I see the bare moon,
Raise his big bald head
I see my friends play the fool,
I'll make my own way, In the wide world
Just know I don't want to wander too far...
Even the stars,
Sometimes fade to gray,
Even the stars, Hideaway
Some call me
All kinds of names,
Some say I don't play the right kind of game,
I try to be honest, I try to be kind
and honestly leave when I know that it's time...I know that it's time
Hear a phoebe sing his only song
The summer's day is hovering
I'll write my full heart
Troubles fly like embers
Out the windows of our traveling car
Even the stars, Sometimes fade to gray, Even the stars...Hideaway...
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
...
And all the gold dust in her eyes won’t reform into rain , You had and lost the one thing, You kept in a safe place, Remember the face, Of the girl who made you her own, And how you left her alone
The voice cuts through the dark night like the scalpel through the skin. The words are undecipherable but the tone comes across with a clarity, loud and grating like a bone saw. I roll over, hoping it was just a dream and the words were not coming from the next room. That tone comes again and again, as if it were pulling back layer and layer of skin and muscle, pushing through the ribcage, past more muscles to the precious pericardium. And there, in the silence lies the softly beating heart. Mine lays nearly silent to try and catch the topic of angry discussion. Hers has shut down, left beaten and bruised with word after angry word from the angry tone.
The heart is a fragile thing. One that most protect with all of their strength. We add walls and fences, and yet sometimes we let ourselves become vulnerable with another. One that we love. We share our deepest darkest secrets. The ones that have never been voiced before., our struggles and failures. The wounds that still hurt after years and years of impartial healing.
Sometimes that vulnerability, in the heat of the moment is used against us like a finger jabbing an already tender wound. Our secrets are turned around to be hurtful. Hurtful in a multitude of ways. The kind that hurt because one has not healed and because the one we love uses purposely against us.
How does one decide when to cut out the one that knows us the best? When is enough enough? When does she allow her heart to beat again? Who will shock her partitioned heart back to normalcy? Keeping it from it's impending death? When do her eyes open to the reality of the situation? When does the tone turn into one of healing and comfort?
After a few more rounds, the tone cuts through the night one last time. One last final word, the last peak before the flatline....
and then,...simply silence....
And if you burn the road that’ll lead you back to her in time, I'll watch you turn to stone, She’s moving on without you...
The voice cuts through the dark night like the scalpel through the skin. The words are undecipherable but the tone comes across with a clarity, loud and grating like a bone saw. I roll over, hoping it was just a dream and the words were not coming from the next room. That tone comes again and again, as if it were pulling back layer and layer of skin and muscle, pushing through the ribcage, past more muscles to the precious pericardium. And there, in the silence lies the softly beating heart. Mine lays nearly silent to try and catch the topic of angry discussion. Hers has shut down, left beaten and bruised with word after angry word from the angry tone.
The heart is a fragile thing. One that most protect with all of their strength. We add walls and fences, and yet sometimes we let ourselves become vulnerable with another. One that we love. We share our deepest darkest secrets. The ones that have never been voiced before., our struggles and failures. The wounds that still hurt after years and years of impartial healing.
Sometimes that vulnerability, in the heat of the moment is used against us like a finger jabbing an already tender wound. Our secrets are turned around to be hurtful. Hurtful in a multitude of ways. The kind that hurt because one has not healed and because the one we love uses purposely against us.
How does one decide when to cut out the one that knows us the best? When is enough enough? When does she allow her heart to beat again? Who will shock her partitioned heart back to normalcy? Keeping it from it's impending death? When do her eyes open to the reality of the situation? When does the tone turn into one of healing and comfort?
After a few more rounds, the tone cuts through the night one last time. One last final word, the last peak before the flatline....
and then,...simply silence....
And if you burn the road that’ll lead you back to her in time, I'll watch you turn to stone, She’s moving on without you...
Monday, October 3, 2011
Somethin' gotta give with the way I'm livin', Seems I'm gettin' down everyday, The more I strive, the less I'm alive, And seems i'm gettin' further away...
When can you decide enough is enough. When is quitting something, not giving up but more of a moving on? Can I let everyone down? Is there something better?
I've been here since April. It's about time for me to move on, but there are so many people who will be heartbroken. Do I give up my happiness for them? Who decides?
How can I be so uncomfortable with this accepted normal. With the stagnant? With the stuck.
I feel like everyday I dig myself a little deeper and deeper into this hole. How do I get out? And when I do, where do I go?
And am I just running away?
