Whereabouts

Okay, so this "cleansing of my soul" thing has given me an idea of finally what to say to all of you.
I just love this picture, first of all, because it's of the ocean (a must), and second of all, this is exactly what I love to do. I'll just dip my head under the water and let the hum of the swirling water take over my thoughts, while my hands are still above water. It's weird, that wet verses dry thing, where the rest of you is cool and surrounded by liquid, yet your hands are still dry from the hot sun overhead.
So, that's where I got a blogging idea. The senses.
We use them all the time, and it's usually those five feelings we feel every minute of the day that make the best stories, and uncover the deepest of things. I mean, really, memories are the senses bundled up in a cute little care package.
You childhood? Well, it's the taste of apple juice and Cheerios, and the smell of freshly cleaned blankets wrapped around you when you're sick.
School is that feeling in your legs that makes you jittery. And don't forget the texture of school meatloaf. A classic, and a really bad stereotype.
The carnivals that we've all been to are made up of tired, sore feet from walking around all day, a dark sky lit with fireworks, and the smell of fried dough, and the whispy feeling of cotton candy, and holding onto your friend's sweaty palm on a scary ride.
The five senses are what make us human.
I have some amazing quotes that I'll be posting everyday all week long, dedicated to the five senses (touch, taste, smell, sound, and sight), and not necessarily in that order.
Hope you like it, I'm posting the first sense tomorrow!

Wishing

I definetly recommend this book that I'm about to quote. Seriously, this book was funny and heartbreaking all at once. It's like no other book you've read before, I'll guarentee you that. Even though it's written from a boy's point of view, I can still relate to this story. Here you go:

"'I wish..." She starts, then shudders because she's crying. 'I wish it was the summer, Albert.'

I wish it was the summer, too.

I shake my head.

'It'll never be the summer again, Mia.'

'Can we pretend it is, just for tonight?', she asks.

I don't say anything at first, too much is going through my head, I'm confused, and it's not until I look up at her when I realize...

'Okay', I say. 'Hi, Mia.'

I try to say it cheerfully, but she frowns at me.

'That's not how you did it when we first met.'

'I don't follow.'

She raises her right hand, palm out, and stares at me gravely.

'How, Albert', she says.

I raise my hand, too.

'How, Mia.'

~ from Stop Me if You've Heard This One Before, p 372-373

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

These are the days that are perfect. It's when everything is so bright and sunny and uncovered after the winter, coming out of hiding, that makes it all so beautiful. (The title comes from the Wizard of Oz, when the Munchins are in Munchin Land, waking up in their little flower beds.)I love seeing everything for the first time after the winter; and it's funny how the memories always linger. Conversations come back to me that I've forgotten, the birds come back, the people come out.
On Friday I was itching to wear something summer-y, so I decided on a pale flowy shirt, kind of girly, not my style at all. So I decided to wear my Converse sneakers with it, and that just made it all seem more like me. It was kind of pretty, kind of not, and it was perfect. I haven't been this happy in awhile, and I swear I couldn't stop smiling just to see people walking down the street, saying hi. And talking just makes everything seem so much lighter, so much better. I only we could have school outside and near a stream, with a small blackboard for the teacher to write on, perched on a rock. We'd all be sitting on rocks, and then when lunch came around we could have a picnic. I swear, people would learn more because we'd actually be learning AND be outside.But you know what was really perfect about this weekend?
The fact that I can leave my window open at night when it's not too cold, and I can just sit on my bed and feel a cool breeze against my just-washed, still-wet hair. It reminds me of summer.
Sometimes I wonder, if spring is really my favorite season after all, and not winter.

