Miss Blynn

  

 

I have so many words bouncing around my mind right now, and I'm not sure where to put them.  They don't fit together fast enough and it's like summer again, real summer.  We were real that summer and we are real this summer only more beautiful and less wild.

You don't follow the rules.  Even when you follow the rules, the rules don't follow you.  Your wild is beautiful.  Your ugly is beautiful and your broken is beautiful.

I was always so jealous of you.  Jealous in a good way though, not the bitter resentful kind but the "maybe if I stand close enough I'll catch some beautiful" kind.  I wanted stars on my ceiling and paint in my hair.

I hope you're happy.  I hope you stay happy.  I hope you're always a little wild and I hope you always go barefoot in the summer.  I hope your house breaks every rule we learned in interior design and your babies have curly hair and freckles, and I hope you show them how to hold the world in their hands, because no one else knows how to do that quite like you.

I hope you teach them about summer.  Tell them about the bench on the creek and cotton that falls like snow and teach them how to write.  Write them letters, so many letters, and poems, and songs.  Maybe write me one while you're at it.  Tell me about your babies and I'll tell you I hope they're just like their mama, because if they are then I know they'll turn out just right.

On the Little Known Educational Value of Late-Night Walmart Runs, an Ode to the Worthless and the Insignificant

The Walmart bathroom plays the best music.  A kind of white trash, extra frumpy, "bless their heart" attempt at elevator music.  The kind of music that makes you contemplate the world and all the other ways you could have ended up.

Like you could have been a billionaire or a movie star or absurdly beautiful or something, but on the other hand you could have been the person who wrote the Walmart bathroom music.

Because think about it: somebody had to write that.  And that somebody could have been you but it isn't.  It could have been you but it isn't and now you're sitting there listening to Mumford and Sons or something, wearing your thrifted cat sweater in the most ironic way possible, while they are the one who donated that sweater to D.I. in the first place probably.

Throwback to February 19: Restlessness, or everything good happens in July.

This one is really old too.  Seems to be a theme today.

It's always worse in February.

The clock begins to thaw just enough that I'm aware of time passing, just enough that I become restless, just enough that my blood begins to flow.  I'm no longer content with hibernating, with sleeping, with waiting in my frozen limbo.

I keep screaming, "Wake up! Wake up, the whole world is waiting for you!"  But all I can do is hit the snooze button one more, two more, three more times.  It's about as hard to fall asleep in February as it is to wake up the third week in July when there is no breeze to speak of and water is made of glass.

We all seem to be made of glass these days.

I know I promised I wouldn't apologize anymore but I can't seem to stop.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  No, look at me, I'm sorry.  No, look at me, can you see me?  Am I already invisible?  My skin is tingling, can you still feel my heartbeat?  I might be dissolving.  Can you keep me here?  Keep a tight hold on me.  Look at me, no, listen to me.  Am I coming through?  This is Rogers to God, Rogers to God, can you send me a miracle?  Over.

Because it'll be a miracle if we get through this in one piece.

I'm following the rules.  I'm keeping all toes behind the line, both feet on the floor, and both hands over my mouth, and I always comes before E, except after C and on select politically correct holidays, right?  And I always come after you, but only when I remember that I shouldn't be selfish and that cheerleaders are people too.  Too bad I always seem to forget.  I forgot your birthday and I forgot to tell you that I found the perfect pen.  Too bad I forget everything that I don't write down and most things that I do write down, but it's not for lack of trying.  It's just that I'm a bit preoccupied.  I'm trying to find the words to put you down on paper so I can keep you on a corkboard with a pin stuck through your beautiful chest, wings outstretched.

Look everyone.  Look what I caught.  Ain't it a picture? I named it after me, this is                .  It's mine now.

But wait, I'm being selfish again, aren't I?  I forget that I can't just take everything that I want.  Nothing here really belongs to me.  Not the lake or the grass or going barefoot in the summer.  Not the cornrows in your hair or last year's locker combination or Jason Mraz.  Not even Shawn Mullins and the third week in July.

Just me.

Throwback to March 22: Nothing says late 18th century gothic novel like a pair of purple bell bottoms.

I found this on my kumquats blog and decided I wanted it here as well.  So, enjoy.

I don't know who I am, or rather, who I was.  Or rather, who I was doesn't know who I am and who I am doesn't know who I will be or who I hope to be or who I need to become.

