Love Well.

I don't think I believe that you can love too much. But I wonder if a person can love someone wrong.

There's not a lot of people left around. Who knows now? (Listen and read.)

There are some of us who get attached to people pretty quickly and we get blinded by our needs. Relationships turn themselves inside-out and the veins and muscles are uncontainable.

The bloodlines cross and run and burst open. You get gossip. You get broken airways.

And the muscles tear.

Maybe that's what that feeling is when it burns a little to think about someone we miss, or somebody we hurt: it's the muscles of our ties turning themselves inside-out.

I keep my eyes fixed on the sun.

I think I love people wrong pretty often.

Like maybe we don't recognize enough of what's going on to see how to love them fully--or lightly--enough.

Yesterday Trevor said this: "Our fundamental problem is that we never spend enough time in anyone else's life to find out where they're at."

I think he's right.

This is all a little repetitive of the ideas in a post from a couple weeks ago, but I guess I'm saying it all again because it just means so much to me, and maybe I keep forgetting it.

There are some days that seem to pull our whole lives in to just a couple hours and we're born and twelve and married and dying all between breakfast and dinner without ever stopping for lunch or air. Parents get diagnosed or siblings are killed in car accidents or friends forget who they are. And we're living a little bit of every part of our lives all at once.

Even on a cloudy day. Even on a cloudy day.

But we don't spend enough time.

We don't pull ourselves in to see that some people get stifled and scared by love.

We don't slow down long enough to know how to love right, how to give best.

We try to be true to ourselves and we stunt the ability of people in our lives.

We cut the muscles. We live all our days at once. We breathe and choke and sleep and scream.

We stitch the cut veins, and swallow the thread through our skin, along with the scars. We tie white balloons. No flags. We celebrate. We love wrong.

Cowardice and surrender; Bravery and sacrifice. They're not mutually exclusive. And the pairs don't always go together.

Sometimes the best way to love is to surrender, and that is sacrifice, and that is beautiful.

And sometimes we think we're loving and helping, but we're tearing down the people we love.

I hear too much of that. Another story this week with the masked motive of "I just love you so much that I have to tell you that you're wrong and this is awful." Yeah, sometimes that's what love looks like. But sometimes, the best way to love is to accept that we're wrong, even when we don't know how to believe it.

Even on a cloudy day, I keep my eyes fixed on the sun.

I think we love people wrong, and I think it's a bad, bad thing.

Sometimes, we hurt people, and the best thing to do is to not go back to them. To not bite at the stitches. Sometimes we need the scars.

And some of us can't love people back, or love people well. Some advice?

Don't be in love with someone who won't love well.

Someone who won't love well is a dangerous thing.

Even if that someone doesn't know it.

Usually that someone won't know it.

And do your best not to be that someone, because you'll hurt the people who love you because they can't help but love you. Because people will love you. People do love you, even if they're not doing it well.

Find love in blanket forts and on beaches and in lanterns and in your hands. Find love and hold it well, share it well.

If you didn't listen to the link above, do. And if you did listen, now go watch.

Sometimes we live our whole lives at once. Sometimes we lose ourselves in sleep...

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Flight of the Tripod

Fall 2010

I shouldn’t tell a story that ends this way,
but it seems I ought to,
since the faces on these films don’t know
about the sand on our shoes,
which says I gave you the script of
the words I cannot say.

There are photos—of me, and not you,
my eyes open and green—
which you ought to frame with glass and sturdy sand.
The image is this:
We exist, even when once you’re gone.
But, it seems that you might wish to wall us up,
as if we’re to stand still and framed,
not acting at all when you’re away.

Once you’ve gone far and long enough,
we’ll tell the story on the frames—
though it’s one we’d rather ignore.
You were holding the camera, reeling the film,
and shouting the director’s commentary.
You were outside the frames,
boxing us with ungloved hands,
holding us still and silent,
suspended as you set the tripod.
Without you here, we say action,
and the camera still sees it as it was:
us without you.

Words the Way I Do

Oh Blogland, I scarcely have hours in the day for you this week. So I sacrifice the sleep I won't be getting later.

Usually when I start these things, I don't know where I'm going with them, but I at least have an idea of a point or two that I want to make.

This isn't a diary for me to recount the events of my day to you. It's about the words. Here's a thought (and yeah, it'll sound pretty shallow at a first read, but stay with me until I get to what I'm thinking). I have a feeling there will be some degree of irony in the lack of making a point in a post about the meaning of words. But maybe that itself will make a point. Anyway...

