First Love

(inspired by an upcoming Readers Write subject for The SUN Magazine.)
The first few weeks after we broke up I dropped my phone constantly. A gift from him, the act of accidentally letting it slip (hard, smooth case; forgetful mind) from my hands came to represent how I'd accidentally severed the threads of our relationship.
Not my first love, granted, but my first boyfriend, the first who loved me back. The first who loved me back at a time in life when forever was almost possible, but still not quite.
We broke up during a phone call; I overestimated my understanding of him and the strength of our relationship. As we spoke, I could feel things spiraling out of control, but, passive, I did nothing to steer the conversation in any direction. I spilled too many awkward honesties at once using language unfamiliar to me ("I'd like to date other people", "we're going too fast", "but I still want to be your friend") In my rush to be honest, I forgot to be considerate, compassionate, and thoughtful; I forgot to weigh the possible meaning of what I said. There was a fatal flaw in creating girls' minds so different from boys' minds. To him, all of these phrases meant rejection and replacement.
I came to think of that phone call as a sort of clumsy but earnest flailing that ended much differently than I'd intended, but not enough differently for me to take possession of what was slipping past me.
I haven't really regretted breaking up, but I have regretted the circumstances, I feel that I could have done much better with my timing and communication. The past is only the past, though, and maybe someday we can look back on it all as good friends once again, but not, as he says, right now.
It's hard not to sound melancholic, when writing about this, I mean, a metaphor involving a phone given me by my first boyfriend? Cheesy, I'm sure. But I've come back to drafting this narrative in my head many times since that long, gray month.
I continued living. It wasn't like life ever stopped. Over time I managed to stop dropping my phone so frequently. I still have it, and in the ups and down since, I'll drop it increasingly over the course of a week, and struck by the poignance of it- (we'll have spoken in slightly unfriendly terms to one another, or I will feel neglected as a friend)- I will work to master my hands and my feelings once again and do my best not to just throw the whole thing at the wall, smashing it to pieces. 

Embroidery on a linen shirt

Creatively embroidered to hide stains. (Mwahaha, I'msoclever)

When your poem won't

If a poem you are writing won't end, reflect it across the x axis,

The line that won't work in closing will become the middle, 

And the beginning, at the other side, 

Will become an end 

I am a composite of every person I have held dear, and I am also Myself

I've grown up watching my parents and imitating their actions, tastes, and opinions. This has carried over with other relationships in my life with my siblings and friends, and the people I've worked for. I suppose this is sycophantic, but I like think of it more in the terms of "the best form of flattery is imitation".
I pick up my taste in music from what the people I love listen to. My parents came of age in the eighties, and have exposed us to a lot of alternative new wave and punk bands; The Smiths, The Clash, The Cure, Blondie, Siouxie and the Banshees, Talking Heads, Devo, Madness, and The English Beat among others. I've heard almost everything from the genre, even if I may not immediately be able to name songs or the bands playing them. My friend Raven introduced me to Mountain Man, described as an indian folk rock trio, and The Lumineers, a folk band best-known for their song Hey Ho. My dear friend Yo opened up the world of Les Friction and Led Zeppelin (the former, indirectly) to me. He also brought Ben Howard to my attention, as you well know if you read this silly blog regularly.
I read most of the books my friends and family recommend, and I aspire to read every book on this list compiled by me, my mom, and my dad. I adore JD Salinger, my dad owns every book he's released to the public, and my dad also introduced me to Orson Scott Card through the Alvin Maker series. Three or four of my friends told me I had to read The Hunger Games; I held out pretty long, but Yo finally lent me (or rather, my dad) the first two of the trilogy. I got into the Harry Potter series because my great Aunt told my mom to give it another chance; originally she'd sort of banned it. That's one of the more indirect examples I've written so far, but it does illustrate my point pretty well.
Longboarding is something I decided to learn because of my siblings and Yo, who are all fantastic longboarders. I built my own board with another longboarder friend because I knew I'd be more likely to actually learn it if I had my very own board. (At the time, my siblings shared a few boards given us by the board-building friend.) I'm not very athletically inclined, though I do enjoy climbing trees, hiking, and playing games like tag. But I really would not have picked up boarding were it not for my family and friends.
One of the more abstract examples included in this essay-list; Sometimes, after spending at least half a day with a person, I'll find myself thinking in their voice and syntax. This happened with a southern guy I work for and it happened when I spent the day with my college-age friend a couple Springs ago.

I've grown up closely watching my parents and imitating them. Along the way I've also learned a lot of things and acquired likes and interests from my friends and the people I've admired. I haven't neglected my own innate tendencies or tastes in all of this; I am fairly discerning in what I copy from other people. I don't pick up everything my friends do or enjoy; I know very much who I am, changeable as that may be.

Sit. Stay. Good... NO Stopflyingway!

I can't seem to write anything that will stay. Nothing that will carve itself into my arms or the air around me. Stupid flighty words and letters.
Did you know I can't stand songs that sing about singing? Why the hell, then, am I writing about writing?
I hate writing about writing. But when nothing else works, that's I can do. Even if it feels like chewing on stale bread. 

Branching Out

I read something the other day. A rule of writing, it went kind of like this: Write not for the faceless crowd, as it does not exist anyway, but write for a specific person.
This got stuck in my head, and I've been thinking about it ever since.
It's been slowly dawning on me over the course of a couple of days that I write to myself more than anyone else. My writing is like a slow conversation with myself, musings and philosophies directed at my own heart.
This is an interesting way to write, I suppose, but I would like to start challenging myself, I'd like to explore areas of writing that I'm not very familiar with. I'm not sure how I will go about this just yet, but I do have a definite point to start from now. 