I've have so much inside me and now it's almost over and it's starting to leak out.  Do you remember when we started?  Do you remember when I was innocent and afraid and Maddiey was judgmental and insecure and Brynn curled her hair everyday?  Now I've been kissed too much and Maddiey has found her voice and Brynn is still beyond words.  You always were a hard one to put on paper. 

It's only 10:00 but I feel like it's almost morning and I wish the house were dark and quiet like Christmas eve or when you sneak back into the house after a midnight stroll. 

Catch me I'm falling, watch me I'm flying.

Grand theft poetry and Mr. Nelson changed my life even though we've never said two words to each other.  I never did tell him that I found the perfect pen.

I hate endings.  Always have.  I hated giving back those t-shirts and unpacking from Girls Camp made me cry.  And this creek will always be ours but it never really belonged to us.  Someday my locker won't open for me and I'll forget where Mr. Smith keeps his ibuprofen and Styrofoam cups.  Empty chairs, empty tables, empty hands, empty water bottles, empty eyes with no more tears to cry.

But Stephen's blood with always stain the barricade and Jacob's hair will still be hanging in Smith's office window. 

When Itzel died I cried like a baby even though I never knew her.  Is she upset that I cried for her when I had no right?  I think I would just be happy that someone cared enough about my friends to be sad with them when I was gone.

I got this beat, this beat, this beat it's bass to bass.  I got this beat this beat this beat, it's bass to bass, it's bass to bass.

Where have I been all my life?  The world is waiting.

"Giving up is way harder than trying"

You're not real.

Ghost.  You slip between my fingers.   Liar.  You're a memory, dream, I feel your whispers but my heart keeps

Beating.
It's pounding.

And my lungs keep filling up with air and I am Real.  I'm alive.  I am Power and I'm Hunger and I'm Strength and I am

Running, pushing, breaking, fighting,
Bigger, braver, stronger, bolder,

Crashing through the ceiling. Tell me no, I'll tell you yes 'cause I am chosen.  I'm not broken.  I'm still hurting but I'm pushing.  I'm a fighter and I'll show you that my fight is just beginning.

We're not done here.  Don't you close your eyes yet. Don't you get afraid.

I have mountains in the way but I am better. Yeah, you showed me, sure, but now I'll show you up and soon I'll show you I don't need a crutch.  My muscles, they can push on through the pain and my heart keeps beating just the same.

You shoot me down but I get up.  I'll never say that I won't fall but you can't keep me on the ground, I keep on climbing.  Soon you'll see me on that pedestal.

Now,
I'm your goddess.

You won't see her mark across my chest but it's branded in my eyes and those eyes bring fire, yeah, I'll burn so bright that you can't turn away.

Make your way to the top of the world and I'm there.

You better hope for your sake that this seat is still open.  I'm hoping too,

But 'til then you can just watch me claim my victory.

SNAPSHOT:  It's hot.  Like, blazing.  That's what I remember the most.  The kind of hot that comes at you from all directions, UV rays burning my skin and the asphalt burning blisters onto the soles of my feet.  W must have had snow cones.  We always had snow cones.  We would have been wearing our bathing suits with basketball shorts.  We wore no shoes.

This was after the flood but before the end of the world.  After childhood but before adulthood.  After middle school and before high school.  This isn't so much an event as it is a collection of events.  An entire two and a half months frozen as a single moment in time.

This was the summer of the kumquats.  This was the summer of the white v-neck.  This was the summer of Ryan Woodfield, of Tyler, and of Regina Spektor.  This summer we were golden.  We lived in an endless dream, a couple of nymphs and naiads masquerading as lovestruck teenage girls.  We broke curfew by an hour and snuck out in the middle of the night and called ourselves rebels.  Called ourselves wild.  About as wild as a bumblebee on a string, we were, and about as tame as the raccoons in Brenna's backyard.

And our bench on the creek saw it all.  Counted our tears and carefully chronicled our fortunes and misfortunes.  That bench became the silent observer of our lives.

How could we know?  How could we know how much this one fleeting summer, this never-ending millisecond would change us forever?

"This is for the benches and the people who sit upon them."

The first time you kissed me I went to bed without brushing my teeth.

The first time you kissed me you tasted like summertime, like poetry and steel guitar strings, like sidewalk chalk and sitting on park benches.

I belong to "the tribe that reads" and I belong to the tribe that sits on benches, and baby, so do you.

We belong to the tribe that sits on benches and we belong to each other, and I belong under your arm with my head on your chest, and that's really all I've ever wanted.

I'm not trying to rebel, I'm just trying to be human.

I'm not trying to rebel, I'm just trying to find my soul.

