#10 - The Matriarch

There were tremors in her body and an emptiness in her eyes. She looked straight ahead, pursing her lips carefully, breathing with a heaviness that dared to make each breath her last. And yet she pulled herself out of the recliner, cane held firmly in her right hand, and slowly walked me to the door. I slid my right hand into her left and held it lightly. If these were our last moments together, I would give her all of my love, all of my heart, and all of the tenderness I could offer. The Matriarch.

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Her smooth hand slid into mine as we made our way to the door. Does she know what I only vaguely know? Is this the moment that she fears is the last? I move slowly. "We sure do miss you," I say. "We hope you come home soon." She hugs me twice—her body that has changed into womanhood now stronger than my own—and I wonder. I can see her outline, I know her voice, and I am not quite ready.

I am not quite ready.

#9: Redo

If you could visit anyone on the planet right now, who would it be?

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“Can I rephrase that?” I’d say, standing in the doorway of 1994 by my grandfather’s hospital bed— but this time as an adult, in an adult body, and with a more fully developed adult mind and understanding of the situation and its repercussions.

I would go stand beside my younger self and beside that hospital bed where my grandfather lay, broken but peaceful, a mixture of chemicals keeping him sedate. With one hand on my younger self’s shoulder, I would stroke my grandfather’s cheek. I would tell him I love him—and mean it—and of the moments I wish I could remember and the home videos I wish I could make real—and not just fiction—in my mind again.

I would tell him that Grandma is still here with as much life as ever, though she is slowing down, and there seems to be a bit of sadness and quietness in her eyes now. She’s going blind and she fell down a couple weeks ago, but she’s okay. 

She still keeps his photo by her bedside.

Then I would sing to him. I hope he can hear me—the nurses said he could hear me.

In real life, I am not there. But years of loss and grief, I hope, have shaped the way I approach such pain and sadness. I wish I could take that moment just one more time.

My mother once told me that, as that timid and uncertain little girl, I had reached out and held my grandfather's hand. "When you took his hand, he tried to open his eyes," my mother told me. "He wanted to open his eyes so badly."

I remember nothing.

I yearn for a redo—I yearn to love more fully and with more intention. And I hope my grandfather, in his heavenly home, heard me rephrase that.

Heart Studies (Writing Prompt #8)

Write about something you have learned in the last few days.

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I view love on a linear scale, which allows me to freely love many people and not limit my love to certain relations or labels.

It also apparently means that, while teasing my friend as he was leaving my home last week then yelling “Love you! Bye!” to him as he left—which he called back in return— I cannot adequately express my affection to the other man I actually adore and hope to love in an even greater way. And while the former situation was not a big deal, it became a big deal in my mind as I considered the latter.

Maybe my heart— the heart I have studied so carefully and have trusted in vain so many times— is wrong.

We whispered about our hearts that night and I told you the vulnerability that mine felt, how I need you to know it is open and so willing, but there are also walls being built. I am scared, and that is justified. But as we laid beside each other, your fingertips lingering and playing along my arm, my heart beat against those walls so passionately.

She’s yours if you want her.

Input por favor!

Can I get your input on something I have been writing last night / this morning? It is in response to the prompt: What story does my body tell? -- I am most concerned that it is scattered around a bit-- which I think could be okay, if it still flows alright. Thoughts?

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Perception

19: I remember feeling anxiety when a boy put his arm around my waist, being keenly aware of the crease in fat where my body curved. I remember building a wardrobe of empire waisted shirts to hide my little tummy pooch. I remember buying shirts and jeans a size too big, because the next size down felt too tight against my skin. I remember beginning to buy more half-sleeved shirts because I didn't like the way my arms looked in pictures.

I saw chubby, and I hid my body accordingly.

When I was 22, the stress and anxiety of a new situation took its toll and I gained about 20 pounds in a matter of months. And honestly, I was fine. I didn't think much of it. I didn't have time to think much of it.

When I was 23, I returned home. The weight started coming off naturally-- until a medication change (read: hormone change) spiked my weight back up. I learned acceptance. I bought new clothes that weren't necessarily form fitting, but weren't necessarily baggy either. I focused on taking care of myself for my mental and physical well being, to heal from the previous year's wear. I didn't think I would be able to lose the weight, just because extreme dieting was never my thing-- extreme anything isn't my thing. And that was okay.

Adaptation

I remember my brother cooking the squash he grew in his garden. I decided to eat when I was hungry, not eat when I wasn't. I ate what my body asked for, in moderation.

