with one click, i updated my status.

and in my own defense, i completely despise any reference to social networking sites, whether it’s on tv, or in a movie, on a commercial. like, loathe it. but it’s important here.

sometimes i use this tactic as a fishing scheme. to try to bait someone in particular into responding. it is this pathetic little game that i play with myself. and i was doing it now.

‘is going to lake highland’.

and with one click, i was off. i grabbed the quilted blanket that i had grown up loving, literally, to pieces. my grandmother had made it by hand, and my parents never intended for it to leave the house. but in college, it lived in my car. it spent many sunny days and many chilly, lonely nights at lake highland. which was once so frequented that it was just referred to as ‘the lake’.

i grabbed a new book i’d yet to start, and my just-purchased blank journal. with skinny lined pages, just the way i like them to be, to get the most out of them. thinking twice, i grabbed my blank sketch book and a couple charcoal pencils, though i didn’t really expect that mood to strike at all.

‘what are you doing?’ i said, aloud, checking my tired, gray face in the mirror before leaving, weighted down with too many things for such a short adventure. the drive would take about 20 minutes, if there was no traffic.

i had a few hours, maybe five or six, until the reunion we'd arranged. i knew in my soul that i needed time at the lake to prepare for the evening out. and i knew that if i was to get my chance to catch up with the fish that got away, i'd have to leave now to be home in time to go back out again.

the drive to the lake gave me too much time to think about what it had meant to me throughout my younger/better/thinner/prettier single days.

days wasted, sitting in wait. for some boy that i’d put too much stock in, despite a ridiculous number of warnings from one person or another. the times when no one came to rescue me, or just to keep me company. no one ever showed.

though, one time, a boy did show up. i chalked it up to fate at the time. not my crazy stalker-ness, going there every day after work. and not calculating the 68743135 other times i’d sat there alone into the equation. it wasn’t about probabilities then - it was all about fate. and my blind naive belief that, if it was fate, he would come. whoever 'he' was.

i knew exactly what i was doing on this day. i was baiting. i was tempting something that i had no business whatsoever tempting. it was a tightly sealed box i’d been walking circles around, trying to figure out (for years now). was there a way to get inside the box, or even to just touch the box, without setting off any alarms, or creating any avalanches? i knew better. because that would make it all too easy. i shouldn’t be within proximity of the box, not even with a ten foot pole. because of the slippery slope.

but... i am a dreamer. i always have been.

i remember the day in college when i decided that my problem, all these years, had been the non-diagnosis of attention deficit when i was younger. or, possibly, the lack of diagnosis of the adult onset variety. it explained so much about me, about who i was.

because i daydream. when i am under pressure, or really need to get something done, i just space out. i’m an incredible list-maker. only i can never remember where i wrote the list. i start everything with enthusiasm, and finish nothing. being a horrible test-taker kept me from trying to get into grad school.

but in my life now, i lay in bed at night, willing my mind to dream things that could never happen in my real life. conversations i’d kill to have. missed connections i’d die to have explained to me. times in my life that i wish so hard to revisit, just to change one little thing. in an effort to change EVERYTHING.

because i only ever remember wanting, not being wanted. and, just once, wouldn’t it be sweet to truly be wanted? by the person you wanted to have want you? i had more than one of those in my short single-lifetime. mostly, one. but there were so many fleeting others.

i am in the habit of wishing i could go back in time. because i’d do it in a flash. and i even know the exact week i’d go back to. though there were three separate decisions i’d change, they all happened within seven days of each other, so i am nearly certain that i could completely unravel my current existence by revisiting one little blink in time.

i am also of the habit of getting my hopes up. probably from the lack or horror flicks (i couldn't watch) and the surplus of romantic comedies and dramas. i had always felt like i was supposed to have one of those ‘dream come true’ moments in my life. i’d definitely had a couple before. but not in the way i felt it should be, they were in a toned down way. not the kind i felt on my skin. like how your scalp tingles when you’ve had too much coffee. the kind that is so good, so incredibly unbelievable, that you would faint from being overwhelmed at the sheer amazement of it all.

on this day, i am driving the streets of my hometown. and nothing looks familiar to me anymore. i am certain i know the way, all these years later, from so many past trips. but the change in scenery always makes me think that i missed my turn. or went too far. and it had been several years since i'd been to the lake.

once i came home to visit, and was driving in the rain at night. and was so lost all i could do was cry. and i was only driving straight, on one very busy main road. no matter. i was completely overwhelmed at the change. i was so out of sorts that i couldn't even figure out at a point which road i was on, only i hadn't made any turns. it was awful. horrible. stressful.

with these thoughts running through my mind, i see an old familiar building on my left, and the tiny (most likely man-made) lake on my right, and know that if i don’t brake quickly, i will miss my turn. a quick glance in the rearview. no one that is too close, screeching turn onto the skinny road that will take me to my beloved lake.

a fear gains speed inside of me, because i realize that i don’t remember any of the trip here. i don’t remember intersections, i don’t remember lights. how did i make it without wrecking the car? without running red lights? i do not know. and this is not new to me. i don’t remember the last time it happened, i only sense that it was probably also on a visit home. so heady that you're on autopilot. not safe, not in the least. many years before, i was so lost in thought over a boy that i realized mid-gigantic-intersection that the light was very very red. luckily it was in a western town, where traffic didn't exist, and no one was around. i had to pull over that time, to recover, literally shaken.

about halfway between the quick turn and the lake, i got lost. i remembered having to drive through a neighborhood to get there, but not which street to turn on. i drove slowly through, hoping to not set off any neighborhood watch alerts. hoping for a glimpse of my glittering water through the thick landscape. heart rate picks up, not quite to a panic, but to the place just under panic, when you still have control.

