if places were people no. 5

i never thought i'd see you as a person,

except now that i found you it makes sense:

you became the place we hated.

you formed as i slept,

so i woke to your enormous cancerous thought processes

and your hopeless breath

that blows as mercilessly as the wind.

i woke to you being a mountain,

and i dangled off one of your cliffs.

you rise steeply

from the endless plain floor.

not sunshine falling from heaven,

but rock wishing to rule above grass,

tough as meat and

those shard-like word ledges threaten from miles away

sharp collarbones and jawline and thin thighs

my intention was to never climb your type,

but i'm the only one close enough to try.

now, when you aren't slicing with your obsidian edges,

you're mixing in dirt, breeding infection, reveling in the primal.

hungry green eyes.

you're wild, snarling,

edging away at every flower,

the ones that do bloom are tiny and dull and only last a week or two,

and then your thin breath suffocates them.

seeds only last so long underneath your snow.

your endless winter,

and the longer i spend in you the more i realize

why no one lives

here anymore

your hands used to hold mine and now they

hold me in the sunshine, mocking, until my skin burns.

your skin is dirty and rough and darkening with every day spent so close to the sun

your eyes used to make my own light up,

and now i shiver away at your glance,

afraid of what it might mean.

every car going in the opposite direction seems to call my name,

and i want to go with, but

from where i sit i can see the gravestone that holds childhood memories

and if you will not guard in then

i will

although i think even the memories have crawled out and left

i don't think you even know where the graveyard is,

though it continually fills with your victims,

and you know it not.

you only know when i'm in the area,

your arrows made of steel and the knowledge of my weaknesses

seek out not my heart, but the

arteries pumping towards it.

you aim for my limbs, not

my organs.

you look for targets to maim,

not to kill.

you would hate to be a killer.

you would hate to be anything horrid,

anything blatantly wrong.

but you don't mind the label of desert.

or rock of a mountain.

you don't mind the fact that people climb you to die, not to live.

or that they only come visit you when you smile,

not when you snow your black snow, dark thoughts.

you don't mind that everyone calls you no-mans-land,

no-woman's-land

the forbidden and hated and avoided land.

you say you don't mind, anyway.

but it must be lonely.

it must be quiet.

and i know how you loved the music in the city squares.

how you loved it when people smiled at you

and i know it because you loved it before you changed,

and you say it's an act but i will be honest

i do not believe those words of yours.

i try to bring it to you, the music,

but it isn't the same without the crowds of dancers

and anyway,

your shale mountainsides cut my feet when i dance for you.

it must be trying,

having everyone hate the way flowers grow rarely

so i try to plant a garden,

but your winter comes to soon

for sprouts to push out of the ground.

it must be

so

terribly

hard

to be a mountain in a country

where everything dies.

and yet here i am,

sitting with you,

because so far i have always been a mountain person

and i am starting to think that i have changed,

and that maybe the ocean is more of my style

except i don't want to leave you.

not like this,

not when you've run out of victims so you're turning into one yourself.

not when i can see the structure of the mountain,

and the covering is starting to fall.

the skin is starting to sag and stretch and

you're getting thinner.

i don't want to leave that grave of childhood

the snows came early this year,

i think you crave the ice water more and more.

there was one day this winter when i couldn't make it to the grave.

when i went the next day,

your forced laugh of a wind had felled a tree

breaking the headstone.

i think i will catch one of those cars now,

because who knows when the snows will melt.

i think i will go to the ocean

to see if less thin air will bring clarity of mind.

i think space

between us will make your

visible ribs seem less knife-like.

maybe space will make me miss you.

maybe i will like the thin air when i come back.

maybe the flowers will grow more, if i'm not watching them.

maybe you will have a bouquet for me when i come back.

maybe you will not be so hated when i come back.

maybe it will be better

when i come back.

if i come back.

you stabbed me from behind, when

i turned to walk away today.

an ice shard through my thigh

so that when i do walk, it will be painful.

i can still walk.

but i don't know

when i will come back.

if

i will come back.

too many scars from your arrowheads will

make it harder to climb your

unscalable peak

if i come back.

