To Absent Friends

She would be happy to know that all four glasses were being used then. Poured merriment, each one sitting in a socially ritualistic manner, equal distance from the next.

The glasses were a birthday present from her. When I said so, Chris rose his glass and said, "to absent friends."

"To absent friends," we chimed, and the glasses all met in the middle of the circular table.

Through years of every stage a friendship can find, she's given me much; she's given me me. And then she left. She made me a stronger person, and now that she is not near, my soul feels starved.

As long as I've known her, she's always lived in the same yellow house.

Changes, changes, changes.

Inner demons of my past are resurfacing. I'd shoved them away for so many years, I thought that I had succeeded in deluding myself of their existence. But they appear now as trenches that I need to either climb deeply into, or leap across, if I think there's a chance I can jump so far.

I want to talk to her, to tell her about all the things that she knows about me that are not true anymore. I need her to know. I need someone to know.

But, I do not even know.

It's night, and I'm driving, and I pass the road that leads to her house. As long as I have known her, this road has led to her.

I feel I am about to burst, I am so tired of second-guessing myself. I feel I am about to find the nearest stranger and ask them if they want to run away to Portland and sleep in a hotel. Drink a lot, and tell secrets. I feel this so strongly, that the idea does not seem weird, and I do not feel as though someone could even pass up such an offer.

I feel I am about to burst. I know that such a proposal would have most people concerned, and scared of me in my frantic desperation.

As long as I have known her, this road has led to her. A part of me wonders if the paved street could somehow recognize the spirit of its function; if it could somehow take me to her now. But I don't have that kind of faith, so I pass it by.

Getting ready to fly to Paris

Mom: They're being more lenient these days, so maybe they'll let you bring more [liquids] on your carry-on. Well, actually, because you're...a rebel, look like a rebel, maybe you shouldn't.

Me: (Laughing) I like your little pause, there.

Mom: I don't know if rebel was the right word. You're...

Me: A person of color with orange hair?

Mom: Yeah.

Living in this country is funny, sometimes.

Excerpt from personal journal--

Because I have been a bad blogger these past couple weeks, I make myself vulnerable by typing up an entry from my personal journal. I am willing to share it, happy even. That is not to say I don't worry about how people may judge unprotected words.

Thursday, October 18, 2012
I have felt very alive, conscious in my pain, for the last fortnight. Anxiety is rushing me, and when I wake in the morning, it is with furrowed eyebrows and eyes that are tired from either too much sleep or too little, I cannot tell.

My whole life I have pushed forward, to make it through school. Last year was easily the most difficult school year of my life. This year, I wanted to make it easier. But I am finding that my experiences have worn me and I don't want to try anymore. I want to be done.

I think of school work, but then I sit down and read American Gods. I worry about the fact that I am already behind. And even though I know that in reality I am unsettled, I feel complete contentment as I exist in the midday, still in pajamas and reading poetry aloud to myself.

I am doing things wrong. I am not doing schoolwork. In those moments, I don't even worry about schoolwork. As I read the poetry, I felt and thought, "this is how I want to live my life." Such absolute beauty. In emotion. Sometimes when I am really just...unhappy and depressed, I can connect to music of that sort. And it makes life unbelievable. Perhaps I am unhappy, perhaps I am not where I want to be and am not doing the things I want to do, but the music!

Robert Frost. I've been reading his poetry. My mom and I went for our annual autumn trip, last weekend. On Sunday, we were at an antique store in Bellingham. I saw this really worn book, "Selected Poems of Robert Frost." It's colour and size and texture immediately drew me, and I felt I was picking up something of worth when I touched it.

I sampled it by reading one of the poems. I have never cared much for poetry. I have tried, but it's never actually impacted me. I never got how or why some people are so into poetry. But when I read this poem, I was sold. I mean...the book was $2. I could afford a shot in the dark. But I have read several of the poems in the last couple days, and find that I am in love with this poetry. I understand it. When I first observed the book in the antique store, I thought I might have liked what I read so much because I was trying, because I so wanted to like poetry. But I don't require an effort to be impacted by his poetry. My favorite so far is "A Late Walk." It nearly made my eyes water, and then the fact did make my eyes water, I felt true wonder.

"A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down."
(read full poem here)

The books is over 50 years old, the pages coloured with age and tinged from where someone, at some time, spilled something on it.

It is impacting, alone, to feel so honored by these poems that feel so personal. Stranger, yet, to think someone else may have enjoyed them as much from the same pages. But, perhaps not. The book's cover is worn, and the corners of the book, ruffled. But the binding still quite intact.

Tomorrow, Josh and I go to Missoula again to see Ben & Rose for our (likely) last time 'til spring. Snow that way can get intense, and it seems they shall spend their entire winter, Thanksgiving, Christmas and all, in Missoula.

I feel such appreciation for them.

Well, it is well into October, and still such alarming weather for Seattle. Today it was 60 degrees F, strangely warm and comfortable outside, no need for a jacket or scarf. Once I left the Alliance Française de Seattle, though, it was pouring. It felt...unfamiliar. It was strange that it felt strange! To once more drive in the rain. I am sure it will not feel strange for long. I have heard people await cold weather, but when it brings the rain, people may be complaining about it soon enough.

I kind of love it, though.

Does it seem I am getting more of a life? Perhaps I am. I cannot tell, for I still dwell, but there is little more to say on thoughts already said. I cannot think there is a story or a song that can make people understand what it feels to obsess over what I do.