‘slow down, girl. everything is going to be okay.’ apparently, i am also in the habit of speaking to myself when i’m alone and stuck in my head. cruising around the next corner, i see a very familiar stop sign. soft left. my lake, at last.

circling up and back around the street, to point my car in the opposite direction, the right direction, i pull up to my parking spot, under the huge tree. i never was any good at naming trees or flowers, but i’m going to declare it now as an oak. i imagined it had been there for a hundred years or more.

putting the car into park, and turning the key in the ignition, for a split second i’m sitting in complete silence. i can hear that my breathing is faster, and feel my heart racing. memories flood. stomach-sick over boys from my youth. my mind tries to slow itself down with negating thoughts: nothing is going to happen today; you're going to read your book; you're going to write some wonderfully depressing things down on paper; then you'll go home; and have a lot of fun tonight. that is all. go.

out of the car with all of my things in tow in one trip. like a day at the beach, dragging too many things behind you that you’ll never need during one short day at the beach.

just ahead of the tree trunk, far enough away from it to not lay on its knobby roots that poke up through the dirt, but still under its sparse canopy, i spread out my holey quilt, corner to corner, and smooth it deliberately. reading book on one corner. journal on the opposite corner. it wasn't windy - this was an old habit. i slid out of and balled up my sweater, hating for a moment that i forgot to remember a pillow, and placed it in the middle of the two corners.

i stretched out onto the quilt. a shiver ran completely up and down my spine, goosebumps down both legs, and out both arms to the wrists. i was supposed to be here. i could feel it. i had always come here at my most desperate times. my loneliest times. my most heartbroken times, hopeless times. and though this day didn’t feel that way, it felt close.

i hadn’t been kissed, good and kissed, in at least five years. and i couldn't take it anymore. before this time in my life, i only ever wanted to kiss. to make out. i never wanted sex, really. just to KISS. like, for hours. all night until the sun came up. and the hole that the lack of kissing had carved out in my heart was just too much to bear. it made me think horrible, permanent, awful thoughts about what i should do next with my life to stay happy and true to myself.

i lit a cigarette, and stared at the sky, smoking slowly and deliberately. why did the sky seem so much closer here? why did the world surrounding me seem so much smaller? i always thought it was strange, that, given enough empty space around you, the sky and horizon in your view just seems to be a half circle - a dome, like a snow globe. like you’re seeing the sky above that surrounds you, from a point that is precisely in the middle of the beginning and the end of the world.

back in my city, i never felt this way, because there was never enough space to make that perception possible. but home, i remember this thought again. and think, for a fleeting second, that i’m losing my mind.

the same way i feel when i wonder if my blue is your blue, and her blue and his blue, and if everyone sees colors the same way. or when i think that we’re all just some giant’s playthings, being made to live out trivial lives for someone else’s enjoyment. for play, as toys. not as in god, more like a big overgrown kid.

i realized that i was uncomfortable in this natural silence. that i needed music to really relax and enjoy this day. earphones in. i sigh at the new soundtrack i’ve created for my current life. laying flat on my back, arms crossed over my chest and holding onto the opposite sleeves for warmth, i let my mind wander.

i don’t know where it went, but i think i must've snored, because i woke myself up with a start. i assumed i’d fallen asleep, because songs had passed that i didn’t remember hearing.

i jumped suddenly, upon opening my eyes. i didn’t realize that they had been closed at all. and i didn’t realize that someone was standing over me. and i didn’t know for how long said someone had been standing there. i hoped it wasn't a snore that woke me... how embarrassing.

for that split second, i thought i was going to throw up. a rush of heat and redness to my face. and then pass out, as the heat was followed by pale whiteness as the rushing blood drained back to the various places in my body that it had been before i opened my eyes, whiting out everything in my line of vision. rushing to my pounding, beating heart.

the face above was familiar, absolutely. but i was confused from waking, even more so because of the way that seeing someone’s face upside down disfigures them in a down's syndrome kind of a way. i saw a frown; he was smiling.

i yanked the earphones out of my ears and propped myself up quickly on my elbows, twisting my body in an uncomfortable way that would likely induce vertigo, if i turned my head back too quickly. my vision started to go white again, before it came back with a dull pounding clarity.

the blood continued to rush down from my head and flood my chest. my heart was beating so loudly now that i thought it could be heard by the ghosts who have always haunted the school on the other side of the lake (you could see the figures in the window if you stared long enough).

it was then that i noticed the second car, parked just behind mine. my mind thought ‘what are you doing here?!’ but instead, gave me the seconds i needed to edit my words.

‘hi,’ with a slow smile.


he looked directly at me, but said nothing for a full minute. then, ‘may i sit here with you?’

‘of course.’ i tried not to sound as excited as i was. my heartbeat was in my ears now. i fought the smile from growing too wide, and settled for a shy, corners of the mouth upturned smile.

i grabbed my books quickly, embarrassed for no reason, and piled them on my side of the blanket. i moved to the right, making room for him, and put on my nap-warmed sweater. the sun had dropped a little during my dreaming, and there was the slightest hint of a chill in the air. not a chill, actually. a little soft breeze. it was rippling the glassy lake, just slightly.

