Notes.

Hi all,

Glad you're stopping by again. I don't have much to say tonight, but I wanted to check in since it's been over a week since my last post. I spent a few days out of town and have had a bit of a whirlwind life this month so I've gotten a bit behind from where I want to be.

One thing I've been meaning to do though, is to write this quick message. Over the course of the next couple weeks, I'm going to be pulling already-posted poems off the blog. At this point, I'm not overly concerned about material being plagiarized/stolen, but it may be an issue in the future, and further, I'm getting ready to send material out over the summer in hopes of getting published.

So, I'll be starting with the oldest poems and taking down poems from each month at the end of the week... meaning I'll take the January poems off on Saturday, and the February ones off the week after that.

I wanted to let you know so you'd all have a chance to look through them if you had any desire to do so. I'll make poems available to individuals by email after they've been removed if you request them.

Now, that business is all out of the way. I've been writing some pieces about perception and childhood and my grandfather, so you can expect to see some selections from those in the coming weeks. And I had a zombie dream last night that I want to write about here, so we'll see how that goes.

We're in our last two days of classes, and have finals next week, so it might be another week before I get to posting, but you'll hear about it when I do. Thanks for checking in, everybody. Have a good week! And as always, thanks for reading.

-E

How Important is the Who?

I've started five or so posts in the last week, and haven't finished any.

I've started a lot of things, and only finished some.

There's an incompleteness, a sublimity. Something to do with Spring not being quite here yet, with Summer feeling so far, with so much left to do.

And life is changing all the time but some days we feel it more than others, and right now I feel it everywhere and deeply.

I've been particularly afraid of things lately: death, love, the future, uncalculated change.

All of these play into who I am, aside from what is happening to me.

Someone pointed out to me recently that these words, these thoughts--they're coming from some place far inside my head. I think that got to me a little bit.

I'm thinking about how many things I can say before I run out of anything I can even put into words, because we do run out and quiet down and fall apart.

Why do we listen? Why do we ask questions? Why do we give up moments for some people, things, places, experiences---and not others? Is that who we are, or just what we do?

I don't mean that in an apathetic why do anything at all kind of way, but as a serious series of questions: how do we decide what to spend parts of our lives on? What is our currency, and are we responsible in our spending?

My time is undoubtedly the commodity I trade with most. It is the most valuable thing I share without great restriction, and I think I do so generously. I love giving my time to people. I much less like spending it on tasks: cleaning, driving, working, studying. Writing and reading are exceptions.

I wonder if that's pretty average, if most people find that time is the best way to show a person love, or at the very least, concern.

I don't much like talking on the phone, and I like texting even less. But spending a few minutes with a friend, even just in passing on campus or at work--that I love.

So I'm spending time with these words to let you into some far space in my mind and I'm not quite sure how to feel about the lack of time spent with you. Do you feel like you've spent time with me? Like you know me any better for having giving moments of your day here---for the sacrifice of time you're giving?

Because I want these things to be worth your time, to be worth the trip into my head without my knowing who you are when you enter.

I read Virginia Woolf for class last week. In her piece titled "A Sketch of the Past," she makes a comment that strikes me:
"Here I come to one of the memoir writer's difficulties--one of the reasons why, though I read so many, so many are failures. They leave out the person to whom things happened. The reason is that it is so difficult to describe any human being... I do not know how far I differ from other people. That is another memoir writer's difficulty. Yet to describe oneself truly one much have some standard of comparison."

Woolf was writing about memories, and I do a bit of that, but hardly.

But it makes me wonder. How important is the who of the what that happened, if it's only me. And here I am, saying what's happening. And nothing of who I am. I think the who is irrelevant, but I also think I may be wrong.

I think I'm too far into my thoughts, and wrapped in myself tonight. I think I've asked plenty of questions and that I need to answer to myself.

There's something in the way, I feel, of connecting to people in these words. I believe I am capable. I am unsure of any success I may have had of late.

I am not a memoir writer; this I know.
I started with intentions, well-defined.

Those goals might be changing.

How important is the what here when the who is staying the same?

Are you here for the words, or are you here because they're mine?

And you. Do you wear your hair the way you do because it's easy, or looks nice--because it's you? Or is it you because it's cool? Hairstyles don't define who you are.

Nor do fads or clothes or accessories.

Are you letting anybody in your head? Or just trying to get them to turn theirs in your direction?

How important is who you are? How important is what you do?

I Was The Author + Doctor Friend

First, thank you, all of you, so very much for reading this page.

Whether this is your first visit to my blog, or if you've read every post, or if you fit somewhere in between, your simply opening these posts and giving my words your time is amazing.

I'm overwhelmed every time.

And secondly, a special thank you to the dozen or so of you who have commented, Facebooked, texted, and even called in response to my last post, She Said I Lived.

If you haven't looked at it, I request that you do before you read the poem below; you'll understand the context and see how the two relate.

