TIME, a stream of consciousness

—can both flash and stand still
Depends on where you are, in your life, your mind
In love?
And when in love,
The time spazzes most violently
You yearn for its spokes to slow, to savor each second
Or when you’re in the missing, you swat it to scurry
You light a match, beneath its heel, hoping it runs faster
And as age gets me, time finds a steady stride
And that light, that flicker, rides along
Knowingly

When I was seven,
Frozen in the fettered photograph
My father’s cap, my face in shadows

I thumb the frame, dust puffs rise
And I focus to see the reflection of the camera
In Grandfather’s eye
Hoping to learn the secret
To living.

Flash.
A photograph.
A second.

d
e
v
e
l
o
p

envelop

me, in this place where space
and time do not exist
and there’s me
and there’s you
and there’s we.

Expansion, compression,
Division, dimension.


Let’s seize this, and slip into
A mindset where we justify our demons
And leave out all the rest,
For time’s sake.

On the back of a box of tea I read the wisdom
To revel.
And I warmed the water
Dipped the satchel
And sat with myself in
My minute, in my mind,
And when I tipped the tip of the
Cup to my lips, it was
cold.

The slave owner, the evil stepsister,
The embezzler who sucks you for all you’ve made
And then blows you off a cliff

What about Prometheus?
Does he hold the concept of time
In his clenched fist, behind his back
While the vultures sift and pick his insides?
And in heaven, if time becomes suspended,
How do you make memories, and what
Do you make of moments?
And what then, of Satan’s understanding
Of the burden, the weight, the silent killer
Of slowly churning seconds
Charred
burning his ability
To recognize what is
Hallucination, and what
Is all from within
himself?

Living in my today, I see the choice I’ve made
To be content
But todays don’t have worths without
Making plans, being patient,
For the tomorrows.

Torture
Insight
Mind’s
Eye

Never enough t—

Dig me up from under what is covering the better part of me.

Suffering, is a choice.
And, so is happiness.
You have the option, and just how cool is that?

You can be healthy and young and in shape, but stress starts to pick away at your telomeres that protect your DNA from destruction, making you age at a much faster pace. That freaks me out, and now I'm causing it to happen even more swiftly by worrying over worrying.

I want to work on my "word" being "impeccable"--to not use them against myself or against others. I also want to learn not to take things too personally and to stop making assumptions. These are the tips I've been looking into from this Toltec wisdom book. The only thing is, besides the fact that it would be hard to do any of the aforementioned, is that doing these 'harmful' things have become this part of me- this punishable baby girl whose wrist I slap but whose sparkly eyes get me every time. If she's forced to go, what will become of this new, transformed me? It's in our nature to fear change, and embracing it seems best. But I don't know what it's like to literally look at the world in a completely new way. Like a child, vulnerable and terrified and in awe of what the trees look like when love sings from the tips of branches.

That's what this book seems to be promising me.

So I can choose to convince myself that I'm taking steps in the right direction. Becoming more WISE, yes.

In the meantime, I'm going to continue to drink love from the speakers of my laptop. Without my little soundtrack I'm blaring, these quizzes would never be scored. Motivation, you are my bitch lover.

Swim, swim on

Liquify, thoughts. Then drain yourselves. Collect into a perfect pot or cup or droplet of something I can taste. It's cold and I'm clogged and it doesn't make sense to me at the moment. I can't get out of my mind most of the time. And from its ceiling, by the folds and the ridges, dangles the light behind my eyes. The fog saunters, and the clouds lap over. Burn, burn, and delay the water from rising again.

BIRD SONG

The neighbor’s macaw pestered all visitors,
mocking the noises of signal or song.
No words could he mutter of human endeavor,
but of croaks and of squawks all evening long.
But my mother, he’d mimic
her abounding laugh,
no sound as replete as this.
Despite lacking candor,
forgiveness; regret-
It’s the richness of laughter I miss.