YO ALL!!! i'm still alive. (seriously i keep saying that. why. maybe because i have multiple not-so-near-death  experiences so i SHOULD be dead.) (i was busy.) (and there was a lack of coffee.) (don't ask.)

SO YEAH. there's another super-downer for you. in my defense i TRIED to find something uplifting. what can i say. i listen to too much chopin to be an expressively happy person. OH WELL. 

xoxo

if places were people no. 4

   

your eyes are blue. 

as blue as the rest of you, 

ranting and raging and throwing your wave arms up in the air with every 

gust of teasing wind. 

you told me once

green was your favorite color.

i doubt it.

it's not just one blue. 

but layers. 

almost black-blue, like sleeping heavens 

and then the cerulean lighter Caribbean pools,

streaked with the almost white of ripped denim and 

the deceptive brownish of sea foam. 

your waves are uneven, 

and they ripple across the surface of the sand like your skin

ripples across you 

the dips and curves making tide pools 

for crabs and sea anemones to take refuge. 

most people don't like you 

"too chilly. can't swim there. 

and there's too much wind and rain."

i like you. that's my kind 

of weather - messy and dirty and sad and yet simple

with only sand and water to get in the way of itself - the way you let the mist 

lounge about, 

sauntering from tree to tree, street to street,

storefront to storefront,

enveloping, muffling the distant song of water's heartbeat,

and it makes my jacket and jeans damp with its heaviness.  

when i walk down to your shore you throw wind at me

thinking i'll walk back  to the house for warmer shoes and some hot chocolate. 

but that's the thing

you don't know me. 

i'm a mountain girl. 

mountain girls climb mountains just to find wind that carries new scent.

i face that wind, 

and i let the water make my feet go numb,

it's iciness is threatening but

i'm not afraid of you. 

beach length waves shove against each other, 

racing to reach my ankles

a bet against time

a wager for the pretty lady. 

i think of what the jovial nature hides - 

harshness and honesty. 

chasms. 

doldrums. 

hurricanes. 

shelter to the water beasts

raging against the coasts. 

the way you never stop - 

you're a constant of wave, water, depth, shallows, 

somehow you cover every aspect and the sheer 

immensity makes me feel small. 

i think of

the way man has wanted to tame you

and yet you have remained just as dangerous as before 

they tied some sticks together and tried

to cross you. 

"we'll win the pretty lady,

pretty lady come home in our tub"

but you pulled them down in maelstrom and reef 

sent an extra breath of wind to make the waves psychotic

carved graves out of the feasting table

that sharks so often watch.

and yet how like man you are, 

those long waves equalling strong shoulders, 

bringing the wind and blocking it at the same time, 

gritty hands pulling at my feet, digging sand around,

kissing locks of my hair, mingling my blonde strands with your sandy ones,

light and bleached from salt and sun

and then kissing my lips with

your salty ones. scratching

my check with the bit of stubble, grit at the top of 

your cheekbone, sharp.

i can't tell if it's a scar that's yet to heal from 

the tiff with that shark last week

or if it's because you never shave when 

you're supposed to. 

you leave gifts on the shoreline:

seaweed, driftwood, pretty stones and shells 

and even the occasional sea star or jelly fish. 

some days you bring me sea foam in your hands, but 

it spills over, all over the bland sand and makes me laugh 

when it flies in your face. 

the perpetual lullaby, 

murmuring sweet things in a language i do not understand,

shhshh shhshh,

others say be careful. 

that you're dangerous. 

that i shouldn't swim too deep. 

you'll pull me away from them. 

i think of our differences. 

me climbing heights and you diving depths. 