‘do you mind if i smoke?’ i asked. my nerves were all balled up in my belly, and i thought that this would help.

‘no. can i have one?’ a smile. a warm smile. from someone you haven’t seen in a very long time. someone who is actually very happy to see you again. right-side up, he looked great. i nodded, shared, and lit his before mine.

slowly, trying to choose the best words for the situation, ‘so.’

funny thing was, he said ‘so’ at the exact same time. the tone i was saying it in, it was the knowing kind of so. the 'so' that would have been followed by ‘you took the bait’ if i wasn’t with all my wits. my brain was granting me some kind of grace this day, because usually i say stupid things quickly, and realize how wrong the words were about halfway through a sentiment.

his 'so' was in the only slightly busted kind of a way that would have been followed by, 'here we are.'

we both laughed nervously at our jinx. and didn’t speak for what seemed like a very long time; actually, probably, only a few seconds.

‘how have you been?’ he asked slowly, staring into my eyes as if they’d let him know if what i was about to say was not entirely true. i loved the way he talked. slowly, so you can get to the heart of what he's saying.

‘i’ve been alright.’ a pause to not choke on my words. i always choke on words when i'm nervous. like i try to breathe in at the exact moment a word comes out. a slight little hiccup in between syllables that makes me gulp. it's horrifying. i don't want people to know when i'm nervous, and it gets me nearly every time.

‘how have you been?’ i stared right back, trying not to be the first to break the gaze, even though i didn’t care at all about having the upper hand. because i had company.

‘busy. tired. but i'm well.’ and a smile. the kind of smile that crinkles the corner of your eyes. a genuine smile. he was happier than he was nervous.

silence again. there are a few types of silence. there’s the silence you intentionally insert in a situation when you want someone to crack and spill their truths to you. there’s nervous, uncomfortable silence, which is usually the type i find myself sitting square in the middle of. i’m truly horrible at small talk, i never know what to say or ask. which is sad, because i used to be great at it. if i'm talking to someone now, i tend to dive in deep. but before i get to the root of what i want to say and ask? tons of awkwardness.

but then there’s comfortable silence. when it’s okay to not know what to say next. that’s the kind the two of us were sitting in.

‘i hope you don’t mind that i came.’ he finally offered.

‘no. not at all. in fact, i think,’ one mississippi, two mississippi, calming breath, ‘i wanted company.’ my eyes cut away first, fake squinting to focus on something that was really nothing, somewhere that was really nowhere in particular, on the other side of the lake. this was, in spite of all the things i knew to be so dangerous, so slippery, exactly the boy i’d been baiting.

i sensed a smile, but couldn’t actually see it for myself, as i was so engrossed in the something that was nothing across the lake. maybe i saw it out of the corner of my eye, but i think i heard it in his voice.

‘i’m really quite happy to see you. i’m glad you’re here.’

he moved so slightly closer to me that i thought for a second that i was making it up. shifting my weight slightly to my left, i brushed his hand. looked down at it, then looked away again. he had, in fact, moved closer.

this time the heartbeat was panic. i didn’t know what to do. i mean, i wanted this. i had dreamt it over and over in my head. i had willed it to happen after midnight so many nights, especially recently. and now it was happening, and for some retarded reason, i instinctively wanted it to end. not the company, so much as the heart racing. the panic attack.

'in a way, i'm sorry that i am here. i know your situation. and i know that this complicates things for you. but at the same time, i knew i'd never forgive myself if i didn't come here.' he leaned back on his elbows, and i caught his profile. could he see the same nothing on the opposite side of the lake? i tried to follow his eyes, but studied his face instead, for about three seconds.

it was a nice profile. nothing stuck out too much, nothing overpowered anything else: nice true eyes, a nose perfectly suited for his face, a nice hairline to frame his nice face. nice teeth. nice close-lipped smile. and a peace that was both new and familiar. i wondered so many things about how he came to be sitting here, next to me. he was not necessarily the person who would stand out as the most attractive person in the room that everyone would covet, but he looked good to me. he was precisely my type.

'it's really okay. i'm glad you came.'

i laid all the way back, elbows out, head on stacked hands. the thought of taking off my sweater now seemed completely inappropriate, no matter how much my neck would hurt as a result of not having a pillow. i didn't want it to be perceived as flirting. and now it was too cool, as well - the temperature was definitely dropping. the sun was creeping toward the horizon, there were no buildings to obscure the view. just trees. it was the golden hour. everything was basked in warm, glowing orange.

we just stayed like that. in silence. there were so many things i wanted to say, to know, to ask. there was not as much history as i’d have liked there to have been. my mind couldn't put my questions in the best order, so nothing was said. i was pretty deep in thought, staring at the clouds freckling the sky when he broke the silence.

'it's nice here.'

he brushed the top of my hand. very very lightly. i perceived it as a way to initiate touch, allowing me to move my hand quickly, if i wasn't okay with the touch. very carefully, so that it was almost like an accident. in case i wanted to undo it. i lifted my hand slightly, as if it had jumped, as if it was a reflex. but it was not a reflex. and he took note. his hand rested on mine. perfectly still.

that initial contact. i mean, he had touched me in one way or another since i'd known him. but nothing that felt anything like this. this was different. this was forbidden. this was dangerous. this was exciting. this was scary. this was warm. this was well thought out on his end.