HATCHLING

Dearest speckled feathered thing,
Doe-eyed, tender, tethered string
To hollowed, ceaseless past.
Did she keep you just to hurt you?
Did he leave you just the same?
You barely had a name before you fell
Out of your nest and into the crack
Of the walkway.
Your shoulders weren’t creamy enough,
Though your nose far too slim
For any of the broods
To flock too close.

And how can one be territorial
When she’s never felt at home?

An Explanation of Wall Décor

She didn’t believe in photographs. Just the frames, outlining white space on the wall next to the fireplace. The other walls weren’t dirtied enough—the residual smoke from preceding fires fingerprinting pigments of soot into shadows of clouds. The frames were of all sizes. Two, bordered like windows, set the scene for the others, and smaller rectangular ones, antique ones with the paint chipped at the corners, sporadically sat upon a grayscale landscape. The woman had asked her, Why just the frames, and then commented on how the place seemed comfortable. Her answers to that repeated question changed monthly, depending on the barometer. Sometimes, the obvious, was because the UV rays would cause degradation of the photographs. In August she enjoyed explaining her childhood fear of haunted portraits, as, from any vantage point, she could have sworn that the shaded gazes seemed to trace each of her past steps, and know each she was to attempt before she had even decided. But her favorite reply, the one she clung to until her hair turned, was that she had lost all of her belongings in a horrific house fire, the only surviving items being her keyring and mantle clock. Ever since, she refused to develop any visual representation, any photograph, for fear of suffering yet another loss of them. She answered, this again, standing by the mantle, feeling the warmth of the flames and avoiding looking directly into the pit so as not to burn any image of red, of amber, of blue, onto the backs of eyelids closed.

It was never meant to be read

Those thoughts I penned
in navy night
the rotted pages
salt
lava-lead from armpit pockets
meant for stench
of secret faults

I told it all my vices
allowed my ugly to face front
locked my conscience, plainly folded
in the corner of the trunk
as, on the table, open-ended
insults bleeding wooden stains
the sirens that had silenced
spun again

and you were here,
curled like a fistful
lying backward at my spine
breathing
to the rhythm
of unspoken,
unforgivable rhyme

MY FATHER, MY SELF:

Maybe the reason is that he was just recently in town, here visiting a weekend, in my new home of Carrboro, NC. Or maybe it’s just the way I’ve always seen him—perhaps I’ve always imagined him this way. He’s up early, dressed and pressed, smelling of soap and aftershave. And he’s not looking this way for himself. Humility shields this man of any pretense. He wants to reflect well upon me. Though he fails to take credit that all he is proud of in me is a direct reflection of the best in him.

Daddy came to school with me, to my classroom. I was nervous about it, for superficial reasons, but mainly I felt excited. Heavy-hearted. I believe that it is rare for a daughter, and the same goes for my sister, to have such an unequivocal love for her father. Usually it’s the parent caring and providing, going through the growing pains and drifting currents developing children often follow. But there is no shred of embitterment here—I still palm in my little hands the idea that Daddy’s my hero and he can do no wrong. That will always stay with me.

I don’t know what it’s like to be looking back, as he described it, to be reflecting upon years gone by. I’m trying to survive and comprehend my today. And I follow my finger across the stories of successes and tribulations my father has lived—a stalwart, unyielding champion of strength, of integrity, of honor. A surprisingly funny, charming man with a genuine, deliberate demeanor, a keen sense of style, and one hell of a tennis serve.

I wish that for my Dad’s sixtieth birthday I could rummage through his past, sift through the memories, and bag and bottle up every last moment that filled his heart of hearts with satisfaction. I want to bundle up pride in a bullet-proof package. I wish to bind together laughter and ridiculous jokes galore. Because for people like him, people you consider to embody what’s pure and real and good in life, you want to give the best. You want to give back the impossible gifts which you’ve felt fortunate to receive.

But I’m not the best of daughters. I fall short in expressing my gratitude, in designing my plans to celebrate my favorite man on earth on his very special day, in a way that does it any justice. Though I hope he does notice that the path of independence I’m taking, the goals I’m dreaming to reach, the person I’m bleeding profusely to become, is because of the passage he’s trudged through to get here. I am living my life in hopes of priding in him.