I remember late night bursts of energy and runs around the block, or cycling on a stationary bike in the dead of winter to sort things out in my mind. My body craved movement, so I gave it freely.

I remember gripping my abdomen in pain, curling and stretching my body, trying to find relief. It had never been that bad before. I remember feeling fear in anticipation of the next cycle.

I remember a boy's arms wrapped around my torso, pulling me so terribly close, obeying no constraints. Terrible greed on his part, and in time, a heavy understanding of particular aspects of my physical and mental being.

I remember squatting down into a plank to show a friend that no, I cannot do real push ups, only a lot of "girl" push ups-- and then doing a set of real push ups. I had never tried, so I never knew.

I remember the feeling of the sun burning my chest and arms with the first hint of springtime, and deciding that half-sleeves just weren't going to satisfy my cravings for fresh air and warmth.

I remember cleaning out my childhood bedroom and finding a pair of jeans from when I was a teenager-- and fitting them. Then altering them from boot cut to skinny jeans (styles change, ya know?) and bringing them back to Utah with me.

Contentment

A couple weeks ago a friend and I were flipping through pictures from when I was 22. We got to one when I was probably at the highest weight I had ever been, and he paused to chat about something. I had to pause the conversation and flip to the next picture. He perceived it as me being insecure about my body, but I don't think that was it. (I learned to accept my body, if you recall). I simply did not relate to that person in the picture. I do not look like that person anymore-- I'm 20 pounds lighter, my hair is longer, and even the way I live my life, the way I understand the world and myself has changed.

My body is comparable to my 19-year-old body, but my entire perception of my body has been refined. My butt looks amazing in that tight black skirt. I like the way my collarbone looks in my favorite t-shirt, and the way it drapes around the curves in my waist. And my mid-rise dark wash jeans feel so divine around my legs and hips-- and they fit like a dream.

I've learned that my body is strong, and it is sacred. My body knows what it needs, and I have learned how to hear what it tells me. And if you slide your arms around my waist, my body will rejoice and love you right back, with not even a hint of hesitation.

#6, "Fall Fall Fall"

I don't know if this will go anywhere, but this is what I've been working on the last couple of days:

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hold me down-- winter with her bitter gaze,

and all the shadows that surrounded

and the demons with their lingering arms

and all my sorrow with the lingering scars, leading me to fall-- fall-- fall

It's like-- coming out of my haze, to the rest of my days

feel the shimmering light cross the wicked tides

calm me down-- when i stumble over - lost and founds

the show and tells, I linger, like I 

love him again and again,

like i'd die to be weightless again-- watch me fall.

It's like-- coming out of my haze, to the rest of my days

feel the shimmering light cross the wicked tides

i am. full of an energy, beneath my stride-- keep me going, keep me on time--

coming out of my haze, I'm a million miles- from where i landed

#5

Part A of the prompt:

     What makes you you? What are the things that make you unique or different or the same?

The words pounded through my body like no other. “I am disappointed in you,” she said. And I cried for three days straight. Even the man I sometimes loved did not have time to calm my heaving sobs. This deafening loneliness returns periodically to remind me that sometimes I am not worth much (or so my mind deceitfully tells me).

A therapist once told me that I seem to have a fear of people leaving and hurting me, and unfortunately I have experiences to back that up.

And yet there is a mask sculpted from my flesh that hides those fears. The corners of my mouth lift to a toothy smile. And sometimes that mask is true to my present state of being. Sometimes the most vibrant energy pulses through my soul, leaving no doubt in my mind that God is good, that all is well.

But sometimes the mask hides every intimate detail of my soul so beautifully, and deceives even the closest acquaintance.

I am fragile, but I am also strong. I take those fears and privately let them go, one by one. Then I work fiercely to become more than I was before, to find a grace and refinement that I so desperately desire in my life.

Part B of the prompt:

      How can you challenge yourself to become better writers, storytellers, poets? How can you infuse who you are with your desire to write? Have you done steps one and two and are you ready to really just into step three?

I try to be honest when I write. But I also try to write in a vague, seemingly exaggerated way. I try to hide in my writing, not only to maintain some privacy, but to hopefully let my experiences stretch to become relatable to others. This is not always easy, and I think that is how I push myself, just by continuing on in this practice.

I love the goal of step three: “Infusing the work you are doing with the specific things that make you you.” And I think I capture glimpses of that idea every so often in the things I create-- which sometimes seems quite devastating. But I hope that grace and refinement show through.