Not everybody uses words the way I do. (Shock and awe, right? Not at all.)

Here's the thing: I'm wordy and comfortable with my voice, with being heard. I'm not afraid to say disagreeable things if I believe them to be true--granted I'd say I don't have many philosophies that contradict large numbers of people in my life.

If you know me at all, which at this point I think nearly all of you wonderful readers do, you've probably noticed to some extent that I'm fairly outspoken and don't really have much of a filter.

Not everybody uses words the way I do.

Last night, I got upset with a friend because of a fleeting comment about working and the real world. He didn't intend to hurt my feelings, but I got angry. I make inferences, I read into things and more than anything else, I freak out.

Because I put so much stock in words and the ways people say things, I psych myself out, and then use words to make people feel like I do, and it's a dangerous thing.

I got mad, and I called that friend out for upsetting me; he had no idea what his words had done inside my head.

Another friend heard my account of the story, and was bewildered by the fluidity of language that flows out of my mouth.

Not everybody uses words the way I do.

But let me tell you this: That is a very good thing.

My words can be dangerous, and I forget that pretty often. I've been sick for the last week and sentences have been jumping out of my mouth into the air and stabbing flesh on the way down. Ok, that was dramatic. I haven't talked any one to blood this week (or ever, that I'm aware of). But my point is that sometimes I'm reckless with my language, and that's inconsistent with who I want to be.

I don't want to make passive aggressive comments out of frustration. I don't want to gossip or nitpick. I don't want to talk about trifling, frivolous things.

I want intentional conversations that build and don't break. I want my words to mean what I feel.

There are different theories about the degree of meaning a word actually carries, and really, outside of a set construct of a language, a word doesn't mean much at all. To an English speaker with no experience with Spanish whatsoever, the word "pollo" means nothing. But it is a word nonetheless. That's not really what I'm trying to say here though.

What I mean is that I want to say things and mean them; I want to be a responsible participant in the exchange of words.

Not everybody uses words the way I do.

And I want to stop using words the way I have in the past. I've been irresponsible.

Here's to growing up, or something like that. Cheers, and thanks for reading.

Distance

January 2010 - written as Part V of a 5 poem cycle. Shared today for Sean.

Some day, after being away,
you wake to find
yourself in a big, open space
and you see then that
there is no green grass.
It is not beneath you
or around you;
It is not
on the other side of some hill
or behind you in better days.
The grass is not greener
anywhere you aren’t.
Here your feet are in a field
of untilled soil,
and the dirt is waiting
for a rake in your hand
and a seed in its gut
to make something of it,
grass or lily, desert or jungle.
Whatever you grow,
whatever you reap.
You step out one day
to find that
there is no green grass.
But, you are a gardener,
by the shape of your hand,
readied with the tools
to create the place you long for,
though it does not exist:
you have not yet grown it.

This one's a little cheesy, I know, but sometimes I need a bit of encouragement--things to remind me to be positive. The thought here is to encourage the idea that "The grass is greener where you water it," and that we all have that ability.

I probably won't name a dedication often, but today, I'm posting this poem for my brother. Love you Sean.

Name

An old poem from Fall 2009 in Poetry Sem. Published in Paragon, 2009-2010.

I said
I wrote a poem today.
I used your name, but
I promise, it’s not about you.

You said
I should write about that, and

I asked
what.

My name, you said.

While we talked,
I heard a song about words the world
uses to call these this, and those that.
It had a good build up, and
the lines came with the music:
I wrote about you, not your name.

We wondered
what any of it meant or if
it would be different if your name
was Jack or Tim, Ben or James.
And despite my inherent honesty,
I didn’t say it, but I thought,
your name doesn’t matter,
because I was won before I knew it.

So, instead of asking questions, or admitting
answers, there are other things
we say.

I say
I hate some rules of writing, and wish
I could change them, and
I over-use the words, great and perfect,
I and and—and
I
say
too
much.

You smile, knowing silence elicits
more noise from my ever-moving lips.
We go on, with the talk about me and things
I want to say, that you don’t need to hear.

Then, you start to know more than
you thought you would, when
I was just a name.

