"Every minute we change - it is a great opportunity. At any point, we can step out of our frozen selves and our ideas and begin fresh." -Natalie Goldberg
Thanks to one of my favorite teachers.
16 February 2010
I'm in Miami triiick.
Well. I was. But sorry if I don't post every day, I don't have my own computer down here. However, once I get home I'm going to post double to make up for it! I've been doing a lot of writing here. I'll leave you with a quote, because my friend likes quotes.
14 February 2010
Valentine's Day..?
"I believe in poetry as a way of surviving the emotional chaos, spiritual confusions, and traumatic events that come with being alive.
When I was twelve years old, I was responsible for the death of my younger brother in a hunting accident. I held the rifle that killed him. In a single moment, my world changed forever. I felt grief, terror, shame, and despair more deeply than I could ever have imagined. In the aftermath, no one in my shattered family could speak to me about my brother's death, and their silence left me alone with all my agonizing emotions. And under those emotions, something even more terrible: a knowledge that all the easy meanings I had lived by until then had been suddenly and utterly abolished.
One consequence of traumatic violence is that it isolates its victims. It can cut us off from other people, cutting us off from our own emotional lives until we go numb and move through the world as if only half alive. As a young person, I found something to set against my growing sense of isolation and numbness: the making of poems.
When I write a poem, I process experience. I take what's inside me - the raw, chaotic material of feeling or memory - and translate it into words and then shape those words into the rhythmical language we call a poem. This process brings me a kind of wild joy. Before, I was powerless and passive in the face of my confusion, but now I am active: the powerful shaper of my experience. I am transforming it into a lucid meaning.
Because poems are meanings, and even the saddest poem I write is proof that I want to survive. And therefore it represents an affirmation of life in all its complexities and contradictions.
An additional miracle comes to me as the maker of poems: Because poems can be shared between poet and audience, they also become a further triumph over human isolation.
Whenever I read a poem that moves me, I know I'm not alone in the world. I feel a connection to the person who wrote it, knowing that he or she has gone through something similar to what I've experienced, or felt something like what I have felt. And their poem gives me hope and courage, because I know that they survived, that their life force was strong enough to turn experience into words and shape it into meaning and then bring it toward me to share. The gift of their poem enters deeply into me and helps me live and believe in living."
-Gregory Orr
When I was twelve years old, I was responsible for the death of my younger brother in a hunting accident. I held the rifle that killed him. In a single moment, my world changed forever. I felt grief, terror, shame, and despair more deeply than I could ever have imagined. In the aftermath, no one in my shattered family could speak to me about my brother's death, and their silence left me alone with all my agonizing emotions. And under those emotions, something even more terrible: a knowledge that all the easy meanings I had lived by until then had been suddenly and utterly abolished.
One consequence of traumatic violence is that it isolates its victims. It can cut us off from other people, cutting us off from our own emotional lives until we go numb and move through the world as if only half alive. As a young person, I found something to set against my growing sense of isolation and numbness: the making of poems.
When I write a poem, I process experience. I take what's inside me - the raw, chaotic material of feeling or memory - and translate it into words and then shape those words into the rhythmical language we call a poem. This process brings me a kind of wild joy. Before, I was powerless and passive in the face of my confusion, but now I am active: the powerful shaper of my experience. I am transforming it into a lucid meaning.
Because poems are meanings, and even the saddest poem I write is proof that I want to survive. And therefore it represents an affirmation of life in all its complexities and contradictions.
An additional miracle comes to me as the maker of poems: Because poems can be shared between poet and audience, they also become a further triumph over human isolation.
Whenever I read a poem that moves me, I know I'm not alone in the world. I feel a connection to the person who wrote it, knowing that he or she has gone through something similar to what I've experienced, or felt something like what I have felt. And their poem gives me hope and courage, because I know that they survived, that their life force was strong enough to turn experience into words and shape it into meaning and then bring it toward me to share. The gift of their poem enters deeply into me and helps me live and believe in living."
-Gregory Orr
Missing it.
13 February 2010
Jimmy is soooo weird. Weed is too. J'Amie's just there.
Out fo' the night. I leave for Florida on Monday so I promise to have something for you tomorrow.
