What I carry

     Earlier this summer I was on Criagslist looking for research studies so that I could get a little pocket money and came across a post entitled, "Do You Suffer From Chronic Pain?" Thinking of my achy knees and warped back, I clicked on the post. The study turned out to concern patients suffering from fibromyalgia. Now, I've heard of the disease however I had no idea what it was.

      Having the sometimes wonderful tool of the internet at my hands, I decided to run a quick Google search and found that fibromyalgia is essentially depression and arthritis, with the addition of excessive tiredness and sleep problems.

     While reading an extensive list of symptoms and common areas of pain I found myself murmuring, "Yup. Yup. Mhhmm, got that. That too."

     Once I began to listen to myself, "Shit," was the word I muttered.

     And I began to think of how things were making far too much sense. For starters, fibromyalgia tends to affect women more commonly than men. And my depression has existed since I could remember, about as long as my knees have throbbed at night. To top it all off, it is impossible for me to crack my back.

      My depression is physical, just as much as it is psychological and emotional.

I am fighting three battles within myself.

In French Class

I hold up a picture of my mother- ma mère.

The students point and struggle to décrites la physiologie.

Elle a les cheveux bruns courts.

Elle est jeune.

My fingertips grip table edges- hot steam rolls through my brain

Clouding up judgment.

The question is repeated

And repeated

And I know the goddamn answer, just stop asking-

Quel, quel

Quel âge a-t-elle?

I remind myself that this is no longer high school and

Rage fits are no longer okay

It’s no good having any outburst because help is never attainable these days.

And so… I can’t be broken. It just isn’t allowed.

Rubbing my forehead I conjure numbers into foreign tongues.

Elle a quarante-neuf ans…

Fighting to keep it all in tact- I learn to breathe again. 

Discernment is the word I was looking for.

Your cousin has hazel eyes, almost green. This is rare enough among people of color, but not enough to make one gawk as he has when seeing my own eyes. My eyes are blue or gray, green if I’m wearing the color. Jagged lines of orange circle my pupils. Still, I was surprised how infatuated he seemed with my orbs, for his were not unattractive. Surrounded by dark long lashes, his eyes are much more than the dull brown seen on most faces.

But I have come across more than a few people who enjoyed looking into my eyes. For a long time I thought the color of my eyes was my only attractive feature. Now I look into the mirror and see that my face has slimmed, giving me the angular cheekbones I had yearned for, my hair is twisted into locks that hang naturally about my face and I see that I am beautiful. So I pucker my full set of lips ad blow myself a kiss as I admire the light glisten on my skin. It is summer and I am a woman, thus I am lovely. 

Dream Journal- To Anthony

Last night I dreamt of giving advice.

I had told your cousin to do a rain dance. I warned that he must take the dance seriously, else the gods will turn deaf to his prayers and rain it shall. Awake, I realize that rain dances only encourages the rain, however in dreams the world can sometimes be in reverse.

We live far apart, your cousin and I. Him in Peru and I here, yet it was to rain over both of our homes. A rain we thought would never end despite had not yet begun. But we both agreed that dancing the rain away would be our only solution.

In my dream, my sister did not understand the importance of our conversation. I sat on a bed with her, in our old room from a time when we were much younger. She began to jostle herself against me, wanting my attention. Thus I locked myself in the bathroom, screaming keep away obscenities towards her face.

As water boiled on the sink, I planted my feet against the base of the toilet with my back against the door, as I’ve done too many times in my youth. She kicked at the door as I warned your cousin, “God and the rest, they are watching. But they will not listen if we do not believe.” I hung up the phone and allowed my sister to open the door and ridicule me as she carried kettles of boiling water away from the sink. 

Here's two paragraphs...

I had always thought that I’d end up in a loony bin. As if being crazy were a destiny worth having and I simply embraced it. It’s probably the only reason I had found myself in such a place as David E. Butler Hospital back when I was freshly seventeen. I am crazy simply because somehow I got it in my head that this is the ways things should be. Sometimes, I think the reason is the world just put me in a weird spot. Other times it’s because I am less ignorant than is expected. Just last Tuesday I decided that I must be crazy because I am left handed.

