April 26, 2015, 10:51 p.m.
I’m a few hours into writing a seven-page final paper. It’s due in an hour or so, but I won’t be able to finish it on time. I’ll have to take a 5 or 10% grade deduction for handing it in late.
It’s no big.
For the first time in so long, I felt passionate about writing a paper. I was all, “Am I arguing about Bram Stoker’s hidden homosexuality itself, or the effect it had on Jonathan Harker’s feelings of self-worth concerning his attraction to Dracula?” It was intense. I was seized with that feeling I get before I spend hours working on a song or an art project. Sure, it took me until 11 o’clock on the night of, but at this point in the semester, grades don’t matter as much. I’ve put in the mental effort to attend class most days, therefore I am a champion and I can get a C if that’s what’s going to happen.
Caring about life matters to me. Grades won’t mean squat if I don’t live to appreciate the work I’ve put into them. Without classes and without a serious-adult job, I’m going to have a lot of free time this summer to give up on trying. To give up on creating. To give up on caring.
So if this excitement about the homosexual themes in Bram Stoker’s Dracula is anything to me, it is hope.
It doesn’t matter when the paper is due, not really.
What matters is that I can still care.
And I’ll hold on to that, pass or fail.
You blend in, cottage,
with your pastel friends.
They dot the hilly landscape
and brighten cloudy days.
You stand firm in the
winds and mists and webs and years,
listening to the gulls call
over hungry, icy ocean rolls.
You can’t hear the trees,
but they speak of you,
whispering to me that you,
you, cottage, are a stranger.
And no matter how bright your paint,
or sturdy your walls,
or patient your heart,
you’ll never belong.
But I watch as you stand still
and firm and constant and smile
even as trees whisper,
and mist rots your wood.
Because you understand,
and I understand,
the need to just
I thought my heart had reached
its maximum capacity,
But when I saw you so tiny
in your black and white world,
I fell in love with a stranger.
I don’t know you but I can’t wait to.
I can’t wait for all the hats
I’m going to make you
that won’t fit.
I can’t wait to defend
your tiny body
from your overeager siblings.
I can’t wait hear you
snuffle and coo and cry
in your baby words.
I’ll whisper back
in my grown up words,
“I love you.”
Today I opened the door and was greeted with a hearty gust of wind. It tugged on my flyaway curls and buffeted my face.
The walk to the bus stop was spicier than usual, bits of dirt and leaves and twigs scratching my calves. It was the first day I wore shorts to school this semester, and already it was paying off.
I crossed the street to stand by the lopsided blue sign, halfway convinced the bus had already come and gone. Cars whipped past on the busy road, swirling blossom petals and making once-ugly trash dance in the breeze.
I breathed in the April air, cool and fresh as the mountain it had run from.
I remembered that just a few months ago I wanted to die; had begged God for it.
And I was happy to be alive.
But looking back now, hours later, it feels bittersweet. I’ve buried the Maney that wanted so desperately to die, just so this Maney who craves life can live.
So now we’re dancing through the garden
And what a garden I have made
And now that death will grow my jasmine
I find it soothing I’m afraid
Now there is no need for suspicion
There ain’t no fraud kissing your hand
I won’t be lying when I tell you
That I’m a gard’ner I’m a man
In your eyes babe
Lyrics from “The Gardener” by The Tallest Man On Earth.
The sound of the rain reminds me of you;
one arm around my shoulders, your head on mine.
We are just standing, not speaking,
because you understand how I feel about the rain.
The rhythm is steady, yet unpredictable.
Pat, pat, pat on the sidewalk,
on the roof, on my outstretched hand,
like oceans waves,
or the beat of my heart.
Barefoot on the cold porch, my feet are freezing,
and between the clouds,
one white star is shining bright.