I found something the other day that I really love:
Whoever comes are the right people.
Whatever happens is the only thing that could have.
Whenever it starts is the right time.
When it's over, it's over.
Just something to leave you. Oh, and Megan is fan-fucking-tastic.
12 February 2010
3 days, 14 days, 50 days
Sorry I don't have anything for you today. I'm exhausted.
Oh, and it's Florida, New York, New Orleans, in case you were wondering.
Oh, and it's Florida, New York, New Orleans, in case you were wondering.
11 February 2010
Raw truth
It was the only time I felt homeless. No, wait, that's a lie. You have shut me out of this home so many times that I can't even call it home. I slipped on that stupid pile of ice as I stormed away. You said "I love you," but you didn't mean it. I slammed the door in your hopeful face, turning away as hot tears cascaded down my face, vomit rising in my throat and threatening to spill out like the curse words have tonight. I have no direction, I just walk, going wherever my feet take me. Call it inspirational, but my heart is beating like a hummingbird's wings, for I am thrown in to this ugly world I have been exposed to.
You claimed this is a family reunion, but how does it count as family if I am isolated while simultaneously surrounded by people? You are true evil in my eyes, depriving me of the place where I began to discover myself and where I have begun to see it's okay to love.
I lied, by the way. I walked around for half an hour, deciding where to go. For a few minutes, I considered renting a hotel room, then I harshly remembered my bare wallet was left at "home" anyway; I forgot it in my desire to just get out.
The one thing that truly bothers me was that idiotic smile you wore, I hated it. I hated it. You have made me so guarded for so long, and now you smirk at me for finally knowing what I want to do.
Call me a troubled child, a misguided poet, a stereotypical dramatic teenager, whatever fucking "Hello my name is" rounded rectangular insult you decide to slap on my vulnerable chest, it doesn't matter how you label me, because you have already shaped me into this horrible person, molded and sculpted me until my skin has hardened and threatened to break apart.
You should consider yourself lucky I was wearing the sweatshirt he gave me. Its scent filled my tired nostrils each time I gave into those flashing pointing signs of weakness they call tears, falling faster than I could fall in love. I remember I am wearing this simple article of clothing, and finally I am reminded that maybe, just maybe, there's someone out there who really might give a shit about me.
You claimed this is a family reunion, but how does it count as family if I am isolated while simultaneously surrounded by people? You are true evil in my eyes, depriving me of the place where I began to discover myself and where I have begun to see it's okay to love.
I lied, by the way. I walked around for half an hour, deciding where to go. For a few minutes, I considered renting a hotel room, then I harshly remembered my bare wallet was left at "home" anyway; I forgot it in my desire to just get out.
The one thing that truly bothers me was that idiotic smile you wore, I hated it. I hated it. You have made me so guarded for so long, and now you smirk at me for finally knowing what I want to do.
Call me a troubled child, a misguided poet, a stereotypical dramatic teenager, whatever fucking "Hello my name is" rounded rectangular insult you decide to slap on my vulnerable chest, it doesn't matter how you label me, because you have already shaped me into this horrible person, molded and sculpted me until my skin has hardened and threatened to break apart.
You should consider yourself lucky I was wearing the sweatshirt he gave me. Its scent filled my tired nostrils each time I gave into those flashing pointing signs of weakness they call tears, falling faster than I could fall in love. I remember I am wearing this simple article of clothing, and finally I am reminded that maybe, just maybe, there's someone out there who really might give a shit about me.
10 February 2010
Eyes, like two suns, shining down on this desert I roam
I lie awake,
Counting dots on the ceiling
And mapping out our dreams
As though we could predict them.
I don't count sheep anymore,
That doesn't help.
I'm a troubled insomniac,
Awake at the thought of seeing you again.
The clock ticks on,
The minute hand racing the hour hand,
Even though it's a pointless competition.
Minutes lap hours, passing by
And fast-forwarding like the movies.
Alone, alone, alone, that voice repeats.
There's no way it will always be true.
Six A.M. rolls around, and I can tell you there are
Two thousand six hundred and forty seven
Dots on the ceiling.
English poem that's due tomorrow:
(Restrictions: two stanzas, eight lines each, five to eight words per line)
Strangers are just ordinary people.