‘there are some things i wanted to tell you. i knew that if i waited until tonight, there would be too many people around. and i couldn’t say what i wanted to say, not the way i wanted to be able to say it. and you wouldn’t be able to hear me, the way i want to be heard.’

by now, my head was floating well above my body. my heart was outside my chest. my feet were completely numb, as were my hands. i realized that i was staring at the last few slowly dying leaves clinging to the branches above me, fluttering in the breeze. i looked sideways, fearing the eye contact i was about to make, but trying not to look scared. i didn't want to discourage him from saying what was on his mind.

thing was, the warmth in his eyes put me right at ease. i knew that anything he was about to say would leave me feeling great, days later. maybe even weeks. high.

he turned on his side, facing me. everything was so easy. what he was wearing, the words he was saying. how easily they flowed. it was like he’d rehearsed this time and again. probably even on his way to find me.

he told me about the first time i caught his eye. the first time he said hi to me. the first time that i was on his mind when i was nowhere near him. he told me that he was sorry that he never said anything. i wanted to let him say everything before i spoke, but i stopped him there.

‘i wish you would’ve said something.’ and i was completely aware of the sadness that flashed in my eyes. and i was more than relieved that tears didn’t follow. i cry so easily. sometimes just a thought, or a commercial on tv, will make me cry. sometimes i don’t even need a reason.

and, sadly, the same flash in his eyes, ‘me, too...’ his voice trailed off. he was trying to remember where he left off. trying to hop back on the train of thought that i’d slowed to a stop.

after a few seconds, he got it back. ‘i know that if i had at least just told you, my life would be different. even if it was only slightly. i wouldn’t have this feeling when i come home to visit. i wouldn’t have to think i see you. everywhere i go.' now, he paused. 'i have a confession...’

he looked to me. he needed a nod, or some acknowlegement that it was going to be ok, whatever he was going to say next. i said, quietly, hiccup-y, ‘go.’

he took a little breath, ‘i drove past your house. more than once. after you left. after i left. when i came back. actually, every time i came back. to see if i was crazy for thinking that you could be here during exactly the same time that i was.’ he looked from left eye to right eye and back again to center, scanning my face for a reaction that might not come in the form of words.

i realized that i was holding my breath. i had been holding my breath since i okayed his confession. i let out a sigh when he said those words. really? all my life, i wanted someone to say those words to me. i was speechless. my mouth had fallen open. just slightly, nothing drastic, just a reflex to take in a little breath.

‘i’m really sorry about this timing. i know it is shit. i know it’s really unfair to you, and not at all unfair to me. i know that i have nothing to lose by telling you all of this, and that i could put you in a very delicate situation at the same time. and i want you to know, i am really very sorry. but i just couldn’t let this opportunity slide away. i’d never have forgiven myself.’

he sat up so abruptly, i thought he was going to leave me sitting there dumbfounded. get into his car and speed away, so quickly that it would seem like a dream, or that i’d made the whole thing up. this is how things would have gone in my previous life.

instead, he reached into his pocket, but i couldn’t see what was in his hand. his arms were looped around his propped up knees, left wrist inside his right hand, grasping. i noticed that his shoelaces were ratty on the end, from all the places he'd walked in them. i loved his shoes. i loved the frayed ends of his pants, worn from wear. the way they slouched over the top of his shoes. i loved that he was here, telling me these things. it was exactly what i needed. when i needed it. i decided that i would tell him. as long as we were confessing things to each other.

‘you know... i needed this. there has been something missing from my life. for a long time now. and as dangerous as this is for me, i’m okay with it. because i had always wondered about you. and the things i didn’t know, well, they kept me up at night at differnt times over the years. and distracted me from my life, anyway. so your timing is actually perfect. and i can’t believe that you said it out loud. to me.’

i propped myself up again, because we were further apart than we’d been since he was standing over me, and after all that gut dumping, it seemed appropriate to be closer, physically. a little smile crept over his lips at the end of my string of sentences. he tryed to downplay it. downturn it. and i knew something was coming. something was about to happen. i lit another cigarette. i’d already smoked more than i’d smoked in the last couple days combined. i was anxious.

i followed the edge of the lake with my eyes, in a complete circle, all the way around it. no cars driving. no trains passing. a few cars parked at the school, but no one near them. no kids playing, in fact it was nearly silent. there were only small groups of ducks gliding between the grass sticking up in patches along the edge of the lake, little duck families. it was a saturday. and that was fortunate. i was glad we were completely alone. it took the edge off.

he turned swiftly on his axis. i had seen him do it before, just as effortlessly. he was facing me now, crosslegged. with a folded up piece of notebook paper in his hands that were sticking out of too long sleeves. he was curling the edges up. they were becoming slightly grayish brown. i wondered what he’d have to say before handing it over. or reading it to me. whichever he deemed best. i wanted him to do it in his time; i fought the urge to say, ‘what’s that?’ or the dorkier instinct, ‘whatcha got there?’ i am notorious for saying something really dumb at important times. and also for thinking of the perfect thing to say at night, laying in bed, so many waking hours later.

surprisingly, my mind wasn’t racing. my heart wasn’t pounding. i was calm.

