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.