...I've been goin' joggin' in the park after dark, Draggin' 'round with me my ball and chain, Took southern skies to make me realize That I'm causin' myself this pain,
Hey, you better figure it out now
You know you ain't comin' back down, yeah
You better figure it out now
You know you ain't comin' back down...
When can you decide enough is enough. When is quitting something, not giving up but more of a moving on? Can I let everyone down? Is there something better?
I've been here since April. It's about time for me to move on, but there are so many people who will be heartbroken. Do I give up my happiness for them? Who decides?
How can I be so uncomfortable with this accepted normal. With the stagnant? With the stuck.
I feel like everyday I dig myself a little deeper and deeper into this hole. How do I get out? And when I do, where do I go?
And am I just running away?
...I've been goin' joggin' in the park after dark, Draggin' 'round with me my ball and chain, Took southern skies to make me realize That I'm causin' myself this pain,
Hey, you better figure it out now
You know you ain't comin' back down, yeah
You better figure it out now
You know you ain't comin' back down...
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
road rage
...How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes, I struggle to find any truth in your lies, And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know, This weakness I feel I must finally show...
It started with a movie set in Rio de Janeiro, a reminder of the impending wedding of a boy from the past, the misplacement of hours worth of solutions imperative to the successful outcome of an experiment and finally an angry man in a large grey truck yelling at me demanding i go faster. Literally yelling at me,while driving 65 miles per hour going down the highway. His large head sticking out of his large grey window, with his stringy hair blowing back into his eyes as he screamed, asking why in the world I was slowing down when passing a police car parked on the shoulder. While going 65 miles per hour.
That was the tipping point.
I was done.
I am done being stuck. I am done playing the game according to everyone else's rules. I am done letting others make the decisions that determine my happiness.
The reminder of where my soul longs to be, the heartbreak that was long long ago that still mysteriously and frustratingly weighs heavy on my heart, the feelings of inadequacy because I haven't worked long enough for a certain science company, and the bald man yelling woke my sleeping gypsy soul I had lulled into complacency.
Kansas City is where I live. It is where friends are and is close by to family, but I don't think I will ever be able to settle down here. I feel often like I am trying to squeeze myself into a shell that is too small for me. I don't ever see the signs of life in this big city. Life doesn't happen on the streets, but in little houses and personal cars. This isn't how I want to live. I want to interrupt my commute with a stop at the bagel stand down the street. I want to feel comfortable taking a coffee break with others to work on relationships rather than another experiment.
I don't want science to be a business. I don't want to fit in. I want to be challenged. I want to be able to tell people that I have done something exciting the night before, rather than say I stayed at home. I want to work with my hands. I want to work with real people. The ones who have struggles and desires like mine. The ones who aren't all about making another dollar.
I don't think I have to be overseas to achieve these desires, but I do need a little help, and maybe a little direction, and definitely another run-in with the yelling bald man. I have a few things I need to tell him.
...Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all, But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall, Lend me your eyes I can change what you see, But your soul you must keep, totally free...
...Awake my soul...
...awake my soul...
...Awake my soul...
It started with a movie set in Rio de Janeiro, a reminder of the impending wedding of a boy from the past, the misplacement of hours worth of solutions imperative to the successful outcome of an experiment and finally an angry man in a large grey truck yelling at me demanding i go faster. Literally yelling at me,while driving 65 miles per hour going down the highway. His large head sticking out of his large grey window, with his stringy hair blowing back into his eyes as he screamed, asking why in the world I was slowing down when passing a police car parked on the shoulder. While going 65 miles per hour.
That was the tipping point.
I was done.
I am done being stuck. I am done playing the game according to everyone else's rules. I am done letting others make the decisions that determine my happiness.
The reminder of where my soul longs to be, the heartbreak that was long long ago that still mysteriously and frustratingly weighs heavy on my heart, the feelings of inadequacy because I haven't worked long enough for a certain science company, and the bald man yelling woke my sleeping gypsy soul I had lulled into complacency.
Kansas City is where I live. It is where friends are and is close by to family, but I don't think I will ever be able to settle down here. I feel often like I am trying to squeeze myself into a shell that is too small for me. I don't ever see the signs of life in this big city. Life doesn't happen on the streets, but in little houses and personal cars. This isn't how I want to live. I want to interrupt my commute with a stop at the bagel stand down the street. I want to feel comfortable taking a coffee break with others to work on relationships rather than another experiment.
I don't want science to be a business. I don't want to fit in. I want to be challenged. I want to be able to tell people that I have done something exciting the night before, rather than say I stayed at home. I want to work with my hands. I want to work with real people. The ones who have struggles and desires like mine. The ones who aren't all about making another dollar.