The day it happened I was sitting in my principal, Janet’s office. I had been sitting in her office far too often back then but sometimes it just seemed as if there was nowhere else to go. In the past I have always blamed the events leading up to the moment were the reason why. But it was not until this very point that I had decided that I was crazy. It was in this office that I realized that I couldn’t end things myself. I could only hope to give a push in the right directions. Sitting at a table that took up much of the space in the room, I had glared at all of those in front of me. This time there were more people than usual, as I had really fucked up. 

At the Shell gas station

I am sitting in the front seat, leaning forward as my skin soaks in the sunlight bouncing off the windshield. I am experiencing feelings of nostalgia. I have always enjoyed being a passenger. Driving about, Jake and I are running errands, our final goal being a carwash. I am presently quivering with anticipation, for it has been a long time since I had rode through one of those automatic, coin-operated, conveyor belt washes. I can only remember the experience was like being trapped in an aquarium, except all the water was on the outside. I am determined not to forget a second time what it means to be in a carwash.

I am sitting quite impatiently, with my hands tucked under my thighs. All I want is see the inside of the car wash. Jake is pulling up to the pay-machine and he slips in seven single dollar bills. He is wanting to get quarters and so he slips in the extra dollar bill. The carwash is only six dollars. The pay-machine is spitting out too many quarters. Jake and I are staring in shock. We are in awe. Jake pulls two handfuls of quarters out of the change tub. I am counting the change by picking the quarters up for at a time into my left hand. I count six dollars and my hands are gritty from the dirt gathered to the silver money. The car wash is only costing Jake one dollar.

            A harshly feminine computer animated voice from the pay-machine is yelling instructions at us, “Shift car into neutral! Do not steer the wheel; let the conveyor belt guide your car through the wash! Press the Start button! Roll up your window! Press the Start button!”

            Jake is yelling at the machine lady to shut up. I am resting back in my seat, waiting for the memory to come back to me through my present experience. I am allowing the machines in front of me to drown out the argument now being had with Jake and the pay-machine girl. We begin forward.

Blue soap is spitting at us. The car is floating through the carwash like a ghost. My vision is obscured by the soap. Giant buffers are rubbing against the sides and windshield of the car. I am feeling much like one who is stuck in an aquarium with the water on the outside. Large tentacles that look much like old t-shirts cut into browned strips, are swashing about the windshield in a fury. Everything is slipping smoothly over the surface of the chrome vehicle and we firmly press on.

I am wondering who it was that invented the conveyor belt car wash. It must have been simple I am not so sure I believe it is necessary. I am comparing a different memory in which I am hand washing the car with my father and the process is longer and more effective. I am swiping a soft, pillow white terry cloth in circles on the windows. I am calm because I am working diligently without thinking. My brain is shifted out of focus.

With Jake, the car now removes itself from the conveyor belt, not much cleaner than it was on entrance. I decide that I will never need to drive through a car wash again. Jake is wanting to come back, he is wishing for more change from the pay machine. I however am only glad to find peace in remembering. We are pulling down the road again and I am happy to be a passenger today. 

This is the Road I Walk 2.

            Just a week before the storm, Chris, Jake and I are on the rocks in Lincoln, behind the movie theatre just trying to kill time. The rocks making such a tiny fuss of a cliff face were amber like a desert without the cacti. We stood facing the paved road of industry. A bitter cold Phoenix Arizona. A city poisoned—the water saturated with bright little pills. The “happy” kind. I know where this road leads and I am glad that the chase is over.

To kill time before our movie Chris, Jake[1] and I watch from the rocks the road in front of us as the lights begin to glow behind us. This industrial desert. Phoenix.  Las Vegas. Santa Fe. These places no longer rise. But collapse under the tar and cancer. On the rocks behind the movie theatre, we stand and watch them die.

---

[1] The one and only in the world. 

We wanted wings

The question arises as we sit on the couch and Chris is playing Madden on Jake’s flat screen. I perch in the white recliner and we wonder,

            “What if we died a long time ago?”

            “So this is Heaven?”

            “Yeah man. We are angels.”

