miss the hours I had to read and speak French and run and play with the dog. I miss riding in the car and having the kids sing along to the radio (Your Love is my Drug, Break Your Heart, and other top 40) but most especially when they would sing to 500 Days of Summer soundtrack.

Four years ago October 11th I started my mission. I rewalk the streets of Quebec almost every day in my memories. People that I maybe only talked to for 5 minutes and will never see again are still changing my life. I miss the members there more than they'd probably ever guess.

Yesterday, a man down the street from me passed away after a year or so of battling cancer. My dad sent me the link to his blog and his last entry was so beautiful. A young father of 3 children, he was at peace with his end. I think a lot of that is faith and a lot of that is a life of giving. I'm in no real position to comment and not really able to articulate. But that kind of peace and strength, it's something to think about.

I love a lot of people, all around the world. It baffles me sometimes, how much room the heart has to carry people in it. I am grateful for the people who carry me with them still. And for those that inspire.

Street tar and summer'll do a job on your soul

I was going through old emails and folders today. I've never really kept a journal. But I did write emails. Oh, did I ever. And if you think my public blog posts are intimate, well. You can only imagine my emails, right?

So I'm thinking of undertaking some copying and pasting and filling in the gap years. Which means I'm naturally tending to an electronic journal. At least for that project. When, and with what time, is, as always, the question.

I came across some old poetry I'd written and then emailed to myself. Remember how I told you I was never the kid with my moleskin. Never with a pen. Not even a pencil with an extra big eraser. I've always tended to the keyboard. But, easy as it is to loose notebooks and pens and planners, it's as equally easy to loose (or loose track of) files.

The title of this song was taken from a Spoon song, Black Like Me. Which is the title of a book I came into possession of by way of my father but never actually read. And I keep meaning to.

I've been listening to this song and this line just speaks to me. And they've been repaving the street in front of my families house. And I was thinking, driving down it the other night, about the layers of street, of tar that is buried under this new layer. I know they sometimes strip the street before repave it or whatever. And I was thinking about the cars that drive on that road which just made my feet itch to be bare and be the first person to run that road barefoot. And I was brought back to a similar scene from my youth when that same street was being repaved. And, being kids, we walked in the still wet tar. And oh, was it hard to get that tar off.

But somehow, I don't remember the black stains. I remember yellow and black. Laughing. Honeysuckle. And I want to say a straw.

I was thinking all these things and naturally I thought, "I need to write that down". And then today, going through my old forgotten email folders, like a weed pushing up through the cracks in concrete, this poem found its way back to me. I had completely forgotten about it. I have no recollection of having written it. I don't remember how I felt when I wrote it. What I was trying to feel. It was 7/10/06. Lisa's birthday. Three months before I left to Quebec for my mission. I want to say it's incomplete. Though since I can't remember, I can't really say. I do know there is no period at the end. That's a pretty good indication I emailed it to myself in a sense of urgency. I do not forget periods lightly. Ha ha.

I must have beckoned it once, years ago. And then, I beckoned it a few days ago and it found its way, faithfully, back to me. I can't take that kind of coincidence lightly and I hope you understand why.

I'm posting it here. Unfinished. Untitled. (Because while I may steal their lyrics for my blog titles, I will never steal Spoon's lyrics for poem titles.) Like the stripped down layer of the road before the tar is laid, it's where the memories are, even if buried. And I'll let it see the light before I forget about it again:

Urban feet get stuck in mud too, you know.

Hot concrete on calloused feet,
Deevolutionized by the sun from road
to the soft tar laid one early morning
Years ago.

And isn’t that just how it is?
Time, I mean.

Because I remember the laying of that tar.
Hot season, burning blackness, had to stick our fingers in it,
Feet and toes.

Baby, all I wanted was to one day walk a million
different such streets in rushed stilettos.

I somehow imagined that the air I breathed higher would be deeper,
My pulmonary cells wished for that, involuntary.  Make this blood bluer,
They said.  Bluer.  More blue.

Such imagination.

I spent the early seasons waiting for fall,
fall wanting to return to spring,
Unable, nuclei, to imagine