‘so i wrote this thing. a long time ago. and i could never shake the thought of wanting you to have it.’ he looked down at my quilt, and handed it over.

i didn’t know if i should read it now or later. i was afraid to unfold it. i held it in my hand for a minute. it was still warm from his pocket, or his hands, whichever, both. he was toying with the gaping holes in the quilt. tracing the edges slowly, deliberately. he was afraid to look up.

‘thank you.’ i whispered. he looked up for a second, so i asked, ‘should i read this now?’

‘do you want to?’ he said, as a nervous laugh of words.

‘i do.’ i unfolded it. i hadn’t unfolded something that felt like this in my hands since high school. folded passed notes between excited girls with crushes. i was instantly back in time, maybe 15 years, from one tactile stimulus. the senses are an amazing thing. the same fluttery feeling in my stomach accompanied the sound of unfolding paper.

i read it once. it was not addressed to me, like a note, like i had expected. it was prose. i had to read and re-read so many times. my attention was darting, seeing words like flashes, wanting to skip ahead in excitement, missing meaning, going back. over and over. and he watched me read. it was sweet.

i folded it back up, and slid it into my pocket. ‘thank you. really...’ i touched his hand where it was resting on his knee and looked him dead in the eye. ‘thank you.’

i moved closer, on my knees, for a hug. i think i might have caught him off guard. this was full contact, now there was no doubt, and no fear. it felt great. it wasn’t a quick hug, like when you’re saying goodbye to someone you’re going to see the next day. and it wasn’t an obligatory hug. it was a long, heartfelt hug. a hug of longing, a hug that had so much more behind it, on both sides. a hug that didn’t want to end, to break up. a hug that had been waiting in the wings for several years, for the right moment.

my arms were around his upper back, draped across his shoulders, holding him close. his were around my waist. suddenly, i was very glad that i was wearing a skirt. a full, shin-length housewife skirt. i felt pretty and awake. it was laying so perfectly, covering my legs completely, material spread out. we sat like that for minutes.

finally, i sat back off my knees, afraid that if i needed to stand up anytime in the near future, i’d fall from the way i’d had my weight on them. the pins and needles from knees to toes hurt, but they were worth it, and faded.

it hadn’t said too much or too little. it wasn’t really all on the table, but because of the gesture of the passed note, it felt like it was.

‘i came here with the intention of kissing you.’ and now, it was on the table.

my face blushed. was he really saying this to me? would a kiss have been more romantic than speaking of a kiss? how thoughtful, to say what he wanted to do, without just doing it. he was really completely thinking about me. my life. my choices.

my stomach dropped. in a way, i wished he would’ve just kissed me. removed all guilt from me. taken the decision from me, for himself. made it so that he kissed me unexpectedly, not that i kissed him or welcomed it. removing blame. giving me the chance to break it off and walk away, without any need to think and rethink it after the fact. so that it wouldn’t have been a conscious decision. so that it wouldn’t have felt so much like cheating.

i realized that more than a minute of silence had passed while i thought this out. he was uncomfortable in it, so i said what i thought would make him feel better.

‘i wish you would’ve.’

he looked genuinely surprised. like he had expected me to tell him all the ways that it wasn’t going to happen, or that it wasn’t okay, or that i had no desire to kiss him, or to be kissed by him. and because of the prose, i pushed the envelope a bit further. i felt like i kindof owed it to him in a way. i'd been on his side of the table so many times, putting it all on the line, only to hear disappointing words follow my confession.

‘i haven’t been well kissed in a very long time.’ i expected to smile after saying those words, because they sounded ridiculous and silly, the tiny smile didn’t last at all. my face grew hot, and the fake smile faded very quickly into a sad face, on the verge of tears.

he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘this is what i didn’t want. i don’t want you to be sad. i wanted to make you happy.’ he grabbed my hand.

‘but i am happy. you’ve made my day. really, my whole trip. and with that, there is sadness, too. but it’s okay.’ my voice faltered. my eyes started to water. i was not crying. it was the same as the way that your eyes water from the outside corners when you’re riding your bike on a cold day. i know that my face is ugly and contorted when i cry, which is precisely how i was able to stop myself from falling victim to the sadness i was feeling.

i found my steady voice again, ‘it sounds a little crazy, but i like to be sad.’

somehow, we’d shifted ourselves now to be back in our original reclined positions with space between us. me, with my diamond arms holding the weight of my heavy head. him, leaning back on elbow triangle stands. both staring. i was wondering what to say or do next. what does one say after that conversation?

‘i feel like i should go,’ he looked at me, again. he was reading me. like a book. repeatedly. scanning my face, my eyes, for truth that words might not express.

‘i’d prefer if you stayed here with me. i hadn’t been here long before you got here. i can't believe i fell asleep so quickly - i wasn't tired. i mean, i haven’t started my book. i haven’t written a word.’ what i wanted, suddenly, was my sketch book. i wanted to draw his shoe, as it clung to his foot, on my blanket.