both breathing oxygen but yours is in water and mine is in air

and i imagine your sandy hands pulling at my feet again, 

deeper, love, deeper, let me show you something beautiful. 

and how you love to tease the seagulls. 

i think of how you send me sunsets and 

i think of the way i found the mountain looking at the stream instead of at me

and i think of how i'm tired of air, 

and i'm tired of the brown and green of mountains and the mocking 

humhumhum

of the wind in the ponderosas 

you send a salty kiss my way 

and pull me deeper beneath your waves and i can see the 

sand dollar cities and 

a wall of sea stars and 

families of fish 

and a shark says hello

and how the water feels different in my lungs and 

how it feels different in my hair,

and I see the danger 

and I see your anger

but I also see the way you smile 

at me and i think i like your little gifts and the shades

of blue in your eyes. 

i think i like your lullaby 

and your allure

and the way you send me winds filled with new smells 

i like the way your hands are not big enough to hold the sea foam and how

you're wild, but you're mine. 

62 posts

on this blog, i have posted 62 times in the year of 2015.
Everything from rants and passion
to here's my boring stick-in-the-mud life.

the thing is, so much more has happened.
more than those 62 posts.
broken hearts, broken memories.
slow healing.
laughter that goes on and on until your gut aches.
a goal has been set.
multiple goals, actually.
and boundaries abound,
but our comfort zones have been stretched beyond belief.

i think i thought that life could be summed up.
that we could package life, and even people. and even
events, those summer vacations and
spur-of-the-moment road trips. the year after year of
christmas tree hunting in the woods and countless sledding and skiing days.
but we can't. because those things weren't made to be packaged.
they were meant to sit out, draped over the rocking chair like grandma's quilt.
somehow life wasn't meant to fit in a box. it was meant to spread out and run over everything.
Life isn't poptarts. its microwaved nutella.

but that's how life is best served. warm and gushy.
have you ever had frozen nutella?
worst ever.
frozen life. stuck in ice, no responses, cold and stiff.
what would be the point?

so yes - we'll try to fit life into our blog posts.
we'll try to fit it into a box.
but somehow the smell of sand and slightly damp carpet seeps out through the tape.
somehow, broken pine needles don't do bubble wrap.
somehow, somehow, snow doesn't package.

smiles don't fade in my head but printing out memories make them lose their color.
songs get stuck on replay in our brains even though they make us cry and when we try to record them they come out flat.

i try to type out words but they're two-d.
they're just words.
it seems that all i have to do, though, is read them and the mental images come flooding back, like a re-living of my life.
my eyelids are the screen - on them i can see the flash of red as fireworks go off in the fog.
dad throws up a sparkler and it lands in the snow, turning it neon green for a moment before going black.
lexy waltzing into my room at 5 o'clock christmas morning.
dani making me sit in the dirt so i can sit right in the saddle.
chris and the rubber chocolate cake.
joelle: 'its your happy birthday! its YOUR happy birthday! its your HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
eliza, round body, cooing and making me think that maybe, maybe i could have kids one day.
mom, dragging me along on hiking trips that were my idea and helping me salvage recipes gone wrong. me not having problems with chemistry and she just throws up her hands. me freaking out about basically anything and her say "Sam. CHILL. JUST DO IT. you're only holding yourself back."

and i can't write that on paper.
i can't write any of that on paper.
my mind is absolutely tick tight full of every memory i've ever had.

and i can't get it out.
not on paper.
not on this blog.
i can't recreate the scenes and take pictures.
its stuck in my head.

so yes. i've posted a lot this year.
personally, i feel like i've developed a lot in my writing.
i like my photography.
i'm getting better at arting.
but still -

it lacks that life.
i cannot capture life in my art.
in my writing.
in my pictures.

or maybe i can.
maybe i can and i just can't see it.
because in comparison to the product i see in my head,
the vivid world with so many colors,
in comparison, my output is wan. it is drab and empty.
if only you could see the real thing.