So Daddy, if you wondered what it meant to me, for you to be the leader in my life, just take the pride you hold for your daughters, and multiply.

Happiest day to you, Daddy-O/Poppa/Diddy/Dah Dah/Daddy.
I am overcome.

Yours always,
Kensie

Satan Says: Cheers Mackensie!

This is what Sharon Olds inscribed to me in her collection Satan Says.

At the end of the day, I am handed a package.
A thin, white priority mail.
I pull the tab, and a red bind hides inside
with the perfect, shapely
Sharon Olds signing.

I burst into tears, causing colleagues to stall in confusion.
Thank you.
Thank you, for knowing
with such a care.

Green Rejuvenation:

the name of the tea I tried at the Noodle House Saturday night

This weekend, I traveled to the beautiful Asheville, NC, for a mental break. I went to Black Mountain's Pump House to watch the Lazybirds play and to drink the Pisgah Porter. I saw Bill Maher's Religulous one afternoon. I snuck around a high school baseball field to get into an Obama rally. I drove up the Blue Ridge Parkway and stopped at a lookout to take pictures and make a grass bracelet.

-mmmm,
that green rejuvenation; does the trick.

With the end in mind

Starting a new relationship is hard in itself. This is especially so when you come into it envisioning that it will inevitably end. Being a defeatist isn't as crazy as it may seem-- the dating game harbors its demons.

Why is it so hard to just revel in the 'now'? Isn't that the definition of ZEN anyway-- being in the moment, taking each element in, being appreciative of all that surrounds, without thinking of the past or worrying of the future?

I'd say those monks may have had something there...

Blasted conscience.

i want to say

there have been so many times i wanted to write times that my mind has crafted a delicate emotion into a blanket of lace or a well-soiled thought into a perforated canvas but then it passes and it becomes lost in the obligations of today and the wishes of tomorrow and i have so much to say yet i have nothing to say and i don't want to make it about me because i have realized that life is not about me even in the ways that i thought it should be but i am so damn tired and overwhelmed and stuffed full with stifled tears and unknowns and hopes that may not materialize in this life that i can't even express something simple it seems and i can't make anything seem worthwhile but i want to write something anything at all so i've decided that i could at least write this and this is all i can do. right now.

Keepsake

I need file folders, fasteners, to keep each of the feelings
the tellings the rememberings
of things once forgot.
I need wire holders, wrappers, to lock each of the feelings
the tellings the rememberings
of things never got.

Giving Notice

I don't have this post grounded in a precise idea, necessarily. No story, no moment. Just--a feeling. And an incredible one.

Today, I feel like I'm a participant, an active and happy, hopeful participant, in my own life. I am completely bombarded with a million thoughts and obligations and underground fears of impossible expectations and romantic imaginings...but, I am perfectly content. I am not passing through the day hoping for much more. I am not waiting on a tomorrow that makes me feel my today has worth. Even if I lose sleep, even if I never get around to cleaning my room, even if my feelings are hurt, even if I'm so far from who I know I can and want to be, my life is in a good place, for myriad reasons.

And I just wanted to write, as more of a self-reminder for when this joy becomes veiled in ineluctable strife, that this feeling exists. That, even in loss or confusion, springs a chance for growth.

Fin de siècle

He runs his fingers across the wood of the café table top. It was the same place I had sat across from him months ago and first taken note of his kind, crisp eyes—blue with a green gloss. Now, I can see them studying my face, his brow in pitied curl, his hands resting flat. And I had been always aware of his hands—their aggression on my hip, their hesitation on my cheek. The hands that said so much but never enough.

“Something’s missing.”

“It’s been this way awhile.”

I watch blurred forms pass me, in pairs, in smiles, as we share a silent walk to the lot. The cars are parked diagonally in their places.
Waiting.
Crooked.
Metal.
Our steps diverge.

“You deserve love, and I can’t get there.”

“And I’m still in that same spot.”

I collect book, shirt, all the his in a bag, and I make the last leg to the house. I hover on the doorstep, float into the room. His words spiral between us, some flinging from the void and stinging my skin. And I watch him turn away as he rubs the steam burn on his inner wrist—a heart-shaped burn with a thick blue vein running through its center.