They hurried by, searching for Darren.
We never told them, but they had
Their lives and we had ours.
Those girls flashed in my mind
As the pink sparkly packaging caught the light,
That stupid goose taunting me.
It was just gum, but they’d be proud.
I didn’t mean to leave you there,
I simply forgot my promise to you.
But maybe you’re not meant to be here;
All a mistake, just like that word.
It slipped out, triggering tears
That had been held behind those eyes
For far too long. It was a mistake.
I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.
Whatever. I don't really like it.
Counting dots on the ceiling
And mapping out our dreams
As though we could predict them.
I don't count sheep anymore,
That doesn't help.
I'm a troubled insomniac,
Awake at the thought of seeing you again.
The clock ticks on,
The minute hand racing the hour hand,
Even though it's a pointless competition.
Minutes lap hours, passing by
And fast-forwarding like the movies.
Alone, alone, alone, that voice repeats.
There's no way it will always be true.
Six A.M. rolls around, and I can tell you there are
Two thousand six hundred and forty seven
Dots on the ceiling.
English poem that's due tomorrow:
(Restrictions: two stanzas, eight lines each, five to eight words per line)
Strangers are just ordinary people.
They hurried by, searching for Darren.
We never told them, but they had
Their lives and we had ours.
Those girls flashed in my mind
As the pink sparkly packaging caught the light,
That stupid goose taunting me.
It was just gum, but they’d be proud.
I didn’t mean to leave you there,
I simply forgot my promise to you.
But maybe you’re not meant to be here;
All a mistake, just like that word.
It slipped out, triggering tears
That had been held behind those eyes
For far too long. It was a mistake.
I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.
Whatever. I don't really like it.
09 February 2010
Alone, alone, alone
Echhh. I don't really want to post this, but I promised I would have something for today. I'm having severe writer's block, so please forgive me.Your hugs have that familiar smell, that distinct comforting warmth that always seems to reappear in my daydreams, my nightmares; take your pick. There are the things that I love about you, the things that keep me coming back.
You loan me your jacket on the coldest days, claiming you don't need it, when the icy wind bites at your arms. Personally, I don't care that the jacket is too big; it's yours, and that's all that matters.
You've written countless songs, bought dozens of flowers, and apologized a million times. But none of that will ever cover for your past. Didn't you know you broke me? Haven't you realized by now that I'm different than I was before, changed after that night?
The scar just above my right elbow reminds me every single day of your strong arms against mine, the branch cutting into my arm as you trapped me.
The bruises are faded by now, though I hid them before; it's been 15 days, they're almost gone. I'll be honest, I could not stand the sight of them. I made myself believe that someone who loved me as much as you did could not hurt me. It turned out that that belief just caused me more pain in the end.
Your smile, your threats, your support, your hits, your promises, your lies.
Is it even possible for a person to love someone and be afraid of them at the same time?
Well, I guess you have shown me.
On the flip side... I LOVE MY LIFE: http://www.cobrastarship.com/ 05/05/10.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-jbWFqbHW6I
08 February 2010
Blue school
Well from MY last post - not Megan's - I know I wasn't the only one busy this weekend. I'm back from my conference!If I tried to describe it to you, it would sound super cheesy, but looking back I actually really liked it. I guess I'm more focused on different things than I was last month.
Speaking of last month, I've decided to make monthly resolutions instead of new years resolutions. Who keeps new years resolutions anyway? No one, that's who. So by making monthly goals I stick to them more successfully than I would otherwise. Just something I'd like to share.
This month I'm going to focus on other people. I realized I'm very privileged to be going on multiple vacations these next three months and I think I need to be more grateful for the people who have made it happen, and the people who have supported me in general.
Along with this realization came another, as is what usually happens when you have ADD. I don't really feel like sharing it here, but it just made me a lot more aware. Aware of what exactly - I don't know. But I am more aware.
Today I was listening to music (like I do every day), and I came across a song that really stuck with me:
"But if you're from where I'm from / Then you know a bigger burden comes with it / And that's what I carry when you see me on a hustle / I talking as a walking document of our struggle."
I don't know. I just liked it a LOT.
I was a little stressed out today, so hopefully I'll have some real writing for you tomorrow. Goodnight!