'can i get you anything?' i asked, showing the bag full of things packed for a long day at the beach. it was dusk. the sunlight was fading, i knew i didn't have much time. it would be dark soon. and i really wanted to draw that foot.

he went to his car and grabbed a composition notebook. i took notice that it was not the one that my page had been torn from, which made me smile - he'd planned this, absolutely. he sat down to write, neatly, quickly, in the time that the sun would allow us.

which, as luck would have it, was only about 15 minutes. we worked in silence. he stopped first. i stubbornly drew, squinting to see my lines in the dark, before giving up.

i put down the sketch book in frustration. i turned onto my side with my head propped up, and looked at him, on his stomach, watching me sideways. he turned to me and smiled, 'thanks for today. i feel lighter.'

'i do, too,' i said. my belly became full of butterfly flight. this was it. i could sense it on every square inch of my skin, electrified, i was shaking. i hope he didn't notice.

if we were ever going to kiss, it was going to be precisely now. at this moment. picture perfect. the sun had slipped beyond our vision. there was no more daylight. the moon was far away, high in the sky. it was full. maybe that explained this.

and then, right then, as i was looking at the moon, he totally went for it. at first, it was light lips. no hands, nothing else touching. if i wanted out, i could get out, but not for long. i didn't budge. i closed my eyes.

but then he touched my chin and neck with one hand, and it became more. and there was no getting out of it. i felt myself melting.

moving slowly closer, kissing. leaning down on me, with slightly more weight, kissing. our lips, kissing. arm around me, holding me, kissing. it was amazing. it was the way it is in movies. the way i'd wanted to be kissed for so long.

this was what i had been missing. and i didn't think it in a self-conscious way, or a guilty way, or an 'i have to end this' way. this was what my life had been lacking for so long. i remembered so suddenly how you feel so completely connected to someone when you kiss. i knew now the place where his words had come from. where his desire to see me and confess had come from.

i had craved this. and i had wanted him to be the one to break the drought, and he had done it.

we kissed for so long that i had time to think about all the times i'd been lying in bed awake at night, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, listening to songs about leaving and starting over, watching passing headlights on the street below create moving beautiful shadows on the ceiling while i stared blankly at it, heartbroken. it brought tears to my eyes again, in the moment.

i was completely lost in this now. we were entangled, horizontally. i was flat on my back, helpless to move, like a turtle. i didn't want to move.

there was no break, no stopping for breath. i felt my face blush as i realized that i'd never known his taste before. what a juvenile thought. and as if he sensed my discomfort at the fleeting thought, he broke the kiss. pulling back so that he could see my face. i smiled. a big smile. he returned in kind. not aware i was doing it, i caught a tiny bit of my lower lip in my upper teeth, and licked my lip. he didn't see.

‘we should leave.’ he sat up. it was over. my heart sank.

i knew that the few short hours between now and the bar would not be enough time for the wound up feeling to fade. and i had to work on it, because too many people would be seeing me for it to be apparent. i felt for a time like i didn't need a car at all, like i could just float home. high above this little town that calls itself a city. over other little lakes with other kissing people, over different neighborhoods familiar to me for different reasons. places i grew up, places i'd kissed other boys.

he stood up, and reached out his left hand to help me to my feet. i teetered slightly upon standing, dizzying white vision again. one short kiss, and a long hug later, we said goodbye. his arms were resting on top of my shoulders as he hugged me, leaning slightly. neither of us wanted to leave or end it, but didn't speak the sentiment. we just stood there like that, thinking for a few.

as was the case the whole night, he pulled away from me first, breaking the hug. he didn't break contact though. he inched away, backing up, but holding my arm. his hand dropped slowly from my arm to my wrist to my hand. and he just looked at me. all of me, like he was taking me in with his deep breath. and with his exhale, he dropped my hand.

it was over.

we got into our cars. he pulled away quickly, i watched his tail lights get smaller. it didn't last as long as i'd hoped, not slow motion lights trailing, like in a movie, like in that one song. he made the soft right, and was gone from my sight.

i sat completely still in the driver’s seat in silence. i was shaking, trembling. my fingers were completely frozen, as if i'd forgotten my mittens in winter. but the screen in the car said 68 degrees. and then, i was laughing and giddy. and then i was crying. i was everything. all at once. i was ALIVE.

i felt tapped out, exhausted. my mind was fleeing me now, leaving me there alone. i gave myself a minute to calm down before i put the car into drive. and left the lake.

i drove home. i changed into the outfit i'd been planning for months. the one i'd given up cookies and ice cream for. the one that would hopefully make me look an eighth as great as the way that i felt at that exact moment when he first started to kiss me.

i had changed. i got ready for my evening out. stuffing everything down inside, burying. trying to forget it before my ride arrived.

my partner in crime picked me up, we drove amid small talk about what our lives had been for the past few months and how much we missed each other. then asked, ‘so... how was the lake?’

i blushed as if i was busted, averted my eyes, but played it off cool. i knew i had to. ‘it was perfect.’ a telling pause, but she didn't pick up on it. ‘it was exactly what i needed.’

i wanted to spill. i wanted to show her the note, and brag that all these years later i had gotten it. all these years later, i got what i'd wanted. i wanted to show her the drawing of his shoe. i wanted to tell her everything. all the embarrassing little details. all of my racing thoughts. the fact that i was shocked about the complete lack of guilt. but i couldn’t do it. i couldn’t acknowlege it quite yet. it was too soon, too new. and i was trying my best to forget it, to put it out of my mind. to act normal.

we drove downtown, the same way that i’d driven to lake highland. passing the turn i’d nearly missed, i gazed out the window with glossy eyes at the little man-made lake i'd passed five or so hours before. and i decided just then that i’d never go back there again.

