And then. . .

as a writer i should have words. on paper i have words. i can write many words. some may be misspelled, but i have them. on the phone i have words. not always the correct ones, but i have words. in person i have no words. i point at things and gesture with my hands. i forget that people can't read my mind and also that i have only said the words in my head and not actually spoken them aloud. my mouth does not work. my thoughts move too quickly even for me to follow, and my act on impulse is magnified by one hundred. phrases and things that only i myself can put together and understand into a comprehend able statement are what fall from my mouth.  in person i am a writer that has no words.

Lipogram in C I see many things. I see the sea as it breathes In and out along the sand.  Inhaling and exhaling.  Slowly Deliberately The sand is stroked by the moving sea and I see as the two lovers indulge As we gaze with unknowing eyes As we see as the sea and the sand love one another before our eyes. 

The sun was streaming in through long sun yellow drapes. I laid with my back towards the window the weight of his body making me sink further into the red overstuffed cushions. My chest was his pillow and his arms cradled the side of my body. We were both turned towards the T.V. watching 3:10 to Yuma. I didn't like westerns, but he insisted it was a great movie. I was beginning to dose when I felt his lips against mine. "You're not supposed to be sleeping, you're supposed to be watching the movie," he mumbled against my lips. "But I'm so comfortable." I nuzzled his bottom lip with my own. "You watch the movie, I'll take a little nap," I said stifling a yawn. I scooted further down on the couch. The curve of my back becoming parallel with the couch. His long legs hung over the arm rest, but he stayed where he was. I ran my fingers up the back of his shaggy brown hair and  let them rest on his neck. I could feel my eyes beginnin...

With my fast approaching birthday I've been retrospective about the past years and also about the plans I made for myself as kid. It feels odd to say kid because in my head I don't feel that fast approaching thirty, but nevertheless at the age of eighteen I now realize I was in fact, a kid.  At eighteen I was completely immersed in a four year tumultuous relationship, it was that crazy all engulfing young love that takes us and drags us into the current to be lost in hormones and promises of lasting forever. My plan at that age was to go to college, then to grad school, then apply to the FBI where I would be a criminal profiler, but I would write on the side. Before that relationship ended (one year later) I had written a story for him of how (premonition?) we would break up, but find each other ten years later (because true love is forever) where I described myself as an Adderall popping grad student finishing my masters in clinical psychology. It's been more than ten ye...

Today I painted the porch in my backyard. It is green. I didn't pick the color. Today my horoscope said green was my lucky color. I thought I would have preferred money. Even with the heat and the sweat gathering at the base of my neck, wetting my hair,  there was something soothing about rolling the paint roller up and down against the thirsty wall. With each roll and with each song I sang out of tune to myself I could feel myself making something new. I was making the dirty beige porch new, shiny, green. I was making myself new by shedding thoughts that have been rolling around in my mind for days. I was covering them over along with the beige paint. The sun was my heated companion burning the back of my legs, leaving my calves slightly red as if they were blushing from all the attention. My shoulders ached from stretching longer than my height, longer than my reach. My hands began to shake after hours from gripping the roller, from gripping with sweaty hands and trying to...

I had a dream last night where I stood in the center of a tornado. And although it sounds chaotic because I was in the middle there was the calmness of being in the eye. I could see things, random objects, a tree, a red truck, birds, swirling around me floating and I wanted to reach out touch the quickly spinning air because it seemed like a wall. A moving living wall. Instead of feeling a panic, I felt the same calmness of the eye. Calmness and a curiosity. I stood right arm outstretched fingers seconds away from the swirling air, then I woke up.

under my bed i used to have a shoe box. a box filled with letters and pictures, mementos really of someone. someone i could fit into a box. letters filled with words like "i'm sorry", "i love you", "please forgive me", "i love you". letters filled with nothing and everything. pictures that started out with bright smiles and kisses. pictures i took to capture my happiness because i hoped when i looked at them later i would remember how happy i was. pictures where smiles were dim and comfortable. pictures i took that unknowingly captured how my happiness had faded. eventually i threw away all the "i'm sorries" and kept the "i love you's". i love you's are always more pleasant to remember.