Sneak Peak: String Theory

Note: As a celebration of 1,000+ views and counting, this is a short preview of a brand new cycle I'm working on that will be titled "String Theory." This will be either the second or third movement of at least four, maybe five. There's a lot happening and a major focus on familial interactions and distance. Enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Some of us learn too young
that people stop loving each other
and really, that’s not what it means
to fray the yarns and threads that stitch us together
in units
They call those families
and I heard once—
or a couple dozen times
when I replayed the same scenes—
that family is just people
who remember the same places
that never were,
like living room laughter
and kitchen dinners in high chairs
when all the boys and girls sat in their seats.
There were never name cards
to mandate spots
but we’ve all had them,
or so we believe.
Wicker and wood and leather
bent with our bodies in the years’ transitions
from diapers to non-scuff soles for the
parochial school hallways—
it was speckled floors, like our basements,
and there’s a diner with matching linoleum
in a mountain city
where Midwest vagabonds end up
because they know the String Theory.

Some thing.

My roommate talked to a friend and me last night about her boyfriend saying that all the people he's close to are broken. And I responded. We're all broken.

As soon as you get close enough to a person, you realize they have a story and that they're coming from a place you've never been. We live our own lives, and not others'. I think we forget that a lot.

Today, I was a bit sad, and I can't really say why, not because I'm unable to share, but because I just don't know why. I had a good day: spent time with good friends, ate good food, got work done, smiled. But I don't feel joyful.

I wonder if something happened to me on this February day last year when I thought I was in love, or years before that when I knew I wasn't, or didn't want to be, or something. Maybe there's a sadness that was just supposed to hit me today regardless of where or what my life is.

There's something. There's something about a lack of joy that makes me feel like failing--not that I am, but that I want to. It's like a repressed desire for escape, a way to go back to bed and sleep through my last semester and a pair of jobs and the anxiety of waiting on news.

There certainly is something. And it's something I can't name. I don't want to.

Maybe I'm just homesick. I just tried to see my house on Google maps. No street view. But I can see the driveway from the corner and it feels like the night walks I used to take with my dog to meet a neighbor boy on highschool Fridays. Our German Shepherds would run circles around us with their leather leashes and we'd talk about how cold we weren't.

Tangents. Intersecting lines. Geometry, criticism, astrophysics. I'm everywhere today.

I talked to my mom today, too, about being sad, frustrated, fed up. I read her Psalm 62, the theme of the last month of my life. He alone. There's some sense of security or something in that, and it's beautiful. (Clearly I'm feeling pretty articulate and artistic right now. Could I say

"something" any more? Where was I--security, right.)

So you build your life on faith, things that don't crumble, but they certainly can be shaken.

And if not faith, you find other things: money, relationships, status. And those things satisfy you for time enough, but then you're failed.

There are people in my life doing these things. And I love them. But to those of you who know I'm talking about, I think maybe I'm sad today because you're sad. Money and status aren't sustaining you.

He alone.

I'm preaching. I'll stop for now. Keep reading.

The piece I had started last week was this:

The trouble is that I start these posts without thinking about where they'll end.

I start with thinking about what I want... adventure, change, commitment, honesty, pursuit, nuance, novels...

I could write and write on all of them, but there's this insecurity or fear of something, perhaps thoughts of anonymity: who are you in the moment, this one, as you read these words? You're the invisible-implied-absolute-narratee-actual-ideal reader: you're the impossible audience.

And I'm home on a Saturday night musing about the ways I've been mistreated and what I'd do on an island with wild things. I've got Coldplay and Counting Crows and a break with some Long Island elsewhere.

I want to write something that makes you feel the way I do when the radio pulls me in to some out of body adventure. I want you to know that truth can come from keystrokes inspired by the right brand of heaven.

Last week I had a conversation like this:

I said to a classmate: "So you're saying that blogging is a desperate plea for attention?"

To which he responded: "Yep..."

And I pondered, then replied, with confidence: "I guess I'm desperate then. Desperately pursuing something I haven't the slightest idea of how to achieve. I'm desperate and pathetic and blogging, and entirely happy with it." All of it.

It had been a good day, a good week. Maybe I was meant to be joyful, another forgotten anniversary of some moment that brought a joy that couldn't be blemished--that day. That beautiful day.

I don't know where I'm going. I guess the point is this: Some days are pretty good. And some, no matter how nice, really just aren't.

And that's ok. I hope you had a good day. I hope tomorrow is good. I hope the goodness settles over you, stays with you, heals you, something. Some thing. Or some one: He alone, all over again.

Myself, my words, my rambles: we thank you for reading, as always.

S.D.G.

Creeps

'Ah, he's a creep. They're all creeps.' - Steve Fox

They are everywhere:
young creeps, aged creeps,
friendly creeps, creepy creeps
Facebook creeps, Twitter creeps.
There are creeps in your neighborhood
and creeps in your classes.
You are a creep, a goon.