this was the best possible memory for the lake to be stored away as, forever. i couldn't risk replacing it with anything else.

two hours and a few drinks later, he was sitting across from me again, at a crowded rowdy table. sipping his beer, smiling. with the slightest hint of a secret smile, one that only i knew the meaning of. he only looked into my eyes silently for two seconds. it went straight to my head. i took a big sip of my drink.

and then he launched into a conversation, including everyone else at the table. we caught up, the way friends who haven’t seen each other in years catch up. we caught up on all the trivial bullshit we didn’t waste time on earlier in the day, when the words were more private, personalized. when time was fleeting.

he left after only one beer. hugged me goodbye in a nonchalant way, telling me it was nice to see me, and to catch up.

i didn't think that i could ever see him again. not alone, anyway. i knew that i would get too caught up in any moment to stop myself, or slow myself, and that it would be a grave mistake.

we stayed in touch, kind words exchanged from afar. nothing that even hinted at what had happened that night. my heart bubbled over, and i had a feeling that he felt similarly. it was too much to keep to myself.

a year later, drunk, home again for a visit, i’d admit it to her. and she understood it. she understood my motivation, she understood exactly how it made me feel, she knew why i let it happen.

i had written it out, so i wouldn't forget any of it. and so i could show her after time had passed. every detail captured, like a photograph.

rtw 6.



ok. snot is not taboo. it's just disgusting. snot makes me GAG. just thinking about it. in fact, i was just discussing it with nina the other day. snot makes me gag. the word mucus is one of the most disgusting words i can think of. one of. and hocking loogies. sick to my stomach just thinking about it.

or launching snot rockets. omg. hilarious, but gag. the words are funny. seeing someone do it, or even hearing someone do it, gag.

i yell at ever for doing it in the shower. because he totally does. and it is disgusting. and kit and i both saw the same person do it the other day. we didn't see each other, weren't aware of each other in any way. but we both saw the same thing: lady. caterer. apron and all. walking up a ramp out of the hospital loading dock. bags of food, presumably, in her hands. more accurately, hanging from her wrists. and then, out of the blue, in the middle of the street. in the public street. fucking snot rocket. and one wasn't enough. there was more than one.

i just stared in awe, trying not to throw up. and kit said she actually might have thrown up in her mouth a little.

snot. seriously nasty. and nina says that boogers are also completely lost on me. i've never been a nose picker. ever. i always use a tissue that is drawn to a point to get at them. and if i absolutely must, and cannot get at it with my 'tool', then i will pick. deposit into tissue, and immediately wash my hands. and be grossed out that i had to do it at all.

i'm a picker. don't get me wrong. i could spend an hour picking at my skin. and growing up, i was THE scab picker. so gross. but a confession nonetheless. but never never ever a nose picker.

why do i have to go on for a full page about this? am i done yet?

this topic makes me queasy. i'd so much rather be writing about other topics. even writing about sex in explicit graphic terms would be better than this.

know what i hate most about snot? having to deal with it as it runs down your nose/onto the place just under your nose where someone might be able to see it. i bike. alot. and it's cold here. even when it's not cold at all, biking makes my nose run profusely. my body loves to make snot. maybe because it knows just how much i hate it.

i blow my nose every single day of my life. once right when i wake up. once right when i'm out of the shower. once after i put in my contacts if i decide to wear them. once when i get inside, after a ride or a walk in the weather. and again when i'm home again. and at random other times. but those times, without exception. and i blow my nose loudly. like an old man would, into his handkerchief.

in the winter time, or when i'm sick, i carry around a roll of toilet paper with me, because my nose knows. and because anyone who blows their nose as much as i do needs soft toilet paper. none of that cardboard shit that every public restroom has.

that's all i have to say about snot. i hate it. it makes me sick.

how it made me feel to write about it, and then read it: i guess i kinda wrote that out as i did it.

other unmentionables: for me, just sex. don't want to talk about it, write about it, use actual words to discuss it. i make up code words for anything sexual, and then refer to them in writing only as that thing.

rtw 4.


this is about the first time that words profoundly affected me.

i was young. but, at least 11. i know this wasn't the beginning of my love of words, but it was the first time that i remember being moved to tears by a book.

i don't remember now where i even got the book. it was called 'alex: the life of a child'. it was about this little girl who had a terminal illness. what was it? not ms. i wish i could remember. it will come to me. her lungs filled with fluid and she died, very very young.

anyways, i still have this book. i toyed with the idea of re-reading it recently, since apparently that is the mood i've been in. but i wasn't in the mood to cry the day i was studying the bookshelf, so i skipped it.

all i remember is that the little girl died in the end of the book. of course the book was about her life, it was about everything she went through during her medical treatments.

i don't know if it was st jude's or march of dimes book or what, but it was a book that was meant to move you to tears with the story of this little girl. so much so, that you would donate to the people who helped kids like little alex.

i want to say that it was told from her father's perspective; that he wrote it. and i know that i have not read this again since, so it's fair to say that this book left a lasting impression. these are my memories from over 21 years ago. and my memory sucks to say the least, so the fact that i remember any of this at all is a feat.

i remember reading, and fully understanding from the very beginning that this tiny sick little girl was going to die by the end of the book. whether it was written or not. and i even want to say that it was written out, right there in the beginning. and that the story was written from her death, backwards.

