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Posts Tagged ‘fear’

Done For

you’re like a signifier for everything I’m coming to want

epiphanies need to be had by the two of us? before we can meld together again?

what is happening when these humans come into our lives

and we can’t forget them

and we can feel them in our veins

firing our synapses for us

licking us clean

from the inside out   ?

i want to come for you

when it means nothing to me

but coming for you.

to feel again

that nonspace between our palms

. i can’t hope for any comparison.

i can only hope to remain in desperate hoping

for the rest of this time (whatever length that might imply)

really though,

it’s coming to MEan

i need someone else to care for

spending life making love and magic

dragging

individual momentum has fallen off
fallen for.

i can’t do this

i am too afraid to do anything but this.

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fearing nearing obsession,

yourestillhereyourestillhereyourestillhere!!! INSIDE ME

this is why it’s become hard to look to the sky!

something I can’t face

baby,

youre here (“whether we like it or not”]]

our stars keeping an eyewatch. measuring their own brightness,

attempting to tempt me on board-

something is wrong

This verges on becoming some prevention method; some extra cyclic sickness

i fear

what if we’ve lost the youth of our connection??

the deeper we go the more difficult it becomes to emerge. skin layers then need peeling

and blood always comes, at least a dusting.

I AM SICK, DEAR, ARE YOU SICK? IS TIME WASTING US FURTHER? BECAUSE OF ME, IS NECESSARY WORK GOING TO SEED without planting?

I’ve never grasped so hard for religion

never needed any guiding

or doubted my impulses

never did I want a set of rules to follow

any sort of panacea

but now that I know everything is so wrong I feel I must scramble to discover and make rightness

now that living requires this much energy

and even more faith

i’m doing nothing. I’m being less.

please please dont blame me for any failings

please please i am too weak will comply-bend-falter-knees collapse into fallen pickles in a dehydrated stack of leather satchels limply weir-els

where is the purpose drive

and why cant i find it within me like always before

this current constant death and apathy

my neck breaks

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Joy, not Exaltation

He like to frequent this club down up on 36th
Pimps and thangs like 2 hang outside and cuss for kicks

Talking 2 no one in particular, they say “the baddest I am tonight”
4 letter words are seldom heard with such dignity and bite.
All the poets and the part time singers always hang inside
live music from a band plays a song called “Soul Psychodelicide”.
The song’s a year long and had been playing 4 months when he
walked into the place.
No one seemed to care, an introverted this-is-it look on most of their faces.
Up on the mic repeating 2 words, over and over again
was this woman he had never noticed before he lost himself in the
articulated manner in which she said them.
These 2 words, a little bit behind the beat.
I mean just enough 2 turn u on.
4 everytime she said the words another one of his doubts were gone.

Should he try 2 rap with her? Should he stand and stare?
No one else was watching her, she didn’t seem 2 care.
So over and over, she said the words til he could take no more, (no more)
he dragged her from the stage and together they ran through the back door
In the alley over by the curb he said tell me what’s your name
she only said the words again and it started to rain (rain, rain, rain)
2 words falling between the drops and the moans of his condition
holding someone is truly believing there’s joy in repetition.
There’s joy in repetition.
There’s joy in repetition.
There’s joy in repetition.
There’s joy in repetition.
She said love me, love me, what she say?
she say love me, love me.
Joy, why don’t u love me baby, joy, why can’t u love me baby
joy, come on and love me baby, joy in repetition
Alright, joy in repetition,
Alright, joy in repetition,
Alright, joy in repetition,
Alright, joy, all my wishes add up to one
Love me, joy, Love me, joy, Love me, joy
Love me, Love me, joy, joy, joy in repetition
joy, joy in repetition,
joy, joy (love me) in repetition,
Love me, love, joy, joy, joy in repetition
joy, and I’m gonna say it again, joy, joy, and I’m gonna say it again,
joy, I’d like 2 go way up high and say, Love me, joy
I’ll say Love me, joy
Joy, joy in repetition, joy in repetition
There’s joy in repetition

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fascinates and terrifies me. [and so it ends]

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From Walking

This post needs some follow-up. The day I wrote it I was undergoing extreme anxiety and my first reaction to hearing I’d been accepted to Warren Wilson was skewed by that.

As of yesterday, I am officially no longer an Emerson College student. I went to fill out a withdrawal form last week and just as I was about to hand in the form I blurted out “I’m just going to hold on to this for a couple of days.” Being there made me unsure. I wanted to be a student again. And Emerson’s got this contagious buzzing energy that makes me feel like I might belong there, an energy that drew me there when I first visited four years ago. But I don’t belong there.