Daddy always said,
“They’re all creeps.
Every last one of ‘em.”
Daddy wasn’t always right, but
he knew all about those creeps.
Daddy was a creep once, too,
and probably still is.

I was in love with a creep once,
and that creep was in love with me.
He was an acting, writing creep,
who called me his muse.
He was a nice creep,
but creeps don’t stick around,
so we’re not in love now.

My brothers are creeps,
but they’re the best kind:
they’re creeps with sisters to
teach them how to be less creepish.
But, they are creeps nonetheless,
because they are boys.
And all boys are creepy creeps.

jam

Spring 2010

When I think about you, I cannot think and
I cannot write metaphors about feeling
that I am a blossom on a cherry tree
in DC in the Spring when the sun is
prying open my petals and pulling out
the warm, sweet scent: its essence.
I cannot say, ‘You are the sun,’ that
you are the sun that slips into my
curled limbs and beckons them,
‘Open. Open gently and fill the air, and
bloom, boldly.’
I cannot think of you and the sun.

I do not lace my thoughts with images of
my grandmother’s strawberry jam
on multigrain toast—the kind with
sunflower seeds— on a tray with that
cherry blossom at the foot of the
white-sheet bed we’ll never share:
my hand is not on your chest.
You, the sun, shine,
like the most glorious morning,
on ourselves through the skylight
Your smile when I smear the jam on
your cheek does not move in me, Sun.

When I see you, I cannot even begin to
imagine spotting you in a bustling
room when the people vanish or blend
into a murmuring wave as I pick you from the chaos.
I would move through high tides in that sea,
the cherry blossom floating on the crests,
to splash you and wipe that jam from your face.
I cannot imagine finding you in a city
or ocean or any field of green or gold or dirt.
No, I don’t see us boarding a flying boat,
at the dock where the sea is behind me and
only you, Sun, are ahead with sky awaiting us on
a trip to see the trees in one Washington or another.

Some indulgences here that I need to work out, but I hope you'll enjoy. I've been overwhelmed at the stats here over the last week and I'm so appreciative of all of you taking minutes out of the day to read my thoughts and words. I feel loved and supported each time I check in. Thanks for being here, and, as always, thanks for reading. -- E

Every Song I Know

I fail for not finishing my other post, and now I'm leaving to camp for the weekend, so... here's a poem.

Every Song I Know

You are the words of every song I know,

and how they leave me when I rock my godson

to sleep on an August Saturday so I hum and harmonize,

with Chicago’s suburbs and the beat of 167^th

as my baseline.

You are the lines of the poetry I write,

unreliable and abstract mess of paint

spread thick over a tear on my skin,

with pothole lips and soaps that hit my ears

with razors—and blankets.

You are the voice of the men I loved,

flowing in melodies under scenery and snare drums

as the leaves kiss my veins with you

in a schematic escape to lower

lands and expectations.

You are the sound of the drawers in my brain,

plugging into my life-source with files and facts

that shake my shoulders with slamming and hands,

finally coming to empty notes that

echo abandonment, loudly.

You are the verse of Solomon’s Song,

pleading for romance with the hum of violins

and piano keys while I reach for rest in the night,

alone and wanting to feel with you, one melody,

with the words of every song I know.

Wedding Laces (and a little note)

A busy week has kept me from posting, but here's a poem, and you can expect another new post before the weekend. Today, a friend commented on my lack of posting, so I thought I'd share a silly little poem in which he's a character. Thanks for checking in, TK! And here it is...

Wedding Laces

You dreamt I was with you on a street
when your laces came undone so you dropped
to one knee and started knotting.
A man of scruff and smell, so you said,
came to me and asked about presidents
and precedents.
Hating talk of politics, I nodded and smiled.
Loving opinions, you were building a sentence
to make the man shake your hand.
But I pushed your head back down to the leather,
and you thought it just meant that I didn’t want
you to ramble on.
You said you smiled, and finished
with the bow—that you stood and we walked on.

But I have to say your story is skewed,
in effort to make me grin.
Really, dear, the dream is speaking,
your subconscious says I’m smothering you.
I’m holding you up, with guns
and flashing signs.

My dream last night was this:
I was about to marry another man.
At the altar I took his hand, but then ran.
In the back, he joined me,
knowing full well
the ceremony was through.
He took off my veil and we
found a wooden bench.
We sat, put our feet up.
And dear, my wedding shoes didn’t have any laces.