Garden the 28th of July

A bowl of harvested butter crunch lettuce.

My garden beds to the South, including Swiss Chard, Collard Greens and Green beans, Endive, and my lettuce row and horseshoe bed with mixed lettuce, a couple 

Royal Burgundy Bush Beans

Bachelor's button in my horseshoe bed

Edamame plants. Maybe this year we'll actually get to harvest something off these! (Last year the stupid pet rabbits got out and pretty much chewed them all to the ground.)

Close-up of the Buttercrunch lettuce that sprang up in my carrot beds.

My two smaller carrot beds.

My big carrot bed.

A close-up of the Edamame plants, they're so tender and green looking, I almost understand why the rabbits love them so much.

My mom pulled up all of the arugula, as it was blossoming and preparing to go to seed. There were some cabbage plants scattered along the rows, and left the odd collard green plant here and there. I later planted green beans in the bare spots. 

Garden

All of these were actually from a few weeks ago, unfortunately. 

Peppers and cucumbers.

Burgundy bush beans rows.

Beets

I think this picture is of my Swiss chard, not sure though. 

My lovely little horseshoe lettuce patch.

Close up of my lettuce when it was all cute and not too crowded like it is now.

Why do we look outside for connection? 

Something I made

Guess what I made out of this? 

This!

Made for my friend for her fourth birthday on the 4th of July. 

1% Milk and Self Loathing

There are dogs pounding circles in my head
Chasing each other's tales
I would do nothing but lie down,
I am too tired

What have I to be tired for?
What do I know of despair?
Nothing, some whisper
while others weakly interject,
Their words like 1% milk dribbling down their chins

Wings bound,
I would sink into the Earth,
Soul-slipped,
I never knew the sky. 

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.