You told me that I'm not indie and I said, "Baby, I could have told you that."

And I said, "I know, I was never trying to be."

I'm not trying to escape society, to break social norms, to be different just for the sake of being different, because no matter how we try, we're really all the same. 

All of our branches reach towards the same sky, and under the surface our roots all grow together and interconnect until we're all a part of the same tree.

And our roots grow deep and our roots grow far and they graft together and form neural networks that span the entire globe.

See, on a cellular level we're all made of the same stuff and most of our DNA is identical, and I'm always looking for those similarities.

I'm always looking for somewhere I fit, for somewhere I belong, and with you I know I've found it.

Yeah, we're both made of the same stuff.

Yeah, we're made of something entirely different, and you're bright yellow and I'm dark blue.

And you can fly but my feet don't leave the ground.

And you sink but I always float.

And you're tomorrow and I'm today

And that's why we complement each other.  That's why we fit like matching puzzle pieces.

Our fingers fit together like our lips fit together like our hearts fit together, like our souls intertwine

And I know the calluses on your palms like you know the curvature of my spine.

Like I know the way your chest rises and falls

And I count the freckles on your cheekbones the way I count the stars.

You know, you're always on my mind, baby.

Like when I wake up and I wish we could make waffles together and I would bring the banana popsicles and you would bring the whipped cream.

Like when the golden leaves on bright white aspen pillars whisper your name and beg me to carve our initials into their trunks, and even the sagebrush and cactus remind me of you.

Like when it rains and I wish we could run outside, strip our shirts off and dance, because imagine how free we would feel with the ice cold water droplets stinging our bare skin and washing away our fears and the knots in our backs the way it washes away the smoke in the air

And my sidewalk chalk sketches.

And then you would kiss me again, and this time it would taste like autumn, like composition notebooks and cinnamon, like sweatshirts and the smell of your cologne

And when we open our eyes we'll know what forever feels like.

OH.

"Well, there's a first time for everything.  I'm pretty sure tonight proves that."

You never can tell with bees.

I never saw that one coming.

No really, I didn't.  I was just minding my own business.  I wasn't looking for anything, honest.

Okay, so maybe that was a bit of a lie, but the rest of it was all true, I promise.  Cross my heart.  And boy, is it pounding.  I can feel it beating, pulsing, pumping blood through my body so fast that I can't help but run, barefooted in my cut-off shorts.  I know I must look crazy, but maybe I'm not. Maybe there's something to all of this.  "Can you feel my heart?  I think I feel it too."

See, there's no recipe book for things like this.  Two cups of flour, one egg, and a spoonfull of sugar.  It's not that simple here.  You're just going to have to try it and see.  Until then you'll never know if a loaf of french bread, a dead fish, and a superman watch is the recipe for disaster or, I don't know, cheesecake or something. But do you know what I think?  I think you just might end up with a sunlight flavored sports drink that won't stain your clothes or your soul.  But what do I know?  What do I know? It's just a feeling. 

So here we go.  Plunging headfirst into this crazy mess and putting our names down for round one of "let's turn our hearts into crash test dummies."  Hopefully those airbags hold up.  But you know what? I've got a feeling that they will.  Can you feel it?  I think I feel it too.


"Roses are red
Violets are blue
You're pretty stellar
But you're annoying too."


With love,
Dani

Of Boys and Pens, Take 2

This is about karma.

 It’s about how if you decide to break into somebody’s locker and steal all of their pens, chances are that all of your favorite pens will stop working or else disappear in the near future.

Hypothetically, of course.

 This is about how when you tell awkward stories about someone, most likely one of their best friends will be nearby, listening to every word you say.  Also, if you decide that you’re too high and mighty to listen to the universe, I can almost guarantee that the next time you tell that story, you’ll turn around to discover that their other best friend has been walking behind you the entire time.

 Not like that has ever happened to me or anything.

This is to warn you that of you decide that you are sick of having nothing going on, and that you wish you had something to do other than lying around the house all day, the universe will probably completely overload you with things to do.  And if you spend all of your lazy days complaining at top volume about how bored you are with your life, your giant to-do list will probably arrive in the last 2 weeks of the term, leaving you with no time to study and even less time to sleep.

But I wouldn’t really know, because that would never happen to me.

I'm craving orange juice.

I'm told I need to study, because you realize that AP testing starts next week?  But I say "no, just give me a tall glass of orange juice and let me sleep for 27 more days."