“How do you feel?”

Broken.

A Soundtrack

I was given some iTunes money for Christmas--for those who love me know me well--and I just spent the majority of it buying songs of my childhood soundtrack. This includes but is not limited to several jams by Tevin Campbell, before he grew up and his voice changed, and "I Wanna Sex You Up" by the oh-so-eclectic Color Me Badd [to think I used to sing those words and honestly had NO clue what they meant...]. I can't remember what I just read this afternoon, but I still know every word of these beautiful bits of lyrical poetry.

Playing right now, a true favorite:
"Lil' Brother" by Tevin Campbell

My sister was the girl part, and I was the guy Tevin part, and we would sing the whole song, while my poor parents had to watch. We had microphones and made motions for the "I'll give you my French fry..." part. Sheer awesomeness, it was.

We had "dance parties" where we'd blast music like Taylor Dayne or Tevin, and we'd walk and dance around the Oriental rugs, lip-synching our hearts out. We each had our favorite song on each album. My Dad loved "Strawberry Letter 23" and I was into "One Song" off of T.E.V.I.N. I almost bought the song he did for the A Goofy Movie soundtrack, but it's an 'Album Only,' blast it. So great, so great.

I sometimes have this fear that my mind can only hold so much, so many memories, but then, innocent and easy times come back to me, like Sister and my sing-along nights, and the fact that I believed I had lost those things forever, that they had sailed away, makes the moments when they surface seem even the more precious.

My heart gets heavy reflecting on those meaningless memories- middle school dances, summers playing Shark in the 5-ft pool-they seem to hit the largest strings.

And it's moments like the past that make the present bittersweet. Things do keep going, the world doesn't stop, for anybody. We grow old, we move away, but parts of us, shiny shards of the person I used to be, remain in that past, eyes closed tight, hands clenched, belting out that long note at the end of the song, in the company of those who love me most.

Flowers

Lilies used to be my favorite. Stargazer lilies are my Mom's favorite. Their bold color, their sweet smell.

Then, it was daisies. Mom had one little daisy in her hair at her wedding. She looked perfect.

But now, there's a new flower.

The wildflower. The beautiful yellow bud that grows from the weeds by the driveway.

Remains

I've packed away your sketch of me,
the card with kites and stars,
the lyric that you read to me
of guns and unhealed scars.
I've left the photos on the wall
the stones, the shack, the flower
I wonder if all you've given me
was ever really ours.
The songs my ears have preyed upon
have preyed upon hers, too.
She's had the songs, the pictures, words
the bed I shared with you.
Despite her lethal aims of war
in shadows lurking near
My brightness can't survive the force
of a heart that holds her dear.
Of all the past mistakes we've spat
and times I've kicked with might
I wonder if I'd shut my eyes
and held my tongue with bite
If I'd recognize the scales you wear
you claim you tried to shed
If I'd recognize the cross I bear
of love, that is now dead.
Instead of holding onto past
I walk through glass today
with all the words still in my head
yet nothing more to say.

A Slave Narrative

Frederick Douglass writes in his narrative of the Methodists justifying slavery with religion.

Justifying oppression with love.
Expressing concern with constraints.
Converting wrong-doing to blame.

Douglass, a slave. Education, the key to success.

My key?

Freedom.

Frozen

The cold of the weather
The cold of the pain
The holes in your sweater
The hole in your brain
The time looking forward
The time standing still
The cold hollow hole
The time-willing will

OX

not the animal. But a Hug and Kiss.

O, the emptiness. X marking the spot.

O, the shape of your head, shrinking in the rearview, out of sight.

and X, your arms crossing over my shoulders as I go,

before I pull away.

OX XOXO XXX XOXO

and I pull away.

Unconditionally

My dear neighbor of nearly 14 years had cancer for about four. Her insides were horrific, but she was the strongest woman on the out. It was mostly because she was so stubborn. She would never show her weaknesses, in body or mind. She made us all wear those Livestrong bracelets. When she caught me without mine, she scolded and gave me another. I never took the thing off, not for an involved workout or formal event. When I was away for New Years, I was sitting on the couch and fiddling, as I always do. The bracelet suddenly popped. I wasn't even tugging with much force, but it snapped, right between the words live and strong.