I don't think I have to be overseas to achieve these desires, but I do need a little help, and maybe a little direction, and definitely another run-in with the yelling bald man. I have a few things I need to tell him.
...Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all, But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall, Lend me your eyes I can change what you see, But your soul you must keep, totally free...
...Awake my soul...
...awake my soul...
...Awake my soul...
Monday, September 12, 2011
dreams...
I have't been sleeping. Not at all actually. It started about two weeks ago. The weather turned, work was tumultuous, I couldn't keep anything in, and life just seemed unsteady. I would lay down at night, dead to the world and would only let sleep keep me oblivious for an hour or so. Then I would be awake enough to know I wasn't sleeping but not enough to get out of bed. I would get up with my alarm clock and feel as if I had never closed my eyes.
I would make it through the day and try again the next night, but before I knew it I would hear the alarm and the trudging would start again... and again and again...that was until the night of the beeping.
It was 10:30 pm and a fleet of tow trucks came to the apartment complex to tow cars that were parked in covered parking and not supposed to be there. There were maybe three tow trucks, but when they are all backing up at the same time, the warning beeping sounds more like fifty trucks. It caused the whole place to walk outside and see what was going on. Then there was the usual yelling, the attempts to drive cars away before it was too late... and then it was over. And peaceful. Even the cicadas were quiet.
So I rolled back over, closed my eyes and worked on sleeping. Before I knew it, my blanket, Big Blue had wrapped itself around me and peacefully lulled me into the land of dreams.
... I opened my eyes and knew immediately i was in Portugal. I was on a barge floating down the river, making my long awaited return. I passed slowly by the neighborhoods full of flowers cascading from balconies. Restaurants full of people sitting outside under brightly colored umbrellas. People meandering down the cobblestone streets, children playing in parks, and castles bathed in sunlight. My Lisbon. The salt water cleared my lungs and caused my hair to curl. The sunshine warmed me to my soul. I could feel the vitamin D being released into my blood, and the fist that had been around my stomach relaxed and let go altogether.
We rode in peace as we approached a bridge that had stood strong for years. It wasn't particularly big. I could reach up and touch it as we passed under. It was made of golden rocks held together by ages old mortar. It was glowing yellow in the sunshine and it let me trace each grove between the rocks as we passed.
Past the bridge was a woman standing in the middle of the dock. She was waiting for us, her long brown hair was swept back into a loose ponytail. She stood tall and strong, yet like the bridge glowed, from the inside and out. She waited patiently for us to come. We drifted towards the dock slowly, watching the women wait, the gentle breeze played with her hair and caressed her cheek.
Before I knew it we were pulling up to the dock, the woman had turned her back on us and as we bumped to a stop on the dock she turned around and in an instant transformed. Her hair turned wispy, her clothes tattered and her skin puckered and sour, as if her whole body had been burned. She screamed and screamed and screamed.
The crewman turned the boat around and fled as fast as they could, but the screams kept growing louder, and then I realized that they were coming out of my own mouth and that my own hands were that of the woman's on the dock. And my face was not smooth but rough and pitted. The sun burned my tender skin and the salt water added insult to injury. And I screamed in terror. I screamed because they were leaving me behind, I screamed because this wasn't my Lisbon....
I startled awake. The sweat was pouring down my skin. Big Blue was wrapped so tight I couldn't get loose, and I'm sure the neighbors were wondering why someone was screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night.
I rolled over unwilling to risk the chance of sleep for fear of returning to the dream, got untangled from Blue and wondered how i'd make it through the next four hours until my alarm clock rescued me.
I would make it through the day and try again the next night, but before I knew it I would hear the alarm and the trudging would start again... and again and again...that was until the night of the beeping.
It was 10:30 pm and a fleet of tow trucks came to the apartment complex to tow cars that were parked in covered parking and not supposed to be there. There were maybe three tow trucks, but when they are all backing up at the same time, the warning beeping sounds more like fifty trucks. It caused the whole place to walk outside and see what was going on. Then there was the usual yelling, the attempts to drive cars away before it was too late... and then it was over. And peaceful. Even the cicadas were quiet.
So I rolled back over, closed my eyes and worked on sleeping. Before I knew it, my blanket, Big Blue had wrapped itself around me and peacefully lulled me into the land of dreams.
... I opened my eyes and knew immediately i was in Portugal. I was on a barge floating down the river, making my long awaited return. I passed slowly by the neighborhoods full of flowers cascading from balconies. Restaurants full of people sitting outside under brightly colored umbrellas. People meandering down the cobblestone streets, children playing in parks, and castles bathed in sunlight. My Lisbon. The salt water cleared my lungs and caused my hair to curl. The sunshine warmed me to my soul. I could feel the vitamin D being released into my blood, and the fist that had been around my stomach relaxed and let go altogether.