            “We’ve already died and that’s why we question death.”

            “Because this is Heaven and we are disappointed.”

We find conclusions for our questions and pass around the good root. I find an answer for what I had been asking myself for years. Except our discussion ends quickly and I know I will begin to find holes in the walls we had securely built around our beings. Then I’d climb out and find myself defenseless in the open. 

Thought Process

          I find myself growing ever more despondent.

          My thoughts no longer clear when spoken aloud

          I do not understand.

          I do not understand why these words spoken are important but I long for conversation.

          I want more than just mouth words.

          I ride braincycles around my head, wheels constantly turning

          Winding down narrow alleys of broken thoughts.

I am only explaining this as others have found me more disconnected than usual lately. The problem is I have had a lot on my mind and it's been getting harder and harder to put my thoughts into words. Writing my thoughts has also proven difficult. While I understand what's going on up there in my brain, once everything hits the page, it no longer makes sense. For example:

I wonder if anyone ever really looks at themselves.

Do we all see ourselves as so different from everyone else?

I look at myself and only I know myself.

Others see things that I cannot, but only I am ever with myself at all times.

My boyfriend sees different parts of me than his friends, who see a side my friends at school don’t, who see me differently from the poets I talk to and the only people who could ever know me as well as myself but ever refusing to do so is my family.

People have warped opinions about who I am.

And though I like to believe that I am ever so observant and can understand things about a person that they cannot, I will never truly know who someone is unless they are my family. Even then I can be wrong. 

I think myself into these existential circles going around and around trying to pick out every detail and get it right, but there's so much going on that it all gets mixed up and so when I think I have it figured out, I find another hole in the wall. I just wish I knew that I wasn't the only one to think in such a difficult process. It makes having simple conversation impossible. 

Maneraq 1.

In Alaska, the Inuits have over a hundred words to describe different types of snow. For example qanik is falling snow while anijo means snow on the ground. Hiko or tsiko in some dialects is ice. Tsikut describes large broken up masses of ice; hikuliaq equals thin ice. Maneraq or smooth ice. My favorite being akuvijarjuak: thin ice on the sea[1]. I learn this in a cultural anthropology class during a brief discussion of linguistics. When I go to look this up later, the internet claims that linguist and artic explorer** Franz Boaz is a liar. He was only guessing when he shared this information with the world but I believe he told the truth. Otherwise, I would not have words to give you.

The word for Rhode Island’s blizzard of 2013 is Nemo—someone had named the storm as if it were a hurricane. Supplies were wiped out of grocery stores and gas stations the day before the snow came. People began calling the storm by another name, Snowpocalypse. We were expected to receive two feet.

Thursday night I watch the news and it tells me this. I decide to hole up in my boyfriend’s house in a vain attempt towards conforming to fear[2]. I have realized that for the most part, there’s never anything to be afraid of. Everything so far has worked out pretty well and so a mere blizzard cannot effect on my chances. It is important in my depression for me to state this to someone. Otherwise I’d be like I was—when I thought dying was a good idea.

---

[1] From Cecil Adams, February 16, 1979

[2] Really, I just wanted an excuse to spend an entire weekend in his bed without his parents getting irked. 

I'm Thinking of Writing a Book

I especially ask that you comment on this post, as I need help.

I am thinking of writing a book, as I've written a lyric essay for my class which I have received excellent feedback on. As I have quite enjoyed writing this piece (and am now currently enjoying its revision) I hope that I may be able to expand upon the essay until it grows into something of heft.

The biggest issue that the piece has as of yet is its structure. Because it is so far off from conventional, the writing can be hard to navigate. This means people have to read it several times to understand it. While I enjoy that the piece of writing gets people to reread it, but I do not want one to struggle and give up on understanding the text.

Right now it is broken up into sections separated by asterisks. each section is supposed to flow within the piece, but they are still separate vignettes (for lack of a better word), and so people expect the paragraphs to flow right from one to the other when they do not necessarily do so. I do plan on fluffing up the spots between the vignettes so that their order becomes logical to the reader. However I was also considering that instead of using asterisks, maybe I could label the different vignettes as separate chapters.