P.S. Shoutout to my facebook father. Looove you :)
06 February 2010
Hello, my name is not Carrie.
Hey, this is Megan on Carrie's blog and she wanted me to let you all know that she won't be back until Monday. She's busy being fantastic at a sports leadership conference.... Obviously.
I mean, I'll miss her at school on Monday. Guess we'll have to do lunch with the Great Man a different day! What?
Okay, I'll stop hijacking her blog right meow.
I love all her readers. Yup.
TWENTY WHAT? TWENTY TWELVE.
Peace, love, rove... Fo LYFE.
I mean, I'll miss her at school on Monday. Guess we'll have to do lunch with the Great Man a different day! What?
Okay, I'll stop hijacking her blog right meow.
I love all her readers. Yup.
TWENTY WHAT? TWENTY TWELVE.
Peace, love, rove... Fo LYFE.
05 February 2010
End of the week
Week. end. Weekend.But somehow the moment it ends I'm immediately jumpstarting on the next week. Ehh.
04 February 2010
03 February 2010
Who likes groundhog day...?
The prompt yesterday: start the writing with the words "six more days." Include all 5 senses. You have ten minutes.
Six more weeks until I receive that dreaded envelope, sheltering that bill I fear to see with my own eyes. That phone bill from last month, my last month of hope that I can remember. That phone bill comes awfully late, I know, tearing up my heart as I tear open the envelope, scanning the numbers, statistics, and sequences that remind me of you.
I swear you're still here, muffled sounds of what I thought was your voice as you walk into my apartment. I thought I heard the clanging of your keys after you dropped them on the table.
I can't even sleep at night without remembering you, the scent of your cologne still lingering on the fibers of the fabric on my pillowcase. Even though I've washed those linens too many times to count, you're still there.
Or is it my imagination?
I thought you'd want to know your sister came over the other day. We're still friends. She cooked for me, making that signature secret recipe of Italian marinara fettuccine whatever it is, but your taste was in it, you are still here even in the food I eat.
You thought I threw away your notes, but I still have them. They are torn at the edges because I've traced your words with my delicate fingers so many times, hoping it would bring you back.
But you're still here.
Six more weeks until I receive that dreaded envelope, sheltering that bill I fear to see with my own eyes. That phone bill from last month, my last month of hope that I can remember. That phone bill comes awfully late, I know, tearing up my heart as I tear open the envelope, scanning the numbers, statistics, and sequences that remind me of you.
I swear you're still here, muffled sounds of what I thought was your voice as you walk into my apartment. I thought I heard the clanging of your keys after you dropped them on the table.
I can't even sleep at night without remembering you, the scent of your cologne still lingering on the fibers of the fabric on my pillowcase. Even though I've washed those linens too many times to count, you're still there.
Or is it my imagination?
I thought you'd want to know your sister came over the other day. We're still friends. She cooked for me, making that signature secret recipe of Italian marinara fettuccine whatever it is, but your taste was in it, you are still here even in the food I eat.
You thought I threw away your notes, but I still have them. They are torn at the edges because I've traced your words with my delicate fingers so many times, hoping it would bring you back.
But you're still here.
02 February 2010
01 February 2010
An apology I owe
10 months, 300 or so days, around 7,200 hours, about 432,000 minutes, and maybe 25,920,000 seconds. That's how long I've known you for, and it's been a roller coaster to say the least. Somehow you managed to sum it up in about seven words within a simple facebook message, yet whenever I talk to you, my normally superior train of thought - no offense - is slowed way down, and what I was meaning to say just never got across.
I don't know why exactly I ever hurt you - you were everything I asked for, times twenty or so. I told you the things you said about me weren't true - and they weren't - but I really just liked hearing you say nice things, giving me butterflies. It was a sweet escape from the things I was going through that I hid from everyone else. For that, I should have thanked you, but instead I made a million mistakes.
You didn't deserve anything bad I ever said to you. I could almost say everything I ever said to you, considering I'm so bad with my words around you. But I am so sorry for all the times I hurt you; I would do anything to take it all back.
Can't you see how evil I can be to others? I don't deserve to even know you, let alone accept gifts and especially your notes. I still have them, by the way - I know I told you I threw them out, but that was just so you'd feel better for throwing out mine.
