Perhaps Happiness and Heartbreak

Perhaps happiness and heartbreak happen. Always. Together, or in ravaging separations.

This little suite I call home is full of loneliness and love. I will miss nights, second-hand sheets and pasta covered in cheese. Putting on a blazer and pretending to be the sort of person who carries business cards. Falling asleep on the couch to the sound of you struggling with a paper.

That's still away, I know. So this summer I'll lie in your arms in a yellow school bus, it's smell reminiscent of street Spanish and truck stops. And I'll sleep here by myself, on my side. cradling a new life growing inside.

It will be happiness and heartbreak. And maybe both together.

((Creotiv))

People

Brilliant. I got married and quit blogging. I'm a blogging statistic.

 I started out as a single blogger who read other single bloggers.

In all fairness, I was slowing down pretty good long before the conflict-free, recycled diamond ring.

I'm pretty sure I'll never write a Christian-wife blog or a mommy blog. But I guess you never know. A year ago I decided to pursue travel writing. And then I got married instead. I went to Australia, then took a couple courses and started writing full-time. Just not here. I love my job, but I think it hurt my love for rambling posts and Because or Why Not. Who knows what next year will bring.

Now at least three of my RL single friends have started marvellous travel blogs as they start changing the world in Uganda and the Philippines, or just explore the globe on their own terms.

I'm posting this because I still read your blogs. I do. Allison, Tabs, Risha, Alex... Sometime only every few months. But 20sb still taught me to care about people I've never met.

Google Reader is leaving us in July. And then I'm turning 27.

I miss this, but you can't have it all.

I will find a way to continue stalking reading your blogs.

And, Risha. How'd you do on 101? I thought it ended in April, only to find my cut-off was January. I will be making a new list this summer.

Broken Pieces

I think of you like yesterday,

(ElifKarakoc)

a smile on your face.

An array of broken pieces

all but dappled shades of gray.

I think of you as everything.

Deception that was chance.

The thought of what we used to be.

Fading error, trip and dance.

I think of us as nothing,

just the stories that we told.

The passion of a summer's morn.

Open water, flakes of gold.

I ponder.  Pensive.  Carefully,

a thought I should forget.

The heavy rest of midnights past

a glimpse I should regret.

For tightly tangled, hidden now.

Leather boots, my thoughts, this kiss.

The comfort of an autumn day.

So much I must dismiss.

Fought and Forgot

I listen to Eminem, sometimes.  My headphones on, the volume up, my angst and anger cringing in the face of pop's greatest claim.  But that's not why.

I listen for the blonde crew cut.  For the baggy jeaned white wife beater of a culture not my own.  For the thrill of memories I'll never have except scrawled in this poem.  And with you.

For those times we parked and fought or didn't fight and I forgot.  For the words that say you better then I ever could.  For the ones that are actually good.  For Stan.  Haunting obsession and dysfunction.

Do you listen to Dido, thinking of me?

For regretting your past, for you.  My present, with you.  A future without.  Not dreaming I'd end up with  some commercialized beats on a mix disc of songs we could both appreciate.  For Cleaning Out the Closet.  Our one common conquer of communication.  For the times that disagreement and you lips on mine were a confused passion.  A plethora of emotion, of action.  And of painfully knowing I could never like Eminem.

Because he reminds me of you.

Crushes and the Blogger

I have a blog crush.  Yes, I do.  But, warning:  You can read this whole post.  I'm still not going to tell you who he is.

See, because this is a real blog crush.  There's the "Hey, Girl!  I think you're funny and a great social network connection so, guess what?  I have a crush on you!"  Those are fun.  They're fine way to tell people I like their writing, I like chatting, I like their twitter and the pictures they take of themselves in the mirror (just kidding.  I don't "crush" on anyone who does that.)  But I think it's a lame use of the term.

Then there's the real crush.  As in, I think I'd like you for real.  I'd like to hang-out with you, go on epic adventures with you.  Maybe, you know, marry you.  That's all.

I think you're funny, intelligent and kinda cute.  Yes, I think about you.  Mostly when you post.  I wish we could be friends.  It would be nice if I could see if we're both the same as we seem to be when we write.  If we could really argue about music on road trips to places we're both excited about.  If we could really talk about what's important and where we want to go.  If you'd let me tag along when you do fun, creative things.  If you'd want to learn to do the things I know.

I never had any sort of never-met-before crush until I started blogging again.  I thought it was stupid to like celebs or people you'd never meet.  I still do, actually.  I like myself better in real life.  I simply like the real part.

Still, though, this post is about someone specific.  The only blogger crush I've ever had that I honestly thought maybe I shared values, lifestyle opinions and interests with.  But he's far too far away.  I've never stalked his Facebook (because I've never thought about it before.  I know what I'm doing after this publishes) or anything silly.  I'll just keep reading his blog and thinking that he's a pretty cool guy.

