addicted

I am addicted.
Writing.
Songwriting.
Character creating.
Staying out all night.
Summer rain.
Running through sprinklers.
Piano.
Kissing.
Dancing.
Watching. People.
Friending.
Loving.
Beautifying
Facebooking
Blogging
Talking
Not.
Working Out.
Sour Patch.
Rockstars.
Sleeping.
Randoming.
Reading.
Winning.
Learning.
Becoming.
Hiking.
Playing.
Falling. In. Love.

my current read. a deep dish of digestion for thought.

When I was seventeen and in full obedience to my heart's most urgent commands, I stepped far from the pathway of normal life and in a moment's time ruined everything I loved — I loved so deeply, and when the love was interrupted, when the incorporeal body of love shrank back in terror and my own body was locked away, it was hard for others to believe that a life so new could suffer so irrevocably. But now, years have passed and the night of August 12, 1967, still divides my life.

It was a hot, dense Chicago night. There were no clouds, no stars, no moon. The lawns looked black and the trees looked blacker; the headlights of the cars made me think of those brave lights the miners wear, up and down the choking shaft. And on that thick and ordinary August night, I set fire to a house inside of which were the people I adored more than anyone else in the world, and whose home I valued more than the home of my parents.

Before I set fire to their house I was hidden on their big wooden semicircular porch, peering into their window. I was in a state of grief. It was the agitated, snarling grief of a boy whose long rapturous story has not been understood. My feelings were raw and tender, and I watched the Butterfields through the weave of their curtains with tears of true and helpless longing in my eyes. I could see (and love) that perfect family while they went on and on with their evening without seeing me.

they don't make 'em like that anymore

scratched lens

I realized today sitting in church that the wash of weird and bad dating experiences has finally rubbed off on me. Like a manicured hand with freshly painted nails that is suddenly dipped in fingernail polish remover. What happened to me isn't 'staining' it is 'stripping.' And then I realized, that because a lot of the enchanting ideals I have have been stripped, my lens on life is...weary. It can't seem to focus as easily. And my heartbeats, that used to thud with romance and hope, beat slower and with trepidation. And what really struck me was...how this effects my relationships with EVERYONE. Not just dating. That was what hit me hardest. I don't want to be a hobbling turtle when it comes to being their for my family and friends. I still want to be fast and present and not weary. But.
I.
Am.
Weary.
And even admitting this in any written form is HARD for me. I hate thinking it, yet alone admitting it. But there is something sharp and honest about writing it down. And I don't know if ANYONE will even read it. But its there, for me. Because admitting I am weary means I can start regrouping. That's right. I WILL not lie down and just let my fuzzy lens take over. I will fight. And I will get that lens back...I guess it never really left. It just got scratched.

celeb for a night.

I was a little nervous to go to the Lady Gaga fashion show. I won't lie. I love to dance. I love parties. But I am not really a 'club' girl. So I wasn't sure what to expect. I went with some good girlfriends. We met at my darling friend Sara's house for appetizers and showed off our outfits before hitting the scene. The entire drive up I had swans swarming my stomach. What was I supposed to DO at a fashion show? What if people...gulp...talked to me? When we pulled up and then 'made our entrance' I was Abruptly Overwhelmed. :-)))

The gauzy lights, pulsing music, shattering movements of bodies around me. And then cameras flashing.

I felt like I just stepped onto a movie set. We were attacked my 'paparazzi'. They chased us with flashes, ushered us to poses and 'sets'. At first I thought COOL. But then my cheeks started hurting. The way they often do when I tackle more than one princess party in a day (for those of you who don't know my second job is dressing up like a princess and playing with kids, fun, but tiring).

We were given the VIP treatment. Literally. First we were escorted to this rad overlook with this techno water that poured down the glass that surrounded us. The seats were fat, non-symmetrical cushions. I wasn't sure HOW to sit properly on such a strange shape, so I just...improvised. Up in the Water Room I was approached by a guy. We shall call him Dreamy. He had longish hair, and looked somewhere between rogue and artsy. Not my usual type. Okay...a girl isn't picky when a rogue artsy type approaches you. Dreamy was charming, flattering, and new exactly what to say.

What was weirder was...I KNEW what to say. Like I'd watched the same movies and sitcoms he had growing up, our dialogue bounced back and forth in a fiery, yet predictable pattern that had me thinking, "do people really talk like this?" I mean...I'm used to the dudes from church who approach you with a "hey lets go play Mario Card." Not some suave "I've never seen a face like yours"...blah blah buttering up blah.

The night played on like an episode of The Hills. Complete with random club goers snapping pics of us with their phones (it seemed everyone thought we were SOMEONE), the offer of free drinks all around (I don't drink, but enjoyed a diet coke), and tons of gym attending attractive guys with heavy lidded eyes approaching.


And just like an episode of The Hills I remember the night in subtle, edited fragments. And I think it will stay that way in my memory. One episode. That I can re-run but never re-write.

I am not In.

I am not in the club.
I am not in the clique.
I am not in the circle.
I never could fit.

I am not in the house.
I am not in the yard.
I am not on the moon.
I landed here on mars.

Galaxies away. I cannot reach.
I watch the couples. The white. The roses.
I have nothing.

Its not that I can't.
Its not that I won't.
But I'm tired of the
invitation only party
I'm tired of always
knocking. Knocking.

But no one comes.
to let me in.

I am not In.

a touchable dream

you're a little bit of chocolate
when i'm feeling sad
a little bit of asprin
when my headaches bad
with you i don't need wings to fly
i'm already up there, constant high
you're a wish in a well
my secret to tell
a black and white scene
a touchable dream
A kiss in a car-- that goes too far
A chink in the armor I wear
over my heart
My summer in Italy
When the night is chilly

You're the streak of sun
That splits the storm
Melting my knees
Making me warm