My mom tells me to clean my room.  She can barely see the floor.  And also, maybe I should do my laundry once in a while and then I'll have something to wear.  "No thank you, wearing the same oversized sweatshirt for a week and a half is fine with me.  But I'll take an ice cold orange juice."

We're kind of a thing, this sweatshirt and I.

You see, I always have "such damn cold hands."  I guess I have poor circulation.  I guess my heart can't pump my blood to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes.  Hot, flowing blood could warm my hands better than his sandpaper palms or my ugly, old sweatshirt.

Maybe my hands would warm up and start to sweat, and all my worries and fears would run from my heart, through my bloodstream, and down to my sweaty palms.  Maybe they would all dissolve and slip out of my body.

I bet if you tasted my sweat it would taste like salt and heartache, and if I touched your skin it would turn bright white and I would leave a warm colorless handprint.  It would linger for a few seconds before it began to fade away.

Do you think you would talk to me then?  Isn't that what you want?  Isn't it?  Weren't you just talking about how all you want is to be heard?  You don't want to fry a fish; you just want someone to listen to what you're saying.  You've got something to say and goshdangit! You want to say it.

Well, kid, all I want to do is listen.  You see?  I've already heard you.  I'm already listening.

But you weren't talking to me, were you?

So I guess I'll keep on wearing this retro sweatshirt, and counting out beats in sixes, and using up the ink in my pen, because even though I'm not a poet, I've been writing poetry all along.  I may not be a musician, but I keep on singing the same old song over and over and over, and it says "everything is gonna be alright."

And maybe it will.  Even though my hands are still  freezing, there's a whole lot of hope running through my veins, right along with the hurt and the fear and the orange juice.

"J'ai besoin d'un boisson."

Sincerely,
Cordially,
Affectionately,
Rolfe
Dani

In the Desert

By Stephen Crane

 

 

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

“And because it is my heart.”

How old is your soul?

I've been thinking a lot lately, but I'm not sure how to get those thoughts to come down from my brain and out through my mouth or my fingers.  I hear things and read things and see things that make me feel things that make me think things, but none of those things ever seem to come together in just the right way.

But maybe they don't have to fit perfectly.

I've been thinking about love.  I've been thinking about how you can love someone, but one day you can turn around and discover that you don't really love them at all anymore.  Or how sometimes you love someone, but that doesn't mean you want them around all the time.  Or how other times you love someone so much that you don't care what they do.

You just love them.

I've been thinking about wishing.  I've been thinking about wishing so bad for something that never happens.  I've been thinking about dreams that are never realized, but also about dreams that are.  I've been thinking about prayers that are answered.

I've been thinking about growing.  I've been thinking about how we never stop growing, and how I hope we're growing more understanding, more confident, and more compassionate, rather than more judgmental, more insecure, and more uncaring.

I've been thinking about fear.  I've been thinking about all of the things that I swore I wouldn't be afraid of anymore, and realizing that no matter how hard I try, I'll still be afraid.

I've been thinking about how that's okay, because after all, I'm only human.

I've been thinking about symbols, motifs, and themes, but I've also been thinking about derivatives and how the sine of pi/2 is one.

I've been thinking about how I've spent so much time thinking that I haven't had much time to do anything else.

It's hard to dance with a devil on your back, so shake him off.

You're using your headphones to drown out your mind.

When you don't wear shoes you build calluses on your feet; metal strings build calluses on your fingers; and monkey bars, gymnastics, and waterskiing build calluses on your palms.

That's one of those things I can't stop thinking about, just like iced lavender, that kid playing kumbayah on the piano, salt and vinegar potato chips, lace tablecloths, emoticons, and Matthew McConaughey.

I have a new wish.  I would tell you all about it but then it won't come true.

Welcome to the planet.

With love, Dani

Rococo

I'm not really sure what to say about everything, so I think I'll just let everything speak for itself.  My words wouldn't do it justice anyways.

It's like watching the kid you don't know but you wish you did, or the one you do know but not very well.

It's like knowing that 10 years ago you were just like that little girl, and that your mother was in 1977 and that little Russian lady was in 1914.  That the little boy who said "to hell with the Kaiser" meant it because probably his brother or his dad were killed.

It's like loving the boy who wears Nike and likes to dance and the girl who drinks her coffee in first period and cries on New Years Day, like the boy who wears plaid pants and the one who braids your hair.  It's like loving someone you have never spoken to, only because that girl you used to know was in love with him.

But it's also like loving the girl with the 80s sweater who calls you by your last name or the tall boy who always says hi.