The internet sucks.

I Hate the Fact

I hate the way he whispers

(AvrilkaTff)

in your hair when I'm around.
I hate the way you close the door
And pretend there's not a sound.
I hate the way you giggle
like you're happy, 'cause you're not
I hate the way I tell myself
I won't give this a thought.

I hate that this is temporary,
everything will change.
I hate the way you look at me,
you think that I'm insane.
I hate his twisted eyebrows
and his soft but piercing stare.
I hate that you convince yourself
you make a perfect pair.

I knew you as a child,
yes, I knew you better then.
Getting to know you better, now,
is something I intend.
It's hard, though, when he holds you close,
and knows I know the truth.
It's hard, though, when you hold his hand
and won't accept the proof.

I've made my own mistakes, you know.
I'm not one to pretend.
I'd take my own advice, you know,
if I could do it all again.
I've learned a few hard lessons,
guess they shaped me as I grew.
I think about it now,
the same will happen to you.

I hate him for the way I know
he'll let you down one night.
I hate there's nothing I can do
to help you learn to fight.
I hate the fact I care to much,
I just can't help you see.
But I know you're just becoming
the beautiful woman to be.

---

Hello to any awesome new followers, and welcome!  Don't worry, I only rarely inflict my "poems" upon you all.

Foreign Flavour

(Jahblessme)

I think I think I like you
'Cause I really think you're cute
You're sweet but you are edgy
Like you're trying to improve

You smile, hold the door,
but in every conversation
I'm really very certain
you swear without realization

You're genuinely thoughtful,
even when I know you're wasted
Like a new and foreign flavour
that I've never really tasted.

You wear death metal t-shirts.
Yeah, you seem a little shady,
but you really are exceptional
at helping out old ladies.

I think I think I like you,
and I know you think I'm hot.
So this may seem a little crazy...
I won't give us a shot.

Because We Don't Like the Way it Hurts

I was torn about embedding this so if you're going to watch this video then please also read the post.



Now I've only just got around to actually watching this music video, and it is full on pissing me off.  They have the attractive actors, the big names (hello Eminem and Rihanna), and all the documented passion of a physical relationship.

Is it just me, or are they enabling abuse?  Rihanna?  Seriously?  You never liked the way it hurt, and it's wrong for you to tell the seventeen year olds watching MTV that they should.

The worst is the conclusion reached...

"If she ever tries to fuckin' leave again I'm gonna tie her to the bed and set the house on fire."

I'm all for entertainment that enters a real life emotion.  I'll never cringe from an honest exploration.  And I'm not doubting that this one accurately portrays one side of the emotion involved with abuse.  It screams, actually, of relative accuracy.  Especially Eminem's dialog.

But I'm not impressed. I'm a fighter.  The hardest act is leaving.  That's what we need to be enabling.

Tracing Patterns

She likes the way her fingers trace patterns on her arm when she's nervous.  She likes the way he's started to do it, too.  She likes that his head is up, his shoulders back, and that she can still tell by the small circles working their way up onto her shoulder.

She likes that she fits in that crook of that shoulder.  That she can shoot darting looks of contempt, all 5'3 of her, and feel safe.  The circles will trace faster well jaws get clenched and chins raised.  She likes wearing leather boots and bandanna cuffs and feeling bad-ass.  And she likes that if she could choose to wear heels and a summer dress it would still look good with his jeans and black t-shirt.

She likes that he's in control.  At least right here, right now.  And that she could turn it around by sliding her own hand down his back.

They are like this.  Her hands pushed deep in her pockets.  Nonchalant and brooding.  Comfortable.  Everyone knows them.  Not by name, just by the toques and bored glares.

You know they're not going anywhere.  The best part is that they don't care.  And, if they don't care you've got nothing on them.  They can own it, here.  Get off their main street.  Leave their concrete bench alone.  You don't want to sit there among broken glass anyway.

She doesn't remember when he first put his arm around her.  She knows it was somewhere back in grade nine.  Probably around the time she first started getting stoned on lunch break.  Back then when she wore her Silver jeans every single day.  Leaning against the chain link fence at the back of the school.

What she will always remember is sitting in the back of employment workshops, his arm around her.  She'll remember wanting to practice an interview, but making snarky comments instead.  It's the way they are. Learned complacency.

She likes it this way too much.  Needing it.  Suddenly realizing he also needs her.  She starts tracing circles on her arm.

(OrazioFlacco)

---

An American Dropout inspired me to try my hand at a little more fiction.  It's always been my favourite to write, so don't be surprised if you see more.  I'll be sure to always label it as such.  Thoughts?