She told me you visited her when she was sick, and you cared for her. That killed me, but I wanted what was best for you, so I let you go ahead. After all, it was just karma.
You have been the best person I have encountered in maybe my entire life, and what have I done in return? I've treated you like shit, when really you deserved so much better. I could not be more thankful for you putting up with me through absolutely everything and laughing at my jokes, even if they're not funny.
I don't know if I ever told you how much I love your embarrassing stories, but I'm sorry mine aren't as good as yours. In fact, they should have reminded you of how stupid I was, and still am. You knew how to make me look on the bright side of things, and you respected my space.
Basically, I wanted to say sorry for everything. But more importantly I'd like to say thank you for everything you have given me.
So, thanks.
I don't know why exactly I ever hurt you - you were everything I asked for, times twenty or so. I told you the things you said about me weren't true - and they weren't - but I really just liked hearing you say nice things, giving me butterflies. It was a sweet escape from the things I was going through that I hid from everyone else. For that, I should have thanked you, but instead I made a million mistakes.
You didn't deserve anything bad I ever said to you. I could almost say everything I ever said to you, considering I'm so bad with my words around you. But I am so sorry for all the times I hurt you; I would do anything to take it all back.
Can't you see how evil I can be to others? I don't deserve to even know you, let alone accept gifts and especially your notes. I still have them, by the way - I know I told you I threw them out, but that was just so you'd feel better for throwing out mine.
She told me you visited her when she was sick, and you cared for her. That killed me, but I wanted what was best for you, so I let you go ahead. After all, it was just karma.
You have been the best person I have encountered in maybe my entire life, and what have I done in return? I've treated you like shit, when really you deserved so much better. I could not be more thankful for you putting up with me through absolutely everything and laughing at my jokes, even if they're not funny.
I don't know if I ever told you how much I love your embarrassing stories, but I'm sorry mine aren't as good as yours. In fact, they should have reminded you of how stupid I was, and still am. You knew how to make me look on the bright side of things, and you respected my space.
Basically, I wanted to say sorry for everything. But more importantly I'd like to say thank you for everything you have given me.
So, thanks.
Year 2, twice as epic
It's the first full week of February, and we all know what that means. Purple pumps through our veins, and we wear more of one color than we ever could have imagined. An 18-year-old with perhaps an excess of testosterone walks by you, staring you down as if you were a freshman, and he wears a pink bathrobe and a bedazzled tiara, but you pass by him like a stranger on the streets. Behind him are a group of girls in yellow from literally head to toe, whispering and scheming about the walk-off.
We were let out early from class, power-walking down main street to stake our claim on the infamous bleachers, even though we already have unspoken designated spots.
Even the "new kids," who were timid, religiously following their schedules and searching desperately with doe-like eyes for matching room numbers, are donning hand prints of paint on their faces, which only gets us natives more excited.
Every student matters, even the shy kid in the back of your honors whatever class, even the girl with the hair over her eyes who you thought you'd never hear speak even the guy you suspected was high all. the. time.
We are united because we are a grade, we are united because we are sophomores we are united because we are PURPLE. Nothing gets our blood pumping quite like the phrase "you wish you were a one two," and we cheer together for the brave individuals who step up to the plate to represent a class of unity, no matter what social circle they may be in.
They are one of us, and we are one, we are two.
We are 2012, and the Mayans saved the best for last.
We were let out early from class, power-walking down main street to stake our claim on the infamous bleachers, even though we already have unspoken designated spots.
Even the "new kids," who were timid, religiously following their schedules and searching desperately with doe-like eyes for matching room numbers, are donning hand prints of paint on their faces, which only gets us natives more excited.
Every student matters, even the shy kid in the back of your honors whatever class, even the girl with the hair over her eyes who you thought you'd never hear speak even the guy you suspected was high all. the. time.
We are united because we are a grade, we are united because we are sophomores we are united because we are PURPLE. Nothing gets our blood pumping quite like the phrase "you wish you were a one two," and we cheer together for the brave individuals who step up to the plate to represent a class of unity, no matter what social circle they may be in.
They are one of us, and we are one, we are two.
We are 2012, and the Mayans saved the best for last.
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