there is a species of shrimp that lives in the ocean. it can see 16 different color cones.
we can see three.
i wonder what that shrimp's world looks like.
it must be vivid.
i wish what i put out there was vivid. 16 color cone vivid.
but its not.
(or maybe i only have 3 color cones.)

i shall continue to write though. i will continue to post.
i will keep snapping photos.
and if next year holds 300 posts instead of 62, well, then grand.
if it only holds 12, that's okay too.

but i must recognise that life is not 2-d.
what we put out might be 2-d.
we probably won't be able to capture essencces. and mists. and 16 different color cones.
but we can capture 3. so why not?
why not do what we can, saturate ourselves in life.
breathe it. right now, its all we have.

indian trees

The tree leans over our house

waiting for wind.

A scar runs deep in its skin

and memories are scattered around its base

in tiny fragments.

It wishes to

scream out its story,

but it has no mouth to do so.

It's family is around us,

standing among the other trees,

each leaning in its own way,

each scarred differently,

each having different memories of the past.

The past tells of these trees

- they cannot tell for themselves -

and how the people off the land

journeyed through and

stripped off

the covering of the trees,

eating the woody flesh.

There was no other food,

and they did not take

enough to kill the trees.

Only enough to leave scars.

It makes one realize

that sacrifices leave scars.

Pain leaves marks.

Suffering leaves wounds.

And sometimes

one must sacrifice

unwillingly,

as the trees.

They did not choose to be the trees.

They did not choose to provide food

for the people of the land.

They did not choose to be scarred.

But:

They did choose to not die

from the pain.

They chose to keep living;

to keep breathing;

to keep making shade and oxygen;

to keep being trees.

They did not fall

to the ground and

rot into the dirt. They hurt.

They bled their sap.

They felt the wind against bare

wood and winced at it's cold teeth.

But though they hurt,

they continued living

long enough

to lean

over our house.

the wild mare

Here's a bit of writing from about a month ago. I was feeling a little suffocated, by my schedule, problems with a friend, general craziness, etc. And this is what came out of the pointy end of my pencil.

Ah, the benefits of keeping a notebook on one's nightstand.

After re-reading this piece, I feel like I need to explain why I wrote it, more than what I said above. This piece of writing is a metaphor. If you are a horse person, you will see flaws in my writing. A normal horse would not behave like this. A cowboy wouldn't either. But what I wrote was how I was feeling. The different horses, the cowboy, the fence, the other two-leggeds - they all represent some character, obstacle, or experience in my life right now. This writing, is fiction - fake. That's what fictional writers do - they take stuff that they know, or have imagined, and clothe their stories in those things.

I must say, this is probably my best piece of creative short fiction. Here 'tis....Enjoy!

Coming soon: October -- a collection of memories... :)

______________________________________________________________________

the wild mare - 

She snorts and stomps and strikes. Other mares follow their stallions, but this one is different. No horse or two-legged owns her. 

The field in which she is kept is large. Other stallions nicker gently to their herds, keeping them together, persuading the mares that they must be loyal. But this mare is not loyal to any of them. 

Her mane is knotted and ragged from wind, water, and sun. It blends in with her coat - a dusty white with tinges of red. She tosses her head defiantly, snorting out her challenge. 

A stud starts towards her, wanting to claim her. He tries flirting. He tries pursuing her, showing off and protect thing her from other stallions, but she ignores him, nibbling at blades of grass in the shade of the apple tree. The stud loses his patience. Trying force, he nips at her rump and gets her rear hooves in his chest. 

She squeales and charges him with bared teeth. He balks, not wanting to be chased off by a mare, but then the squeal deepens to an aggressive growl, and he takes his leave at an indignant trot. 

A mare knickers gently from a nearby herd, beckoning the sandy-colored rogue to join her. The new mare's herd is near the water hole. The stud treats his mares well. 

But the mare - the one with still bared teeth, a threat to any who come near - stays beneath her apple tree. 

