20.7.11

This Poem Has a Horribly Long Title

There Are Other Dimensions Where This Never Happened, Probably Because We Died in a Horrible Car Accident or Because We Simply Never Met, But I'm Sorry, Regardless

The first night was bliss.
The car smelled like make-up and stale perfume,
and my pulse was building in sync with my anticipation.
You weren't there, but I could tell it was a place you could belong to.
This was the kind of place where I want to be anonymous, loudly.
That is why I painted my face and covered my body in silk (barely).
I drank in the atmosphere like precious water in a barren desert.
I felt alive, every cell burning with energy and healing light;
He was there, an old wound still waiting patiently for a suture.
On fire, I grabbed a needle and made the first stitches, starting over.
I came home with the scents of the evening tangled in my hair.
I've never wanted to touch a cigarette, but I liked the way I smelled like they'd been touching me.
It was a brand-new happiness
And it lasted for days.

The second night was turmoil.
The car was warm,but static, like a foul green pond.
My anticipation was beginning to smell an awful lot like dread.
I felt like we'd entered the wrong dimension, the one where bad decisions get made repeatedly.
The aura of smoke turned my stomach and made me hungry for a change and violently ill, alternately.
I overcompensated for your melancholy and drove deeper your pain, clumsily, cruelly.
Your eyes were too clear and too sad to ignore, your suspicion palpable.
Who could blame you? You never saw the silk-fueled happiness on my face.
You only saw my face and his face, the image of those faces together.
This isn't the dimension where he takes my hand and we fall in love.
This is the dimension where I find an unlikely friend.
This is a wound in my heart.
And it will last for longer.

There will not be a third night, chronologically.
But the fourth night will bring an uneasy peace.

11.7.11

I Am A Dork (But this is ok)

So, sometimes people who like to imagine themselves poets (Lars) will be coerced by well-meaning friends to go to open-mike nights at local coffee shops. This is acceptable, and not terribly hard to do. Then, said poet ("poet"?) will sign up to recite a piece, without actually thinking about the fact that there will be a multitude of other, more experienced, arguably more talented poets and musicians who will take the mike first. This will FREAK HER OUT. In a very calm, internal way. You can't freak out while eating crepes. It's not cool. So,, when it comes time to recite her piece, Lars will forgo the longer, more polished piece, and spit this out:

This Morning

I woke up
unbraided
my still wet hair,
and thought of you.

I am not laughing
the way you were
last night.

This will be followed by an awkward silence that lasts for probably only 5 seconds, but actually it will feel longer. Lars will then awkwardly sit down as people realize that was it, and clap. Commence the jokes about brevity.

BUT, it was the first time. And I did it. So you know what? I can be a dork. Next time will be better.

6.7.11

Resolved: IB

Up until 28 minutes ago, the status of my IB Diploma was unresolved. Now it's resolved, because, that's right, Lars is an IB Diploma holder, not just a candidate. BAM. Who can write 4,ooo word essays and get A's on them? ME. Who can dance her way to a full points score in a higher level art? ME. Who can BS her way through a foreign language test and STILL get one point above passing? Still me. History is also now bowing at my feet (ask me a question about 20th century Europe-especially Russia-or Communist China, and I might just be able to write a 5 page essay on it). I am skipping in happy circles. Take that, International Baccalaureate.

2.7.11

Prepare For the Uprising

My friends, it is upon us.

Deer are chasing children. Through churches. In the city where I will be in approximately one month.

They know I'm approaching. Get your shelters ready. It's time.