I called my Mom from the airport as I was arriving home, and she asked me to come by the antique mall where she works so she could see me. My mom is very loving and affectionate and involved, so I thought she just missed me and wanted to hear about my trip. I called her as I was approaching the parking lot, and she met me outside. "Sweetie," she said as she approached me with a pitied look and arms outstretched, "Mrs. Judy is dead."

The weird thing was that it happened on the day my bracelet went. I'm not religious- but, that gave me the biggest shiver and strangest feeling, and I wondered about whether it was a mere coincidence.

You never think about it, but parents have the most horrible, noble job of having to inform you when someone dies. There is no sadder, more difficult job than that. Even when my Grammy died, which was probably the most sobering event to happen to my mother besides the sudden death of her father, I remember her being so strong. She sat on the couch, pulled me to her, and whispered the words that Grammy was gone. "Oh, honey," she cried as I became hysterical. And it was that reaction that amazed me so and amazes me still. Despite whatever heartbreak and sorrow and devastation she was feeling, she was more worried about me and the hurt I was feeling.

When I had gotten my heart broken for the second time and called my mother crying, she ended up crying too.

"If I could take away your pain and feel it for you, I would."

What a thing to say, you know? The thing is, she really meant it. Sure, we've all had times where we felt so sad, so sorry, for a loved one or dear friend when they were going through hard stuff. But to be willing to take it and feel it in order to relieve the pain of another--that's something truly fascinating to me.

Little Miss Piggy

I sifted through a collection of home videos the other day. We have a lot, because we lived overseas my first two years and my parents would make tapes to send Grammy and the relatives. Every Easter, my parents would hide all kinds of candies around the apartment- Cadbury eggs, malt balls, chocolate squares- and Sister and I would take our wicker baskets and search. Sister, being older, could easily see the hidden sweets, but instead of snatching them and adding them to her basket, she would call over to me and tell me to help her look around the area she stood. I would come over eagerly and hoard all of the candy she caused me to find. I never caught on. Nor did she ever tire of me. She would become really excited and continued to lead me this way until I had found most of the candy. Before the scene cuts on the film, Sister begins to unwrap a chocolate from her pile. I walk to her, release a whine, and steal the candy from her hands. My parents reprimand me. Sister leans in toward my face and kisses my forehead as I walk away, chewing.

Love Letter

Dear Older Version of Me,

I am sorry for all of the things that I did to make life worse for you. For example, all of the sleep I cost you and sunscreen I dismissed--I apologize for those. I apologize for listening to my music much louder than necessary and for choosing not to floss, besides the week before and after a dental appointment. I'm sorry for staring at the computer screen for hours and for scrunching my face and causing you those well-defined forehead folds. I wish I would've spent some money on those memory vitamins or strong sports bras, because I'm sure the dragging and sagging damage has been done. And that time I drank too much and then fell onto my left shoulder, forgetting to properly clean the thing for nearly two days and ending up with a 3-inch scar...yeah, I'm sorry for that now, too.

But, if it is any consolation, the younger you did do some great things. I tried things that made me scared. I said no. I said yes. I felt things, right to the heart. I hurt. I healed. I did a lot of things. Some of them made it possible for you to do more things now. Some things made others more difficult. What is important is that- even if I had the chance- I wouldn't do any of those things differently. I know you probably think otherwise, being "older" and "wiser." But, as you also know, that thing known as regret...can shorten a life. And we wouldn't want that now, would we?

Love and life,
Me

Steady

The balloon fills. It stretches and expands, unable to resist the force of water. First, dripping. Then, a steady trickle. An even pour. A rushing stream. A forceful downpour. A waterfall.

Water.
Fall.

A needle's point pierces the surface, to allow relieving leak.

But when the needle pricks, the container bursts, and its contents explode outward, soaking everything around the broken skin.