She is not completely alone: a squirrel chatters from the limb above her in a language all its own. The horse answers in her own tongue, creating an untranslated conversation. The meadowlark pecking at an apple is a quiet comfort. A yearling fawn nibbles at the grass and gazes at the watering hole, wishing for a drink but not getting it. Watering time will come soon enough.

Another set of eyes watches from a short distance. A two-legged pulls a hat over sky-blue eyes: calculating, wondering judging, wishing. Then he moves. 

With a quick jerk he pulls the metal off his heels and lets them clank to the ground next to his leather seat. Leaving his rope, his water canteen, everything, he walks over to the mare under the apple tree. 

He is slow but confident, yet still gentle. He doesn't see a horse that needs to be changed. 

He mutters in his own language too, staring into the mare's golden eyes, flecked with azure. 

Can I trust you? he seems to ask. 

Can you handle my wild strength? She inquires back. 

But he doesn't answer. 

He bends and runs careful hands down the mare's legs. Confident hands. Curious hands. 

He woos the mare, not with a show, but with himself. And finally, a permission inquiry. 

The mare doesn't refuse, but she warns him: 

I  am wild. 
I am free. 
The wind is my friend and the rivers and rains know my form. 
The sun is my watcher by day, the moon by night. 
They bleach my coat white like the sand; 
they use my tears to cleanse the grit from my eyes. 
I am wild. 

And the man answers: 

I am not afraid. I am cautious and wary; I am careful...but not afraid. 
Test me. 

He sees a horse with a love for apple tree shade. He sees not the tangled mane but the wind that blew it into tangles. He sees not a horse for breaking, but for healing. 

Before the mare can think to bare her teeth or lift her head in defiance, the two-legged has placed a hand on her face. Another hand goes to her neck, then shoulder. 

And with a snort of unbelief from each, the two-legged grips the mare's mane and swings up onto her back. She raises her head into the wind. Questioningly, the two-legged takes his hands from her mane and instead runs them underneath the strands, down her neck and shoulders. 

The mare turns and walks out from under the shade. 
She is wondering what the two-legged wants from her. 

There is a barrier around the field, after all. But the two-legged taps her neck, asking her to go towards the break in the barrier.

 Other two-leggeds gather here. One seems particularly upset to see the mare's two-legged riding her, but the latter man tosses the upset one a jingling pouch, saying something. The mare skitters one step sideways at the noise from the pouch, and feels his legs tighten around her girth. He speaks again, calming her. 

Once they get through the opening, the mare begins to trot, then lope, then gallop. 

She pushes herself as hard as she can go. 

The two-legged presses his body against her back, his hands pressed against the bottom of her neck. 

He can feel her muscles contract and relax with the pounding, continuous thud of her hooves on the drying grass. The wind whips her mane, then his, until the hat on his head finally flies off, and their different strands mingle together.

Then it is just their two souls and the wind and sky and prairie. 

The mare tosses her head: 

Do you not see? I am WILD. This is my freedom. 

The two-legged presses his face on her neck. I see now. 

When the two-legged turns the mare back towards the pen, she almost doesn't go, but reluctantly walks back to the enclosure. 

He slides off before they enter, pressing a hand on her nose, uttering a plea. 

The mare stands, not moving, outside the fence.

The two-legged walks back into the enclosure and picks up his belongings. The others - two-leggeds and horses - watch in disbelief as the mare allows herself to be saddled and the bit placed in her mouth. 

She was, after all, a wild animal. Did she not need to be broken and trained? Doesn't she need someone to show her that they own her - who is boss? 

But no - with a small smile the mare's two-legged - dirty jeans, shirt, and hat, grimy hands, dusty boots - mounts his horse. 

She isn't one to be conquered, but rather allied with. 

There is no reason to break her, because she is stronger when she is unbroken, wild and free. 

Some are stronger when they stay as themselves.