Each's Other.

Sometimes it gets built up. Sometimes it goes for months and months. Sometimes it is something as simple as a word. Other times it comes in something read. Everything lost gathers in the silence. But then its never really lost at all. It is a puddle, an ocean. It is emotion, a hurricane. It stirs and rises. If I can't tell you, I might draw a picture. If I can't speak, I might sing. In all the distance between us lies what is within us.

Company.

Recently a friend asked me if I still blog. I realized that I hadn't been here to visit this page in so long. It feels like a forgotten friend. Not just this page, but the beautiful woman who asked me about it. I will quietly hope she visits this page, and let this particular entry embrace her like a hug. If only my arms could reach her so far away.

Too many things on my mind to keep this coherent. I noticed recently that I don't think I have normal thoughts. I think in terms of writing. Everything I look at is a sentence that I hope will move someone. My entire mind is filled with words, like puzzle pieces waiting to find their place. Only who knows what the picture is? I like to think of it as one big, beautiful picture, and if you looked closer and closer you would see the tinier pictures that make up the big one. Pictures within pictures. Within pictures.

I've been thinking so much about my friends. Most of them are far away. Some of them are close, but also far away. But I still think of them. Each with gems and gold for hearts. And what they have done to me, it produces a friction that produces a heat. If only I could meld them into rings and necklaces and bracelets to make an outward manifestation of the beauty within them. I'd wear them and show everyone, this is my friend Lindsey- see? She sparkles! And this is my friend Haley, you see? When you hold her up to the light you can see the rainbow. And this is my friend Kelly, I wear her on my left hand because it leads directly to my heart. My entire body would be jeweled.

I love you friends.

Dear Diary.

I wish you were back!
Its a cold, winter night and I'm bundled up in an old quilt, sitting on my bed with a bottle of port next to me. The only thing I hear is the hum of my computer. Its exhausted and about to give out, just like me.
I'm 24 now. Whats funny is that there are alot of things that are currently making me feel like a teenager again. I'm being faced with alot of the same questions I had when I was 17. I'm starting to wonder if this process never stops. That maybe this happens because our bodies get old but our hearts never do.
I can feel people moving on.

I wrote this in the air.

I'm writing you as if I were talking to you. As if you are somehow here with me on this plane, this big metal capsule taking me back in time, but not far enough. If only it could take me to 12 days ago. I'm reading the book you are letting me borrow. You never told me it was about you and me.
But what is even more beautiful is that the characters each hold traits found in bouth you and me.
Lucy is described as a girl, but much more than a girl also. She is a story, an aura, a creature to be studied and preserved. Ann seems to spend their friendship in wonderment. I don't know why, but for me it is just the small things that make somone so big. I find courage in leading a pack of friends to your favorite pub. Bravery in dancing in a corner at some oldr man's house party cause everyone else is to busy powdering their nose.
In our story, you do much more than write it.

Presently I am thinking about the ink on these pages and how they bleed through to the other side. And how the ink stains the pages as much as tears wetted my face as soon as the plan began to take off and how I know the flight attendant saw me crying and how that can all be translated onto pages of an empty notebook, all with the root of just one feeling. I became empty and everything within me ends up on paper. What I write and give to you is just as much a book or letter as it is veins, arteries and blood that pumps within them. And as anything else, it will fade. This deep purple will turn to a color you don't quite recognize and my sadness in leaving will be just a memory. I can resurrect them if I choose to with new ink, and with just a copy of these feelings I had felt. The hope in all this is that maybe one day the sandess is gone completely.
*secret portion*
I'm about to land in Iceland and when I look out my window I see huge white mountains. If you look closely you can see little specks but I can't tell if they are homes or big trucks. Anyway, I like to imagine the speck is me and the mountains are the rest of my life waiting for me to explore them.

Question Mark?

July? Its been since July since I've written on this blog? What a shame. Well, I hope some of you are still reading, whoever you are. There is something so comforting in knowing that other people are reading this. Because alot of times, the things that get lost in translation with me, float in the air and lightly land on this page, right here. But most people don't know that. Anyway.
Last night, I went to see the Fort Wayne Philharmonic play classical pieces to slides from the Hubble telescope. I felt explosions in my body. Fireworks. I'm sure if you looked closely, you would have seen it moving around under my skin, the way an unborn baby makes its presence known with a kick, or sliding its hand across the inside of it's mother's belly. Except in me wasn't a baby at all, but a symphony between my brain and my heart and everything else that connects them.
I looked around the embassy and felt a sense of pride for the building and the people within it. Mostly I saw old married couples, couples who were distinguished with their pressed pants and glasses of wine held so delicately between their fingers. I may have been the youngest person there. But I was just as ready as anyone else for the evening.
I studied the stage and how the orchestra was set up. Percussion in the back, brass to the back right of the stage, and the string section all across the front. I wondered if this had to do with how the sound vibrations hit the walls and so on. It felt so mathematical. And poetical. And beautiful. Everyone in the orchestra was dressed in tuxedoes and black dresses. I thought of how things change over the years but how classical music has kept its elegance amidst mini skirts and synthisizers.
When it started, I kept my eyes mainly on 2 things. The conductor. I feel almost that conductors are over looked by the audience. The conductor is an artist. The air is his canvas and each movement of his needle is a paintbrush dipped in this instrument, and then that instrument, and this note with that note, and this beat with that beat. All of which speak to the beating within our bodies.
My eyes went between this and the string section. The cellos, the violins. Oh the violins! I just CAN'T express my love for them. The way they sound like they are crying. Everything about them is just so beautiful. Look at a violin and its shape, its color. And its silky bow. And the sound it makes......speaks words that I don't know but I can feel. Fireworks!
I will go on believing that the echos from this orchestra levitated me and carried me home on high.

black and white color and motion

for the longest time I couldn't watch movies because of you. Tonight I watched 3.

vs.

I never know anymore. I never know how I feel and if I do I have a hard time figuring out why I feel a certain way. I am a hazard to myself and to others. For too short a time I was doing the right things. Growing from the old maria into the maria I wanted to become. The old maria must feel threatened by the new maria and so she suffocates her in the night and she is lost over and over again. Like a life saving scar. Until there are so many scars that the body becomes ugly and although the life is saved the scars are only reminders of how much work was needed to keep that person alive. And that person doesn't appreciate it so there are more scars. The only hope is that the creator can salvage what's left of someone who once had so much potential.