Dark Brown Locks

Out in the rain, in thick, wet sheets that make the hairs on your arms stand up, he leans over the porch, staring out into the dark, cold afternoon. His face is unusually flushed from the cold, and his hands are intertwined in one another, as he leans foward, staring out into that dark, cold afternoon. His hair is matted down and dark, a lot longer than usual, the strands drooping in his eyes, but he doesn't fix them. His eyes are heavy, lined with memories, on that dark rainy afternoon, and he doesn't want anybody to know they're there, but I can see through that, all his pain, hidden behind dark locks of deep brown hair. That's what he doesn't know.

Then and Now

I write down things that happen everyday. Not like a diary, just a list of what I did, what I thought was funny, etc. And you know what?Someday I'll be wondering what I used to do when I was a teenager, how I thought. Someday I might want to tell people how my story went, day by day. Maybe someone will find all these journals I keep, and look back and be spooked. Or maybe, just maybe, they'll find an answer. It's wierd, I love writing so much, and it's like me writing down my -our, as in, my family's- story everyday.And then, I know, I'll always be known to everyone.

So far, I've been recording my life since August of 2009. Sometimes I wonder, what was I doing on this day excactly a year ago? And now I can look, and I swear, it gives me the chills. My stories dance among the pages wildly at night, and sometimes the memories take me by storm, flooding over me and Now.

By Candlelight

Funny, that's what his face looks like when he laughs. He bends his head low and close to mine. I'm not nervous around him like other people. I can tell him more than a lot of people, and not just on a sappy love scale. I miss this, and yesterday, I was in tears because of it, just crying in my bed. He wasn't -isn't- just someone I happen to love. He used to be my friend.

Bite my lip, close my eyes, inhale, exhale everything I've been holding back.

Lost in Time

Snow is like a time machine. Or a fossil, waiting to be discovered. But if you wait too long, a gust of wind will come and cover everything over again, as if nothing had happened there. Memories, sparkly and soft as powder, flying around the chilly tight air, resting somewhere new. Taking their stories with them.It's so interseting, all those footprints that leave remains of the past in the snow, those memories that could never have been seen in the summer. Like austronauts footprints on the moon; to those indents in the moon, it's still 1969. Or your dog's footprints from earlier this morning, his little scurries left behind him for the rest of the day.
Isn't it perfect and scary and amazing all at once?

Do You Have to Let it Linger?

I keep having dreams about my cousin. And every time I have these dreams, they feel real.
And then I wake up, confused and dissapointed. Oh, I think. Right. I don't talk to her anymore. And saying that to myself hurts.

My cousin and I are the same age, small and tiny, but we both look nothing alike. I'm pale and fair in general, my features softer, while she looks Italian with her dark hair, tan skin, and hazel eyes. But we both have curly hair. Naturally, at least. We always used to play with eachother at my grandparent's house when we were little, climbing trees and doing cartwheels across the lawn together. I can remember how much we were inseperatable when we had cookouts, when we begged our parents to have one another come home and sleep over. When I was thirteen, though, you could feel this easy friendship begin to tense up under the weight of being teenagers. I used to be jealous of my cousin, and I've always thought she was prettier than me. And she's been jealous of me because school comes easier to me in general. And then she started to change physically, cutting her hair choppy and piercing her lips with needles herself. Not that I'm steryotypical, it's not that. It's just... she's not the same quirky, hysterically funny girl anymore. She's mean, and bitter to everyone. So, trying not to get in the way of this, I've just stopped talking to her. I haven't seen her in almost a year. Really, I don't even know her anymore. Sometimes she doesn't even feel like my cousin that I loved and was best friends with for years.

... But is that bad, though?

All High Cheekbones

Simple sweetness to his face,
all high cheekbones and innocent eyes,
the way his bangs fall clashing with his eyelashes,
allows my heavy heart to subside; and now, it dries.

