Yearning to Feel

It's one thirty in the morning
Pouring down rain
I unlocked my front door
Stepped off the stair
And soaked in it
I felt connected to each drop
I held out my hands
Bent back my head
And cried.
Where the rain stopped
And the tears began
I could not tell.
Headlights approached and
I learned that vulnerability
Is still a stranger
I turned away
Looked inside
Then back to the street
Opened the door
Dried my tears
But not my hair
Or tank top
Here I sit, shivering
Yearning to feel the rain

Post (my)Secret

Thanks to Stephen and H, PostSecret now defines my Sunday mornings. I read every week and marvel at the contributors' vulnerability and creativity. Some make me smile, some make me think, and some cause despair. Secrets come in all sizes.

Last night, I sat for a good twenty minutes hoping to formulate the many secrets I know I have. Once I started, I couldn't stop. I found my souvenir postcards and went wild. I ripped off the cover of my Spanish to English Dictionary because I couldn't find another worthy medium. I ended up with four, proud secrets.

PostSecret "judges", if you will, go through thousands a day, I'm sure. Yet the comfort in mailing my secrets to a willing reader is immense. I wonder the reactions of my mail lady...how many has she seen? Will she begin to think of her own secrets? This is a marvelous operation.

I now visit PostSecret as a potential contributor. Even if these don't make it, they are no longer secrets. They don't need to be shared with the important people in my life, do they? A stranger will do just fine. It feels really, really good.

(This post would have been loaded with links, but my "insert link" thingy is temperamental. Visit the Link List to the left, if you wish.)

Summeritis

Come tomorrow, I will have had this here blog for one month. This is my 49th post. That is definitely more than one per day, so going two days without one seems uncommonly bare. Isn't that funny? TWO DAYS, what am I gonna do?

If it weren't for my extreme lack of ideas, I'd be handling it a bit better. My brain has become a giant black hole due to the allure of summer vacation. My days are uninteresting save high school social drama, but you don't want to hear about that. Neither do I.

I kept thinking an epiphany would come -- a wise, worldly idea worth discussing. Nope. I hoped I would come up with an original, thoughtful short story plot. I'm still sitting on that one.


Three more weeks. This includes End of Course Tests, half-days, and finals week. I need to get the heck out of there. I need to get my creative juices flowing; they've either come to a standstill or been sucked out completely.

A Love Rock for Grandma Jo

Shortly before she passed away eight years ago, we took Grandma Jo to the park. Jack and I took turns wheeling her around; Skye was too small. I suppose I was eye-level with her sitting figure at the age of seven and remember discussing rocks. I would pick one up, and she would tell me what the shape reminded her of. There was a boat, a leaf, and a heart. This last one we argued about for a bit. She would turn it clockwise and tell me it was an "L"; a Lucy rock. No, Grandma, it's a heart...for love!


I found our heart rock yesterday evening and began to cry. My last memory of her is withdrawn; she began wearing wigs to hide the chemotherapy's effects. Her battle was with ovarian cancer. She would remove the wig when home, as it was itchy and uncomfortable. I hated seeing her bald. She's my grandma, she should have white, fluffy hair. 'Imagine her like a baby - babies are bald,' my dad would tell me. I couldn't bring myself to do so. I felt the baldness embarrassed her and was embarrassed for her. I was watching television in her home when she, wigless, brought me a blanket to wrap up in. I didn't even look her way -- I was too afraid! I know I was little...I tell myself she understood. It's hard, you know, when my memories of my mother's mother include rudeness and a rock. The rock, I will treasure forever. Lucy's rock. Grandma Jo's love rock. I miss her every day and wish emptily that I had more than a heart-shaped rock.

Trying Fiction On for Size

After learning about the Iowa Young Writers' Workshop yesterday afternoon, I have begun writing in preparation for the application. Along with a 1-2 page explanation of why I want to go and a teacher recommendation, I must turn in ten pages of completed work. Those ten pages would be easier to fill if a well-developed story was included, no? But that whole well-developed thing...

I'll be eligible to participate in this junior version of the prestigious Writers' Workshop next summer. For two weeks in June, "120 young writers from across the country come together to share their work, practice craft, and improve their writing in Iowa City, Iowa". Sounds like a blast to me. Plus, it doesn't interrupt band camp.

"If writers were musicians, the Iowa Writers’ Workshop would be like one long jam session." - Sara Langenberg

Understanding

slowly i set myself apart
my lack of social competence
spurring walled introspection
i search within
to brace myself from without

my mother says she doesn't get people
their children would be no different
agreeably, she says this will never change
a specified crowd
provides momentary comfort

this is unsettling, but i understand
who could get me
other than who made me
is every interaction blissfully satisfying
ignorance is bliss



there is nothing more complex
than the pairing of people
or a friendship's niche
love is a recipe
for lack of a better metaphor

perhaps in the end
where my understanding stops
another's will begin
and comfort will be found
in their neverending questions


for another's doubt
invites the integration of mine
i tear down the walls
attempting answers
in hopes of finding my own