Love and Let go

Hello little sister.
You know what is ridiculous?
It is ridiculous to feel resentful toward a person because you have afforded them every kindness you could think of, every kindness you could remember, and still they seem to ignore you.
It is ridiculous to in that moment forget every thing they have returned to you, but also ridiculous to scrape those things together and shape them into something beautiful again, as shredded as they are by neglect. Let them go, I suppose, and let them be. They are not melancholy, they are not morose, they are not tragic. Merely, they are left behind. They are memories and phantoms, and maybe you can turn them into beautiful pictures and language, but that will not bring any person back to you.
It is ridiculous to expect other people to abide by the same rules as you do. Prideful as you may be of your little loyalties and thoughtfulnesses, other people have their own in their own ways, and it is their choice, their choice only, whether or not to apply them to you.
It is ridiculous to cling so tightly to the word 'friend' in conjunction with a person who clearly has no intention of walking that path with you, of being connected with you by that little sunshine yellow string. It's hard to say if it is worth holding on to, as far as the other person may stray. I don't know the future. You don't know the future, but even that you cannot count on. As ridiculous as it may be to keep stamping your heart with their faded name, I suppose it can be comforting; this little bit of faithfulness, but if you are not conscious, it can feed bitterness, and that certainly is not worth your energy.
It is ridiculous to feel resentful toward a person because you feel the need to remain attached and they don't. Continue to peacefully love, no expectations, no conditions, or just let go.  

Whatever the frak you want (or something of the sort)

My question is this: why worry constantly about fitting in? 

Wouldn't life be more interesting if you had more stories about strange happenings and your own awkwardness and uniqueness?

These are my answers:
~The most interesting old people - the beings with experience under their belts as opposed to teenagers or those of middle age - don't tell stories of mediocrity; They tell stories of brave deeds and strange happenings, their own silliness or strength. They speak of ridiculous ugliness and indignity, and of astonishing beauty.

~The most memorable people often aren't the ones following fashion and fads, but creating their own world, dancing to the beat of their own drum and doing what they want, not what society or their peers expect of them. They are the people with big hearts, or acidic tongues, or even in the possession of both. They have their own sense of style, and oftentimes they genuinely care about other people, as curmudgeonly as they may be.
They can tell stories of their close relationships with their parents, or hilarious adventures with childhood best friends. They didn't let anything get in the way of having friendships with whoever they pleased, and also speak of lost loves and bittersweet romances. 

What you can learn from the happiest elders is this: don't worry about being normal when being the most authentic you can possibly be is not only more comfortable, but also more memorable in the long run.

On the other hand:
~Living an enjoyable life also means striking a balance between feeling comfortable and pushing yourself out of your comfort zone, finding the middle ground between doing what you want and doing what you know you have to do. If you're not comfortable being loud and talkative and outgoing, that's okay. But if you have a goal of making lots of friends and meeting people, you're going to have to chat up some strangers and learn how to compromise to other peoples' wishes every once in a while.
If you crave adventure, you're going to have to plan a trip, and whether or not if you go alone, you'll probably have to coordinate some things with other people, including your family, friends, and employer.
Doing the things you want, whether you like it or not, involves a certain amount of the unknown, which can also be intimidating. Adventure is tantalizing, but it can also be daunting.


This is just my perspective, as hard as I try to consider all sides, I can still only see a few from the lens of my own experience. Perhaps someone else to find something to gain from what I have written, or perhaps they will find their own experience reaffirmed or directly opposed by my opinions.

How to leave everything eighty-eight percent done

I hate editing.
When I write something new, I try to go over it right after I've finished it, then I let it ferment in my drafts for a while, revisiting it every once in a while until it's all edited and seems good enough to publish.
The problem is, if I wait too long I become bored with the piece and it never seems good enough to publish.
Therefore, I end up never finishing anything and feeling like a failure. 

Family Vacations

(inspired by an upcoming Readers Write subject for The SUN Magazine.)

The closest thing my family has to a family vacation is the annual trip we used to take to Yellowstone, but we stopped going as a family half my lifetime ago, if not more. It became too stressful for my parents to haul all of us kids to Yellowstone in our aging and less than trustworthy suburban.
When I was a kid, we used to stop at my grandfather's house before continuing on to Yellowstone. We'd stay the night and visit for a day or two, eating canned raspberries and pretending we were in wheelchairs, rolling over the carpet on my grandfather's barbells. The stopover cut the grueling drive into two pieces, more easily managed by hyperactive kids. In the years since then, though, my dad tackles the trip in one long drive. It surprised me, the first time; I had no idea Yellowstone was that close. I was a kid and I measured distance in time, and time can seem impossibly long, or lightning fast depending on how bored or excited you are.

My dad still goes to Yellowstone on UEA weekend each year, and he usually brings a couple of kids along. My two middle brothers went with him in 2012, and last October, my eldest brother and I got to go. That  trip cemented Yellowstone as a happy place in my heart, as a sort of home away from home. I had so much to come back to, but I was content and deliriously happy in that wild land. 

For many years Yellowstone was that place I visited as a kid with my family and with family-friends, but that last trip was different. That was the first trip I'd really taken as an adult, semi-independent, not just someone to take care of, and I talked with my father more intimately than I had in years. I mean, it's not like I could drive for my father, but we spoke as equals, and my brother and I had an equal say in where we could go. We didn't really have anywhere in mind, though, it had been so long since we'd last visited, we just went wherever dad wanted to take us.
That last trip made Yellowstone personal to me, an escape that made the world seem full of possibilities. I matured, and although I'm still not grown-up, that trip was a significant milestone in my adult life. From family vacation to coming of age experience, Yellowstone has always been a significant part of my life, threading through the years as far as I can remember.