Growing Up (?)

winter.
This year I started out with my hair short and choppy. I was pretty sick all the time, my face pale, my insides nasty and crappy-feeling. I was angry, got intruduced to Brain Stew, and hated school. I despised anyone else who was happy, and wished that I could crawl into a cave (or, under my covers). I wanted to be someone else, someone new, reinvented, unlike any other costume I've ever tried on before. Angrily, screaming out my rage in silence, I typed up some of the best bits and pieces of my novel that still keep me awe-struck...

spring.
I couldn't move, couldn't go outside much, the sun hurt my dark winter eyes still too much. God, I want my hair grown OUT! I was still thawing out, still sick and tired. In gym, I continued to trudge along, behind the fence and into the baseball courts, where I round the bases, and sometimes, let a smile escape from inside of me. I discovered the potential outside forces held, and my love for Led Zeppelin (the band that makes me most happy). Gradually, I finally began to warm up again.

summer.
Let me out!, is what I have begun to live by. Restless, I began to see the potential everything has, which began to rupture some old memories that are still raw to this day. I want them back. Back. But I can't. I can only move foward. I hurt some people, yelled, screamed into pillows to get some of my built-up rage out of me, drying up and beginning to start over. You know the drill. This summer, I've spilled my heart out to this little blogging world of mine, the people I trust the most with some things. Chamomile isn't going to help this longing, heavy heart I have inside me. Only moving on can do this. And acceptance. My word of the season...

autumn.
This was a turning point for me. I grew my hair out some, found a great new friend, chased after what I have wanted, took some risks, met an artist, learned to ignore what others want from you. I traveled to the country to wind around back roads, got a new fuzzy friend :), and learned that keeping close, getting close to someone isn't a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

winter.
Here we are again. Back to square one. I'm retracing my tracks, erasing some, and starting over, but in a clearer, healthier way. And I'm smiling, still listening to Brain Stew, but this time simply nodding my head along, not howling with it in rage. Now, I'm learning to forgive...

This has been my year. I don't regret one thing done. I needed all of these experiences to become who I am right now. Thank you, fate.
...Did YOU grow up a little this year like me?

The Painters

It's like they're still walking these floorboards, creeping up behind me, their stories flickering back to life, hitting me hard. It's like it was yesterday, me in baby blue standing under dusty lights in a freezing room, everything the color of navy, ice, and lace. I still see her paint-splattered sweatshirt and her tangled mahogany hair, standing on the porch, and letting her smoky breath curl out and turn to feathers on that freezing night.
Life inside is warm and freezing all at once, because you can see your breath, but still feel that heat of the lamp hovering over your head. Tubs of white paint perfuming the air, making me dizzy the slightest bit. Frozen fingers, lightened souls, all huddled under that same flickering pool of light, measuring out fate, and then cutting it for use.

If You Could Only See

There are so many things people don't know about one another, it's scary. Even when people claim to be calm, cool and collected, they really and truly aren't always. I know this from experience. Why do I know this? Well, because...

Not my best picture OR writing, no, but it says it all. It's funny how much you can find out through an open window. A cracked-open door. Outside. Pretty scary. And amazing, all at once. It's almost wrong to know something else about someone that nobody else would even care to think of. And pretty chilling. Story of my life.

Does anyone else have insight, too? Or is it just me?

Uber

I'm sorry. I'm hardcore about my music choice most of the year. I don't really need to listen to the new music all the time. I mean, I still like some of it, but it's just a lot more incredible to me to find some old 90's grunge song that's completely AMAZING. It's like digging for treasure, just on You Tube. But, when that certain time of the year starts creeping into my bones and tugging at my love strings, I have to listen to some Christmas music. No questions asked.
It's funny, 'cause a couple years ago I used to hate those people that start listening to Christmas music in freaking November. Ughhhh. I just didn't want anything to do with it. Christmas music can wait till, um, December 24 for me. But now here I am, listening to Carol of the Bells as I speak, on November 17, before Thanksgiving has even come yet. I guess I'm a hypocret (did I spell that right???).
So I actually started to secretly like it around two years ago at this time. We have this radio that only played one station, and at the time, it was Christmas music. Oh, goodie. Here we go.
Well, come to find out, I'm a sucker for anything Christmas-y that's on the radio. Forget Green Day! I want Frosty the Snowman!
There's just something about Christmas music that makes me almost a little lump-in-my-throat emotional. It's pretty embarassing. I have my reasons, though; a lot has happened to me during Christmas time, all good stuff, but it makes me teary-eyed. I dunno why.
My all-time favorite Christmas song is the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's version of Carol of the Bells. Love it.
You know, I should really just delete all this. But I won't.