Several of you shared with me that you've faced depression and the darker side of your selves. Knowing that I am not and was not alone in feeling that sadness has been encouraging, and beautiful.

I'm humbled to see others speak to my heart after hearing that I've spoken to theirs.

Thank you each, deeply.

The following poem is about the secondary unsung hero of my high school depression. She was my psychologist starting the week I started as a freshman, fourteen and falling in every direction.

I haven't seen her in over three years, but she's still as much here for me just by existing and living as she was when I sat in her office during my teen years. She was beautiful and kind, and she too, loved me.

My friend's sister saw her first, and then my mother, and then me. But she treated me like my story was the most important in the world--like I was the only narrator--even though the characters had already been written by other authors.
Now I see how selfish I was and how I rambled about my high school indulgences, but her investment in the narrative that came from my heart and my head and my fears--that was all I needed.

My time with her taught me that listening and meaning it is love, and means as much.

This is for her.

Fall 2009

Doctor Friend

It was one hour every-other Thursday at seven
through high school but that had almost
nothing to do with it
It started with my father saying bitch and
didn’t have a definitive end because there
was a job so I stopped
She saw me every time

I sat on a white couch with obnoxious red flowers
and more throw pillows than I could squeeze
between to sit comfortably
I stared at the short legs of the brown leather arm chair
and memorized the simple pattern of the olive green
carpet worn thin by drumming feet
There was always a Diet Coke—with a bent straw
stained by dark pink lipstick—that sat on the glass
side table amid messy stacks of notes
The walls were lined with shelves which were loaded
with volumes on abuse and eating disorders and anxiety
and they all had wordy titles
She watched me every time

She wore nice outfits because she made nice money
but there never was enough color in her attire
to match how pretty she was
She did her makeup in a way that made her blue eyes
look less anatomical and more like jewelry that matched
her diamond ring and silver cross
Her nails were always painted and cheeks were always blushed
whether she was smiling in her joy for me or grimacing with
empathy or something like it as I spoke
She sat with her legs crossed and hands folded mostly looking
quite composed and comfortable but her bouncing
foot said otherwise
She heard me every time

I shared stories of my world and received advice as it was her job
to dissect my issues and hear my joys as our lives were lived
and hour by hour, years passed
She changed me every time

For Stephanie

Today, I Believe It

I've just started, and I'm already pretty encouraged. So thanks, everybody, for reading, following, commenting, and so on.

I had a great day with the roommates today. We went shopping up at Flatirons and I got a dress for Leigh's wedding. It didn't feel all that special, really, when we were standing at the service desk in juniors with a crazy woman named Sandra who had the glitteriest (made that one up) nails I've ever seen in my life, along with at least eight rings on her hands. She was crazy.

But as we walked out to the car, I had a moment--one of those, when did I grow up? And how? thoughts. My best friend is getting married. I'm an aunt. I'm deciding what city is the best place to plant roots in for my next move, which has potential to be the last for a long time.

And I'm finally getting my ears pierced. (No, never got to that before, but we're going in a little bit.)

I'm a person who pauses to think about life pretty often, but I'm still pretty shocked at how much of it has happened. Every time. Seasons, moments, songs, births, photos...

It just gets me.

But it's exciting: the scary kind.

Leigh will get married and slide right into the next phase of her life--newlywed-student-teaching-dom. And Concha's going on a date, a double date. And Kris is working and Chip is graduating. Annie's in college. And all the CCU freshman year friends are around, or not. Dating or single or getting engaged or whatever it is they're doing.

It's all still happening. And I'm here in the scary exciting part, watching them, waiting with and for them. Waiting on love that might someday come, or not. A career, or an opportunity, or a chance at some way to impact a world outside my own. Scary exciting. And beautiful.

My sister said something to me today that meant more than she probably realized: "You're not the kind of person someone can just drop without a thought."

I take a healthy pride in the fact that someone would even say that. I'm worth investing in, worthy of love. I forget that sometimes.

There's been cuts in these years--in my skin, at my pride, of my teammates--but I realize that I'm not a part of what's been left behind. I'm here, right here, in these places: my room, my senior year, Colorado, about to start a second job, writing, finishing. I've made the cut in a lot of people's lives, even if I got cut from the eighth grade soccer team. And I'm more beautiful for it.

I love my sister. And my mom, who made us the way we are. And the rest of my family. And my roommates. And my best friends. And everybody I've ever met really, even the ones I wouldn't say I even liked.

That's cheesey, I know. Dr. Woodruff would have a fit and write "TRITE" -- just like that, but bigger, if I had ever handed those words in for an assignment in her class. Maybe even with an explanation point. But I can laugh at it, and this: Life is trite. We live in cycles and make choices day in and out that put us where we are, and a lot of times, we repeat the same mistakes, but eventually, we learn and look at ourselves in special moments when we say, "I'm beautiful, and today, I believe it too."

----

A new poem coming shortly too! Thanks for loving me, each of you.

And as always, thanks for reading.