Please tell me your thoughts on the subject. I will be posting more about this as well as some excerpts so just check in frequently to stay updated. I'm serious about this guys. This will happen.

Sharing Advice

I once met an editor for the Penguin Publishing company at a park in New York. I was reluctant at first to tell her that I myself am a writer, because I did not want her to think I was trying to schmooze in the middle of our conversation. But when she asked what I did, I told her the truth. She then gave me this advice: Don't make a career out the thing you love the most, but out of what you love second best. Otherwise you lose interest and lose sight of your art.

I have not yet made a career out of my writing, but in going to school for writing I already understand why she gave this advice to me. I am starting to forget what it means to write for myself. I am losing the passion I once had and am struggling to enjoy writing. I no longer write poetry, I no longer keep a journal. I don't even carry a notebook with me anymore because I merely write when I have to, not having the time or energy to write when I want to. This scares me.

In the midst of this, my passion for singing has bloomed. I have been writing lyrics and recording music with friends. I love to sing more than anything else and it's not something I ever want to lose. I have never taken a class, have never pursued singing as more than an amateur thus I have never struggled to enjoy singing.

Sometimes we lose sight of ourselves when we become too involved. But it's also important not to get involved at all. I think what the editor was trying to tell me this. To find a balance in my art that does not take away from it or myself. She knew that the balance would not be found in an institution or the corporate world.

I do not (unfortunately) remember her name, but I do thank her for our conversation everyday because with her advice she also gave me hope. She told me she knew I would be great at anything I do and gave me a hug. Every time I am frustrated with writing I remember the things she told me and give myself time to contemplate her words. It allows me to rebalance my art. I remember that writing is for me, not for my school and my professors. When I think of our conversation that day in New York, I can write again.

Marenaq 3.

Once, I was smoking a cigarette outside of my house. As I walked to the end of the driveway to throw the butt into the street, I was reminded of Alaska. I am sure many people in Alaska smoke cigarettes. Just to forget the cold; create a blanket of smoke with a lit fag to keep you warm. Not that I had ever been to Alaska. There was just snow everywhere and the houses hugged the street, huddled for warmth. The sun glared against the glossy surface of the snow banks. I’m not sure I have ever read of Alaska but there are movies—Snow Dogs, The Proposal, and Into the Wild. Except this time, in Providence, I see an Alaska with telephone poles carved by the scarred hands of assimilation.

The Crew debates whether The Walking Dead is better than Lost.
I have only watched the first seven episodes of Lost but I have seen every episode of The Walking Dead.. Already the answer is clear.
The Crew decides that the shows are not comparable and I shake my head in disagreement.

Psycho- A Poem

You wanna know what it’s like?
They made my bed.

I got up each morning at seven; check my vitals, piss, eat and go back into my room.
And voila, my bed was made. Like magic or clockwork or other forces that may exist.

In group therapy, nobody spoke until Nora whined so much that our
fragile glass brains would crack.
“I hate my body.”
“I need nicotine patches.”
“The voices tell me to hate you.”
“Psycho. Psycho. Psycho.”

There’s something about crawling into a perfectly made bed.
Pulling back tucked in blankets and sheets offered a sense of routine.
It almost convinces a person that they are normal.

Don’t believe in the bed. If you were normal you would make this bed yourself. Struggling to get the sheets straight, get the blankets smooth, fluff the pillows.

They encouraged us to create art.
Draw, paint, collages.
They scrutinized when I snipped out magazine pages with safety scissors.
They warned me to be careful, with the dull edges not sharp enough to cut paper, never mind my skin.

If you were normal, the blankets, the sheets, the paper bags they give you to keep your belongings in would not be so fucking white.
White is natural. Pure. Hospital sickly.
They want you to be clean.

No.

If you were normal you’d be home with your blue bedding, your yellow towels, beige walls.
If you were normal, the only things you’d put in paper bags are groceries and old newspapers.
Not your toothbrush and clothes and hairbrush.

Family meetings were dreaded by all.
All of us had parental issues.
My father handed me a bible. I cried. Dr. Tarnoff asked if I wanted him to leave.
Julia was the only one who looked forward to seeing her mother.