We rode in peace as we approached a bridge that had stood strong for years. It wasn't particularly big. I could reach up and touch it as we passed under. It was made of golden rocks held together by ages old mortar. It was glowing yellow in the sunshine and it let me trace each grove between the rocks as we passed.
Past the bridge was a woman standing in the middle of the dock. She was waiting for us, her long brown hair was swept back into a loose ponytail. She stood tall and strong, yet like the bridge glowed, from the inside and out. She waited patiently for us to come. We drifted towards the dock slowly, watching the women wait, the gentle breeze played with her hair and caressed her cheek.
Before I knew it we were pulling up to the dock, the woman had turned her back on us and as we bumped to a stop on the dock she turned around and in an instant transformed. Her hair turned wispy, her clothes tattered and her skin puckered and sour, as if her whole body had been burned. She screamed and screamed and screamed.
The crewman turned the boat around and fled as fast as they could, but the screams kept growing louder, and then I realized that they were coming out of my own mouth and that my own hands were that of the woman's on the dock. And my face was not smooth but rough and pitted. The sun burned my tender skin and the salt water added insult to injury. And I screamed in terror. I screamed because they were leaving me behind, I screamed because this wasn't my Lisbon....
I startled awake. The sweat was pouring down my skin. Big Blue was wrapped so tight I couldn't get loose, and I'm sure the neighbors were wondering why someone was screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night.
I rolled over unwilling to risk the chance of sleep for fear of returning to the dream, got untangled from Blue and wondered how i'd make it through the next four hours until my alarm clock rescued me.
Monday, July 25, 2011
First things first...
Growing up, I knew that long hair meant beauty. I don't know if I should blame it on the Barbies or the Disney princesses, but for as long as I can remember long curly hair made me feel glamorous, and all put together.
When I was little I begged for bangs and curly hair. My stringy straight locks were a handful and spent most of their time in a ponytail, and the cowlick in the middle of my widow's peak on my forehead laughed at any attempt to tame it. No amount of curl would ever stay and even if i slept all night with my hair wrapped in curlers it was straighter than a board the next day.
So I begged and begged, and my mom gave in to the curls. And I ended up with a Jew fro. There are all of two pictures from the stage in my life, and they were taken by my neighbor. Okay Okay you say, think about the situation, my mom was at home with three little ones under the age of five, there was no time for pictures, but it's easier to blame it on the hair.
So after the misadventure I moved on... the perm grew out and my hair went back to straight. I had a bowl cut for awhile and cried and cried after, and then I was over the hair. It stayed in the ponytail. I cut it off in the winters, only to immediately regret it, and life went on. Even though every time I went in to get it cut I thought about the bangs.
Fast forward 15 years to a summer spent far far away with amazing water. At least that is what I'm going to blame it on. I came back with curly hair, ringlets even, if it is humid enough (the one blessing to this god forsaken heat)
So the Barbies and Disney Princesses have been passed over and my dream for luscious curly locks has been achieved. And yet I still have a ways to go. Tonight, after a three mile run I decided I needed a haircut. So I borrowed a pair of scissors from my roommate and trimmed the ends a little, the whole time thinking about how easy it would be to cut the front short into the bangs I've always wanted. I was feeling brave, my hair was looking good, and even the back was cut in a straight line. I combed out the bangs, fought the cowlick, brought the scissors up to my eye line, and thought about the Jew Fro. Bangs just couldn't happen. Not by me anyway and especially if there was any possibility of the outcome looking anything like the last attempt at my dream hair.
And with that the scissors were put away and instead of bangs, I walked away with hair even curlier, with a borderline Farah Faucet cut. Not bad for a first timer...
When I was little I begged for bangs and curly hair. My stringy straight locks were a handful and spent most of their time in a ponytail, and the cowlick in the middle of my widow's peak on my forehead laughed at any attempt to tame it. No amount of curl would ever stay and even if i slept all night with my hair wrapped in curlers it was straighter than a board the next day.
So I begged and begged, and my mom gave in to the curls. And I ended up with a Jew fro. There are all of two pictures from the stage in my life, and they were taken by my neighbor. Okay Okay you say, think about the situation, my mom was at home with three little ones under the age of five, there was no time for pictures, but it's easier to blame it on the hair.
So after the misadventure I moved on... the perm grew out and my hair went back to straight. I had a bowl cut for awhile and cried and cried after, and then I was over the hair. It stayed in the ponytail. I cut it off in the winters, only to immediately regret it, and life went on. Even though every time I went in to get it cut I thought about the bangs.