Whoa

Sometimes I look in the mirror and just shock myself. I wonder who is that girl looking back at me? Sometimes I disgust myself, other times I don't . It all depends on what day you ask me. It shocks me to see the changes in my face, the sharpness of my cheekbones that I don't remember being there a year or two ago. Or the fact that every winter, my freckles fade more and more, and now I have to squint to really see them. I'm changing. And I'm not sure if I'm okay with it.

Blisters

My cousin has this tire swing. It's a worn-down black rubber tire so thin from years of tugging and hanging onto. Since it's been up for more than ten years, the tree branch that it's tied onto is kinda crooked and bent, hanging over us lifelessly. We used to twist it up till the rope was all bunched up, and then one of us would jump on it while the rope untwisted at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour. My cousin and I were best friends. She used to have this curly hair that was always wild and unkept, and she was always stringbean-thin, yet Coke was her heroine (and still is). But now, we don't even talk.My cousin, to say the least, got caught up with a bad crowd. We don't even say "hi" much when our families get together at Christmas. Mostly, because we're totally different. And now I feel so much younger, even while she's really younger than I am. But she doesn't even know that I miss her, and love her. I don't want to see my cousin hurt herself like this, but I don't know what to do. I can't tell her what I think, because I haven't seen her since spring, and she avoids all eye contact with me. I may say that's fine with me, but here I am, still young and innocent, left behind, rocking back and fourth on that tire swing still.

Chex Mix and Pies

There's just something about that March that was so amazing. Was it the fact that I was carefree and just so bold? Or was it because I met two of the most incredible people out there, looking in at their worlds? Maybe it was because I didn't know things were gonna be amazing. Maybe it was the chilly air. Or the smell of his hair. Or my sneakers that I adored and yeah, ruined from wearing so much. I don't know. But I do know this: I can't stop thinking about that winter.

Space

Sometimes, I just wish I could take everything out of my room and start fresh again. I want to pull every trace of furniture out, rip down my curtains and photos on the walls, and paint everything white again. I'd like to leave the windows open all day on the coldest day of winter to let every trace of the past float out the window. Then, in a freezing room, I'd come in with a big sweatshirt and curl up on the floor, the tips of my fingers blue, wanting a second chance. Basically, all i really want is for my life to rewind two and a half years, then hit play. And live up the time of my life all over again.

Short hair, fillet-o-fish commercial, him, my oversized hoodies, the snow, gasoline, freezing cold fingers.
Yeah. That was my life. And I miss it so much.

Swimming in Scarlet and Aquamarine

It's all so pretty, being thirsty for color. I'm so dry I could drink some scarlet or shivery aquamarine or even lime green and orange. I could just sink my teeth into a vivid flower, I swear. Or swim in a puddle of lavendar water.

Sorry about that. I guess I just got a little too poetic and writer junkie-ish for a moment.

I think flowers are gourgeous. But I also think they're dainty and delicate, easily bruised if you rub a petal too hard between your thumb and index finger. Last night I had a dream. I was walking on some sort of white background that looked (and felt) like some sort of parchement paper. All around me were flowers feet high up, almost like a tree. Their petals were transcluncent and juicy-looking, dew dripping off the edges. I was a little girl in my dream, about six or seven. I thought like a little kid again, and saw my parents again as such strong guardians, protecting me from all evil, preserving my innocence once again. I was crying and laughing and smiling in this dream. And there was music, too. I woke up humming it. And the scary part? It was a real song I'd heard the other day. I just wish I could replay it all over, swimming beneath a pool of lucid, vivid flowers.