If you were normal you’d be in school.
You’d be with friends. You’d have a job. Your parents wouldn’t have restricted visiting hours you’d be able to see your younger siblings. You’d be able to use a phone when you want, a computer, a pair of fucking scissors.
You’d be able to wear jewelry. To smile. To hug the people you like, to flirt, to high five your peers.

But we can’t get involved with the world. Can’t use or be or touch.
You and I…we’re just Psycho…
Psycho. Psycho.

Sometimes I'm just too scared to speak up. I hate myself for it.

The Token Valentine's Post

So Valentine's Day is coming up and it's on a Thursday, which means I will be missing out on my first USEFUL Valentine's Day because I will be in class until 8 pm. Which isn't late except it is when both you and your boyfriend have to work in the morning and are generally in bed by 11. It gives us maybe 2 hours to see each other...not enough time for a date. Which doesn't seem to really matter anyway because my boyfriend doesn't seem to actually believe in Valentine's Day.

"Oh it's just so commercialized...oh it does mean anything...oh.oh.oh."

                                                                                                           Whatever buddy.

Honestly, what holiday isn't commercialized? How is Valentine's more commercialized than Christmas when everyone is raging about searching for talking dolls and Zu-Zu Pets? And Christmas is a religious holiday!? You don't see anybody trying to cancel Christmas for its commercialism. Instead there are Christmas stories and movies and TV specials dedicated to educating people that Christmas is not meant to be celebrated for the presents and spending loads of money. They show people "The True Meaning of Christmas," Jesus' birthday, or family time, or giving to the poor.


I do not think it is the commercialism that bothers people. It's the fact that Valentine's Day is a day to celebrate love. People interpret this different ways and lately love has been interpreted as a negative emotion. People do not like to love anymore. Which is a horrible thing because love is the one of the few things that keeps our morality in check. I believe people misinterpret the word and the emotion itself. They see the word as dooming.

I refuse to not celebrate because I am happy being in love with my boyfriend, with my friends, with my family.

The Walking Dead is telling us something.

We are all decaying. Dying.

Wasting away into this being we call a zombie.

The show may call these creatures Walkers,

but because the living is the dying, it is us who are the walking dead. 

Building the Tension

I think he is reading a book about black people.

That's why I don't want to know what the book is and why he is so interested in discussing J-Mic. Sometimes it's hard to tell whether some of the crew member's are racist or not. They joke aggressively about  racial issues and claim to be oppressed as a middle class white boy. Yet at the same time they respect  me and appreciate my company.

Race is a funny thing. I do not see a bit of difference between J-Mic and Mike other than the fact that Mike is not dying.

Today, We Were Found

Tonight we drove to Bristol on our way to West Warwick. We never made it to our destination as we rode through Massachusetts, Barrington, Warren, turning around back towards Providence just before Historical Bristol. Although we were only wasting gas, I was enjoying the ride. I had been granted shotgun for the entire trip and had not taken advantage of my position. I was merely sitting in front in order to avoid sitting next to a certain fellow passenger. Though I was comfortable, I suffered from the driver's habit of rolling down the window while the heat was on. I thought it would just be simpler to turn down the heat. I did not voice this however, as I wished to respect his decisions.
It seems as though I am constantly getting myself lost. consequently, those who are in my company become lost with me. Our lack of direction tonight was my fault completely. In the beginning of the night I had been reliable is directing the crew on our hunts. It was when we left Providence, when I found that I no longer had any sense of location. I wished to be back in my own turf, where I held more dominance. It seems that every time I lose myself, no matter where I am, I can always find a way back to my beautiful city who's only glory is in its potential.

Bilbo Baggins: The Hobbit in the Hill and The Burglar of the Arkenstone

I feel Like Bilbo Baggins,

The hobbit in the Hill.

All taken advantage of,

Sure you’ll beg me to help save your own life, but when it comes to world peace, that one selfish dwarf
only thinks about his own gold, his own claim to the Arkenstone.

Hey everyone,

Stop throwing me to the elves when I point out your flaws

I already know my own, as Mr Baggins knew his.