#5

My sweet mother, bless her heart, instilled in me a sort of paranoia-- which was surely instilled in her from her own mother. The “lock the doors,” “don’t hike alone,” “be careful when you’re walking downtown at night,” “carry your pepper spray,” “keep a quilt in your car, just in case” sort of paranoia. And as I left for college, I did have my pepper spray and quilt in tow, because I didn’t think to question it.

If I did venture out alone, there was a hint of anxiety just below the surface, keeping my guard up. There still is.

But some nights, there is an inescapable energy that builds within me-- a mix of pain, frustration, and restlessness-- and I have to go. So I throw on a tank top, shove my feet into running shoes, and go.

It was summertime when I truly learned to love my city. The days were almost unbearably warm, but the nights were divine. I began to learn of myself as I meditated to the beat of my feet on the pavement, as I let the cool air rush around my arms and neck, and as I ran around the blocks that carried a much different feel with darkness and street light. Yes, I still carried pepper spray, but I also carried a strength that I had never known before. My city gave that to me. It still does.

#4: The Glow / Boys Around Here

"Can you tell me your happiest memory?" he asked. And I pondered, and I thought, and I considered, and there was nothing.

But there was your face, head on my lap, my lap on your couch, ankles on the coffee table, glow from the credits of a film on the television screen. And your eyes, as transparent as the sea, looking up at me, a small space between your lips, and the glow as I told you that yes, I was yours.

You were mine.

And the space between your lips stretched into a smile. Years later and I can still see it, a look of awe, a look that I have yet to see on another's face. And I smiled too, and laughed, and turned away, shy.

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"Boys Around Here" by Fences:

These mighty eyes, they look at me with no intention. They hit me twice, at first glance, and then a second time.

She said to me, "that sh*t you say can really hurt me. I wrote this note, I'll read it once. I feel like giving up."

The boys around here don't respect a thing, respect a thing at all.

The boys around here don't respect me, don't respect me at all.

It's been a while since the night that I first met you. I still got dusty shoes, fear of love, fear of losing you.

I'll be alright if I can just stay in tonight. I don't want to talk. Just let me drink, tomorrow we'll give up.

22 March 2013

All my branches extend into ashes

the remnants of what were, what was

and in my bones, my wrinkles, breathing

there springs a river of everlasting life

flowing from my bones, my breast

and one who keeps swimming--

it was you all along.

(a response to the prompt "are you even the main character in your own story?" 

that a friend presented me with last month)

One by one

Bare feet on grey stone. 

The ever growing puddles seep between my toes as I step across the driveway. 

That smell, the smell of rain. Years later a friend would hypothesize that the smell comes from dirt getting wet, or something like that. But right now, the thought doesn't even cross my mind.

I am fourteen-years-old.

I feel the drops on my arms, my face. One by one.

Then I dash back inside.

(Two days later I develop a cold that will linger for two more weeks.

But I still think it was worth it.)

The "What If?"

"What are the insecurities or walls that are holding you back from pursuing your desire to write?"

I didn't want to come straight out and say that it was pure laziness keeping me from writing, but I just found a chocolate stain on my bed sheet, so now you know. And now I can get on with this laziness issue.

I have found myself thinking about being intentional with creativity. There's this idea in my mind, a recognition of truth, that says that if I spend as much time creating as I do with school, my internship, or my job, then everything will fall into place beautifully. It will be better than I can even imagine. Creativity alone awakens my soul in a way that nothing else has, but what if I can feed not only my soul, but my own physical body with creativity? What if I can make it?

And then the pressure to do everything. And then I am behind in school, in my internship, in my job. And then I watch Parks and Rec on Hulu and it is hilarious and then I sleep. (There's a Diet Coke somewhere in there).

Maybe it isn't pure laziness. Maybe the idea itself-- that I can really do this-- is what is holding me back.

To Forget

There are chunks of my life that I cannot recall. Moments that others remember and recite to me seamlessly, but that I cannot even gather. There is a hole in my mind (or heart?) that I cannot explain.

But I remember the bitterness I felt toward one, and the devotion I so badly wanted to give to another. I remember the aching, the loneliness, the fall, because I put them into words.

I write to connect. I write to hide. I write to savor that darkness that I can't otherwise define.

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"To live in the world of creation-- to get into it and stay in it-- to frequent it and haunt it... to think intently and fruitfully, to woo combinations and inspirations into being by a depth and continuity of attention and meditation-- this is the only thing." -Henry James

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[I'm Allison, and I'm a musician. I write songs, but dabble in other areas when the opportunity arises.]