Fork Stuck in the Road

Today, I woke up with this ache in the side of my head. No, my ear to be exact. It's the kind of pain that feels like someone's twisting a pen or something sharp inside your ear, and it's still killing me as I write this. I walk into school today, and the one thing that I've wondered about but never wanted to think was true happened to me.
I saw him. With his arm wrapped around a girl's shoulder. And he was smiling, leading her through the crowds of people around us.
At first, my stomach just lurched foward and twisted into something rearing and ugly, making me feel like I was about to throw up. Or cry. Or both. It was one of those surreal moments that slows the world around you down for just a split second as you realize what's happening. It was one of those moments that makes me want to be swallowed into the floor below me, or to shrivel up into a dry raison and be stepped on, where nobody can see me. It was one of those moments that makes you wonder What does my face look like right now? It was awful. And then I heard his voice, that same velvety calm voice that I knew so well, the one that I replayed in my head all day just to comfort myself when missing him got ugly and pathetic. He said, as if he was laughing at how stinking cute she was. "Megan", he said, wrapping his arm tighter around her skinny frame again, leaving me there with the sensation as if I had been slapped across the face. I wanted to claw her eyes out, to be completely honest. I'll admit it. The only thing I wanted to do was drop everything there and just run. Run away from here, from everyone, where I could just scream and tug at my locks of hair in frustration.
The next class, I got back a quiz I had taken earlier this week. 12. I got an F on something I'd studied forever on. All I could do to keep sane at that moment was bow my head and blink slowly to avoid crying in front of all these kids around me, and my boring history teacher that knew nothing about me. Now, that ear pain was ringing.
But now, at this moment in time, I'm okay.
I keep thinking back to what I liked about him so much, and then I think quietly to myself You like the eighth grade boy still. In your mind, you love him from when he was in eighth grade. And now he's a Freshman. You. Need. To. Move. On. I've come to realize that I liked him when he was still a boy. I love him in my memories. It's such a confusing thing, liking someone. And then I ask myself Why do you like someone that makes you feel the pain?
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know. Really.

It still hurts.
But you know what?
I'm gonna live through this.

Take Me to the Place I Love

Today in art class we had to draw a sketch of a bike. It was spray painted baby blue with the rust peeking through in some places and propped up on a desk, one of those old-timey bikes that you'd see the paper boys riding around on in the neighborhood, tossing papers at people's doors. My teacher said we could draw any big of the bike we wanted, the handlebars, spokes, crank, anything. As we huddled around the bike with the lights off (better to see the shaded areas), I couldn't help but feel so vivid and alive. And whenever I moved my head a bit, I'd be able to see pieces of the other kid's faces as they searched the bike like I was.
Because every part of the bike made me think of something in my life. The handlebars made me think of a girl in my class who used to always sing, "I can ride my bike with no handlebars". Over, and over, and over.
The tires made me think of my brother when he was little, always burning out in the driveway, killing the rubber on them.
The peddles and spokes make me think of him.Nobody else was ever allowed to ride his bike. It was a black BMX bike that he had built himself with Christmas money and extras here and there over the course of the year. Nobody was allowed to touch it, and whenever he was done riding it, he'd run his hand over the frame carefully, checking for sand or anything that would scratch the paint.
Only once he let me ride it. Just handed it over to me, and switched bikes with me so I could ride his. I was surprised by how lightweight it actually was overall (25 pounds), yet so sturdy. I gripped the grips, the warm rubber pressing against my palms, as I rode home with him slowly and carefully, feeling all fluttery and excited inside. I felt special. Liked. It's an incredible feeling, knowing that someone would choose you over the rest of them.Back in the classroom, the darkness soaking into my skin, remembering all these things makes me happy and teary all at once. It's funny how just one object, one snapshot of your life can take you back to the place you love. Again. Again. And again.