Fast forward 15 years to a summer spent far far away with amazing water. At least that is what I'm going to blame it on. I came back with curly hair, ringlets even, if it is humid enough (the one blessing to this god forsaken heat)
So the Barbies and Disney Princesses have been passed over and my dream for luscious curly locks has been achieved. And yet I still have a ways to go. Tonight, after a three mile run I decided I needed a haircut. So I borrowed a pair of scissors from my roommate and trimmed the ends a little, the whole time thinking about how easy it would be to cut the front short into the bangs I've always wanted. I was feeling brave, my hair was looking good, and even the back was cut in a straight line. I combed out the bangs, fought the cowlick, brought the scissors up to my eye line, and thought about the Jew Fro. Bangs just couldn't happen. Not by me anyway and especially if there was any possibility of the outcome looking anything like the last attempt at my dream hair.
And with that the scissors were put away and instead of bangs, I walked away with hair even curlier, with a borderline Farah Faucet cut. Not bad for a first timer...
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
who are you?
I've knocked off three weeks of kickboxing. I'm generally feeling pretty good about life. I fit in a dress that made my back look like I had cleavage and I'm selling sweet tickets to the gun show.
The classes go in the same manner. We warm up, we sweat, we squat, than we punch and kick, then we squat some more. We punch bags, balls even an occasional person, and then it is time to go home.
It's just, for the last six classes, I've been called the wrong name. The first night I walked in with a Courtney who has since dropped the class, but her name has stuck.
Three people attend the class. It's pretty intimate and hard not to have your named called. So the classes go on and the instructor says something like, "Courtney, kick higher." And I stay oblivious until about 30 seconds later I comprehend in my oxygen deprived brain that she was talking to me, and I pant something like "That's a long way for these legs to go." And the class moves on...
But then I started losing sleep, and I couldn't blame it on the sore muscles. I was playing out the scenarios about how I was going to approach the issue at hand. It was past the appropriate fixing stage...
So I got my courage up. I spent the whole day pumping myself up, getting myself ready for "The Conversation" I make it to class and there are 10 people in the class. 10 people. No way was I going to get this one out. So I left dejected and even more sore. It hurt, and I still wasn't sleeping.
Finally last night, I made it 15 minutes early to try and catch the instructor. I awkwardly approached her and tried to bring up the subject. Her entire frame would fit into mine, twice. She has maybe 5 feet on her. I can't squat lower than how tall she is, and yet it's still intimidating and the subject keeps getting skirted. I hear people talking out the door and I blurt out way too loudly, 'you've got my name wrong.' We do the obligatory back and forth, i'm sorrys and the it's no big deals and talk about always getting names wrong.
Class starts, we kick and squat and squat and squat and squat. As we wrap up, gather our things and walk out the door, the instructor yells after me...
'Shelby, see you Thursday...'
And so, the show starts again....
The classes go in the same manner. We warm up, we sweat, we squat, than we punch and kick, then we squat some more. We punch bags, balls even an occasional person, and then it is time to go home.
It's just, for the last six classes, I've been called the wrong name. The first night I walked in with a Courtney who has since dropped the class, but her name has stuck.
Three people attend the class. It's pretty intimate and hard not to have your named called. So the classes go on and the instructor says something like, "Courtney, kick higher." And I stay oblivious until about 30 seconds later I comprehend in my oxygen deprived brain that she was talking to me, and I pant something like "That's a long way for these legs to go." And the class moves on...
But then I started losing sleep, and I couldn't blame it on the sore muscles. I was playing out the scenarios about how I was going to approach the issue at hand. It was past the appropriate fixing stage...
So I got my courage up. I spent the whole day pumping myself up, getting myself ready for "The Conversation" I make it to class and there are 10 people in the class. 10 people. No way was I going to get this one out. So I left dejected and even more sore. It hurt, and I still wasn't sleeping.
Finally last night, I made it 15 minutes early to try and catch the instructor. I awkwardly approached her and tried to bring up the subject. Her entire frame would fit into mine, twice. She has maybe 5 feet on her. I can't squat lower than how tall she is, and yet it's still intimidating and the subject keeps getting skirted. I hear people talking out the door and I blurt out way too loudly, 'you've got my name wrong.' We do the obligatory back and forth, i'm sorrys and the it's no big deals and talk about always getting names wrong.
Class starts, we kick and squat and squat and squat and squat. As we wrap up, gather our things and walk out the door, the instructor yells after me...
'Shelby, see you Thursday...'
And so, the show starts again....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)