It's like how Charlie read The Catcher in the Rye so that he wouldn't feel like crying, but that's the book that made me cry in the first place.

It's like when people take things seriously that are mostly just a joke.

It's like listening to the same song 5 times in a row and you're still not sick of it.

"Using great big words that they don’t understand."

With love,

Dani

This is the first blog post of the year.

It comes after the first sunday dinner, after the first hug and after the first slow dance, but before the first journal entry, before the first cry and before the end of the world.

I feel like I should have more to say but I guess I don't.


New years resolution: I will do better in school, because we all need to do better in school.

New years resolution: I will make new friends.

New years resolution: I will not be afraid.

Twenty-two things about me.

One for each year plus six extra.  Eleven plus eleven*.

one.  I believe in love at first sight.

two.  I hate when my bedroom door is open.

three.  I like sentences that are short, snappy, and to the point.

four.  I love beginnings, but am terrified of endings.

five.  I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

six.  I wish on shooting stars.

seven.  I believe that everything happens for a reason.

eight.  I pretend to know more than I really do.

nine.  Rain is my favorite smell in the world.

ten.  I love things that are a bit quirky and different.

eleven.  I love words.

twelve.  I used to wonder what it would be like to be an inanimate object.

thirteen.  I am a procrastinator.

fourteen.  I love old-fashioned things.

fifteen.  I like my marshmallows golden brown, not burnt.

sixteen.  I would rather wear a dress than pants.

seventeen.  I sing 2nd alto.

eighteen.  I'm a people-watcher.

nineteen.  I love stars.

twenty.  I write with sharpies and expo markers.

twenty-one.  I don't approve of wide ruled paper.

twenty-two.  If I sleep on my hair wet it won't be dry in the morning.


Do something crazy just because you can.
And I mean like, really crazy.

Love and kisses,
Dani

*Can I wish on that?  Please bless...

It's only half past the point of no return*

I have little burns on all of my finger tips and on the tip of my tongue.  I have two new zits that weren't there when I went to bed last night and a chip on my fingernail.  I have a little hollow place inside of my heart that I'm trying to fill with love and laughter and words and hugs but it doesn't stay full.

I have scars on my skin and my soul but I also have a little smirk on my mouth because even though you won't say so, I think we might be more than friends.

I have songs stuck in my head and on my lips and on my fingers and on my toes but I think I'll keep them there.  I have brains in my head and feet in my shoes, and moonlight bleeding from out of my soul and words melting on my tongue.

I like the way they taste.

I have the touch of your hands on mine and the feel of your head on my shoulder even though you're not there anymore.  I have butterflies in my stomach and goosebumps on my arms and legs and the back of my neck.

Only they're the good kind of goosebumps.  The kind where I'm excited and nervous at the same time.

"Who'd have known
when you flash up on my phone
I no longer feel alone."


Love and kisses,
Dani

*I definitely checked my watch to figure that one out.  I may have even done a few quick calculations.  Because, you know... that's completely relevant...

You must be the reason I'm alive

You know that moment when you pass him in the hall and he stops to say hi and give you a hug, and you're grinning like a cheshire cat all the way to your next class?

Or when you have to open his locker for him because he can never open it on the first try.

Or when he walks you to 4th period everyday after lunch.

When he texts you just to ask if you're feeling okay.


When he hugs you and your head is on his chest


or when he plays with your hands.


When he shares his coke and m&ms even though you're sick and afflicted.


When he misses his bus because he's talking to you for too long, and then he sits and talks to you for a while longer even though you both have somewhere to be.

"When i'm with you
you know you make my days
so beautiful
with your different ways
you make me lighter
i'm movin with the wind"

Love and kisses,
Dani

Phrase-ology.

It's not really that I haven't had anything to say, it's just that I haven't had time to say it.  And now that I have time to say it, I'm trying to find the words to say it in.  "Phrase-ology" said the Brandon.

That seems to be my biggest problem these days.  Not what to say but how to say it.  Getting it out the right way, or even just getting it out at all.  Phrase-ology.

"I am very brave," Sheila Rae said, patting herself on the back.

I wish I was very brave.  If I were very brave I would just say exactly what I mean to say exactly when and how I mean to say it.  If I were very brave I would take a risk.  If I were very brave I would just tell him: "I really like you."  I  wouldn't be afraid.  "If I were really the person I wanted to be" said the Kristen.

With my eyes closed all I see is the skyline through the window, the moon above you, and the streets below.

Love and kisses,
Dani