If I had to finish my degree at Emerson, I could surely and fairly do so. Life is grand enough here in Cambridge and Boston, Massachusetts. But though I met a few gems at that school, the majority of the relationships I’ve built here are largely superficial. This is helpful in phases such as my current one, but it’s disconcerting as well. I do feel quite alone even in this baby Cambridge community. I feel blocked from deep relationships and I’m not sure how much location is a part of that but I am eager to learn.

My memories of Emerson include walking in the cold and learning where the wind lives. Feeling tired in class. Feeling frustrated with other students in my class. Reading furiously for post-colonialism and slowly cracking open my awareness in that class. Feeling ugly. Feeling radical. Eating the same bad food every day and never feeling satisfied. Superficiality and lack of recognition. Time whipping away with the wind that collects at Copley. But Emerson did make me a post-colonial feminist (with the help of Shannon and the Cambridge Women’s Center) and it gave me some skills I wouldn’t have practiced otherwise and it gave me some people I’ll have to love forever.

Thinking about Boston brings tears to my throat [and then slowly my ducts]. It feels like it’s going to make the last two years nothing but a dream. This place that I have such conflicting feelings about. Boston’s like a friend I can’t decide whether or not to trust, to love, even to like. I came here alone. To build my life alone, after long last of needing to escape the life that’d been created for me under my parent’s house. After running away to Africa and being torn down. I came here and started things for myself in a wooden Symphony apartment, the old fashioned radiator and its ticking pipes warming my room overlooking that loud alleyway. Living there and feeling my new way around, starting from nothing. Acclimating and gathering friends like my own skirts, to have them under me to sit on, holding me up and drinking me down. Walking every day.

Then the summer was a loneliness and heat and all kinds of work I didn’t enjoy. And the clothes, wearing all of these mismatched work clothes I never knew how to do with. And Thia, in her messy smelly place. And going running and to the gym. And then it was Andrew the end of that summer.

The fall and winter again and finding classes that held meaning for me at school. Living at 669 in a community of four that cooked breakfasts and ordered Laz pizzas and got naked in bed together for the joy of seeing smile wrinkles form each others’ faces. Questioning my life every day and dampening my spirits far and far until they grazed a dirty silt ground of some sort, alone on an ikea barstool in that enormous space with nothing but the television and leftover icecream cone cupcakes. My old cellphone next to me sitting quiet and nobody picking up to help. Thia coming home to save me with a list of loves, the Wire, and some hookah. Last winter was desperation and desolation that slowly healed as our community broke apart.

Then I decided to go on the road trip. And it was the best decision I’d made in a long time. I rediscovered freedom and wideness and my pure joy and the kindness of karma. I saw a million people I cared about intensely and felt that it must be some sort of party of goodbyes for future events I couldn’t predict. I came back to Boston and recreated 669 into Virginia’s place. No TV, no internet, a writing table, records, and a hookah as the main events. Clean kitchen. Aimee and Bing. Loads of free time and job searching and bike riding ensued. It was an explorative and inspirational summer, an unabridgedly happy time.

So now, I am about to uproot. I still haven’t wholly committed myself to leaving yet. I can give 90% to believing that’s the plan, but that last ten is a hard sell. I am hoping that going to Asheville in two weeks will spur me to give myself over entirely. I am going. At this point, I know I am. And I am excited. I know not what to really expect (do we ever? yes. sometimes). I expect to be busy and structured, which I look forward to. I expect to be involved in an active community of people I enjoy. I expect to drive in my car. I expect to head to a developing country withing the next two years and learn a lot more in topics I thirst for. I expect to be warm and joyous and clean and virtuous and excited and serene. I expect to have fun and hold happiness. I’m excited to embrace an unusual opportunity and I plan the best.

Plus, there’ll be stars. And quiet. O, the timeless kind of quiet I grew up with in and outside my childhood windows. A blanketing quiet. The feeling I got in that big old Burkittsville house, all alone with my computer and Glory the anxiety-dog. A kind of privacy punctuated by feeling observed as held – a tingling sort of watchover that comes from above and all around, rather than one gaze. Unjudged and just as.

It’s just a bittersweet ending when one tale isn’t surely yet concluded. That’s the kind of thing I feel gentle and nostalgic about. And knowing that what was will never be again. Feeling the truth that I won’t be back.

And scared that I’ve never done this before. Diving in to mystery hopefully hanging on to some serenity and letting myself feel all it wants me to on the way.

Blue Ridge Mountains

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