This Song’s Got No Title

When I saw the email that had her name in the title, I’d assumed one of my oldest friends had a funny story about another old friend. Someone always had a story about this girl…
But that wasn’t what the email was about.

The email said that she’d died.

We’d talked over Facebook. The last time was almost a month ago, to the day.

I could tell she was reaching out. She needed someone to listen.

I did listen, and talk to her. We shared old stories. I could tell she was not in a happy place in her life, but we’d talk again. We’d meet for coffee one day soon.

Except, we never will.

And it’s weighing heavily on me. Because my life is busy and full, and sometimes I can’t be bothered with other people and things. I wish she would have just said, “I need help.” I wish I would have “just known” she needed help.

Several years back, another old friend had a tragedy happen. It was one of those times you “wish you’d talked under better circumstances”, but I’ll never forget something she said: “I’m glad his mind is finally at rest.”

I feel this way about my old friend. Regardless of the circumstances, she is a person worthy of peace.

I hope she has found it.

Patterned after…

I love symmetry. I used to sit for hours and look for patterns and shapes in mundane objects-like drapes. If you look hard enough at things that seem boring, you’ll find that it’s not boring at all.

great expectations

I’ve been thinking a lot today about English, Literature, and Writing class. It was in 7th grade that I really started to embrace language. It wasn’t because I was particularly gifted in this area, but because a lovely person came into my life that year. I have something to say about her, but I want to say it in a way that would make her grammatically correct heart proud. I’ll have to sleep on this one.

Listen to Tommy with a candle burning, and you’ll see your entire future.

i get obsessive about certain songs.

the greatest thing ever, was having the 10-disc changer in my car, and being able to listen to my favorite songs of the moment over and over and over. elliott smith’s “waltz # 2″ is burned into my brain for all eternity for this reason. “between the bars” was how i became introduced to him, via an email that was more like poetry written by someone who was sweeping me off my feet. it was dizzying.

i can listen to it now and be immediately swept back into that period of time…the same churning feeling in my gut, questioning how it will shake out, not knowing how to comprehend the words “trust”, or how not to feel guarded. are these the raw, true emotions of being young and vulnerable?

i look back at that girl. even at 22, she was still a girl. she had nothing to be afraid of.

will i one day remember this moment, or come back and read it, in 12 years, and tell her, “you foolish girl…you had nothing to be afraid of.”?

fear and loathing.

i start out doing things, then never feel that they are good enough, so i quit.

my favorite short story is “where are you going, where have you been?” by joyce carol oates. i also love “the yellow wallpaper”. i have always wanted to write a short story, but these are the standards to which i hold myself. every journey has to start with a step, though.

they are buried in me…good stories. short, long? i don’t know. a poem?? i’ve never liked poetry. challenging myself is another thing with which i’ve never really been successful.

challenge 1: write whatever is coming to you, and put it down here. it doesn’t matter who sees it. it doesn’t matter if it is “good”, according to your arbitrary standards.

challenge 2: write poetry. this one won’t be easy.

that’s when a smoke was a smoke.

it’s bright. white walls, curtains…even a white desk. sometimes i wonder if this is what the inside of a sanitarium would look like. just so…white.  computer monitors stand before me, three in a row. i feel assaulted by them sometimes. there are a lot of windows, which let in this sunny day, that’s just right temperature-wise. the trees outside are now bright green, after being dormant and dead-looking for a long time. too long, according to my body that hadn’t yet acclimatized to the midwest winter.

it’s quiet, aside from the dull hum of one computer. the french press waits for me. i push, & pour. the aroma hits me like an old memory, but i never liked coffee until i was in my 20′s. maybe it reminds me of a time when starbucks was a destination, and a place to spend an evening flirting over lattes with that boy who wore old converse and plaid and button down, short sleeved shirts…