Besides, the elves know the good in our intentions that reside in our implications.

They say a true friend tells you the truth no matter what. Guess I’m a true friend, because I won’t lie for
the benefit of your feelings. If no one gives you that slap in the face, you will only become less than what
you are worth.

Mr Baggins wished for the comfort of home, and it was not the last time he wished so,

I wish for the comfort of home, and it will not be the last time I wish so,

But when I find home I shall wish no more,

As Bilbo need not wish as he sang merry with Gandalf and Balin smoking pipe tobacco in his parlour.

Sometimes I just want to stop holding people up to higher expectations. But I have seen potential. And I
believe in potential. And I stand up for what I believe in, as Mr Baggins does.

Bilbo Baggins may have selfish thoughts, but he is not a selfish hobbit.

I may have selfish thoughts, but I am not a selfish girl.

I just have so much love for the world that I cannot allow myself to rest and let it become a waste.

Bevel Knife

I first learned of this word watching an episode of Bones in which the victim was killed by this instrument being stabbed into his throat breaking through his spine and poking out the back of his neck. This is a knife to clean bowling balls. It has three sides. In my research a picture from The Big Lebowski in which Jesus and his team mate were cleaning their balls in these sacks. Jesus was too pretty for his own good, his shiny purple pinky nail flashing in the light. Grown to the perfect length for scooping up lumps of cocaine. There are three holes in a bowling ball, for your thumb and your first two fingers.  Though it is played at a relaxed rate, it is a sport that causes light sweat. Over time the dirt and moisture from the sweaty fingers that are constantly thrusting through the holes along with the dirt and dust that gets picked up while the ball rolls down the lane, comes in to contact with the pins, drops into the darkness where it is shipped into the bowler’s gloved hand. A bevel can scrape of the edges where the filth is gathered inside the hole; its flat edges graze against the hard plastic marble, eviscerating the gut of the ball.

Sometimes things just get too full. Like when you eat a big lunch and you feel as though you’re going to explode. Sometimes it is as simple as popping a squat, smoking a boge, belching generally works. Other times you get dizzy and puke on the bus, all over your brand new black pea coat. Then all you can do is feel bad for the poor lady sitting next to you. She can’t move out of the way and is forced to inhale the stench you made because the bus is overflowing with customers. When the bus arrives at Shaw’s you don’t pull the cord to get off but make eye contact with the bus driver in the rearview mirror mutually agreeing that you must leave. In the Shaw’s bathroom you shed your coat and wash the sleeve off in the sink.

Relief is when congestion is released and the pipes are flowing fluidly again. This happens after a cold when your nose has been blocked up for a week and your lungs are full of mucus. One day you realize that you can breathe silently, without wheezing. It happens when your bowling ball is gutted with a bevel knife. When a boy who tries to intimidate his boss out of the habit of beating his wife is gutted with a bevel knife. A wife beater goes to jail for murder and the boy suffering from Leukemia and an excessive obsession of saving the day dies painlessly. 

Shackles of the Unknown

Some friends of mine run a paranormal investigation group called the Abraham Lincoln Paranormal Research Society or ALPRS. I had spent this previous weekend camping out with the group's president, Chris, and his brother and while we were recording our conversation around the campfire, like the hooligans that we are, Chris caught something on tape that he describes as an orb. An orb in the paranormal sense is thought to be a soul of someone who is haunting the area. Chris had then showed the video to everyone but myself who refused to investigate in a place that I was going to be sleeping in.

Soon afterward the mood had changed around the campfire. While the others tried to keep the fun going, was no longer feeling boisterous but had become more aware of my surroundings. The trees had began to squeak against each other in the wind and an oppressive force had settled upon me. 

This feeling was much like my first interaction with a Ouija board in which I spoke with the spirit of a friend who had been killed in high school. Before, I had never believed in ghosts. I thought death brought nothing but the end, however when you encounter the paranormal for the first time it is impossible to deny their existence. Awareness settles upon you like a dark cloak. It is more than scaring yourself into believing in silly stories because the paranormal affect all of your senses, not just your eyes and ears.

Links:

 An Orb!

ALPRS Facebook Page