in any case, there it is. the first book that i remember as one that made me cry.

at 11, i must've been in, what? fourth grade? most likely. and for whatever other reason that this thing keeps coming up, it was when we had just moved into our new house, in our new neighborhood. in an effort to start over as a family. as a family who needed to move past tragedy and start fresh. but certainly the sadness that i'd been surrounded by for the year or two before, it gave the book even more gravity.

and, while on this subject, i should also add that just before this time, i was encouraged to write a book about my brother by my elementary school guidance counselor, ms tharp. how i loved and adored that woman. she was older then, and it makes me so sad to know that i will never see her again, for i'm sure she has long since been dead. she will never know what she meant to me, and how much she helped me, and my family as a result. she was incredible. an amazing lady.

in any case, every week i would go to her office and we'd talk about what had happened. and at a point when i guess she felt that i was ready, she had me start this story. and for all i know, it might have been the first story i ever wrote. i was in the third grade.

these two memories are forever intertwined in my mind. maybe this is why i'm visiting it so much these past few days.

because maybe this is exactly when i fell in love with writing and reading and books. and maybe this is why i'm stuck on it now. because if there is to be a rebirth, there has to be a death. and maybe i have to bury all this death, so that i can live again.

and so that i can write again.

and maybe, it's for the first time ever. to truly write about things that are not going to be about my life. because it's new to me. and i'm excited for it.

i am so tired of being so sad all the time. maybe it's just a lifetime of sadness that i kept burying. and that has been forever resurfacing. only to be shoved under again. and maybe i can't ignore it anymore. and maybe that is the key to unlocking the writer buried inside of me. who, until now, has only kept journals of her life.

manic. and a letter to future self. nov 27th.

it makes perfect, complete, and total sense that i am apparently making up for lost time. the writing i should do in one week, i do in one day.

manic. it sucks to be so highly aware of it. how can i be completely silent for about two years, pick up a blank journal and have my way with it, then start a blog one random day? i think there were 80-something posts that first day, bc it had to be done all at once. just like now. if i was posting these in real time, for the virtual world to see, i'd have 6 posts in one day. RIDICULOUS. or, i prefer to think, inspired.

i would also like to delve into something here for just a minute.

see, i do this thing. i always did in my past other life. there's one boy. and he's all i can think about/breathe/do etc. and since i decided one day that it was ok to daydream, there have been.... i think five? correction: four.

first month or two, solid: boy one. next month boy two. boy two was inspired by a communication inititated by him. boy three was incidental to my real life. and four. well, four is a different ball of wax.

came in a dream. possibly inspired by a conversation with nina, but possibly not. and now, a line of communication initiated by me. flirting with mental disaster. but also flirting with the ultimate in inspiration.

stop it. stop it right now. this is not a good idea. this is not allowed.

wishing myself to hold hands with boy one and show him heima and play all of my music for him, beginning with the year when we stopped hanging out. for like ever, all night. awake drinking wine the way we used to be, more than one night in a row if time allowed - only kissing him once and for all. just to see what i was even missing out on for all those years.

and thinking that boy two had this desire to come to me. and show up on my doorstep one day. and ask me to run away with him. and thinking that i'd allow myself, if only for a few hours, to run away and see how that made me feel.

and, finally, wishing myself to be pushed into a dark space and get good and kissed by boys three and four. four is completely off limits. completely. well, all of them are. but four is, for a different reason.

all of this is unacceptable. so why do i do it? and why i have i let my mind wander here in the past?

maybe it also (manic) falls into line with the phases where i delude myself into thinking that i don't need sleep. or that i don't need as much sleep. and that it's ok to be up all night writing, or typing. scribbling my mad thoughts furiously in an attempt to not forget. holiday weekend lends encouragement.

maybe it's because the depressive phases last so fucking long, in comparison. that when i wake up one day and think 'i feel like writing today' or 'it's a beautiful day' or 'i've been meaning to read this', i do it. and then cannot make myself stop.

at least i'm able to keep typing, because if i was actually writing, my hand would've permanently cramped a long long time ago.

you really can't help when inspiration strikes. knowing that two books are on their way to me, that one has already arrived, and that two were discovered on my bookshelf, it only means that i sense some sleepless nights ahead. maybe i can write five books' worth. and hope that at least a few lines are good enough to make the cut.

i wrote this letter to myself in frustration a couple nights ago:


are you happy? are you still sad? are you still lonely? are you still unsatisfied? are you still unkissed? are you still wanting to be alone? are you still up at night, dreaming and writing about the same fucking place in your head you dwell in? and are you still up at night, late, just before fall reminiscing?


is it just the weather? is it something else entirely?

rtw 3.

i don’t remember.

i don’t remember the color of your eyes anymore. only the color of his.

i don’t remember what i forgot to do today. which is always the case.

why is it that when i’m charged with ‘write i remember’ or ‘write i don’t remember’
i can only think of the opposite thing?

i don’t remember why i ever stopped going to school. i don’t remember giving up so much of what i wanted to be and become for this life. it just happened.

i don’t remember ANYTHING. which is why i write down everything. for future reference.

and i don’t remember the really amazingly good times.

and mostly don’t remember the really horribly god awful times either.

i don’t remember.

i don’t remember the names of certain places i used to go. i don’t remember what streets looked like before they looked the way they do now.
i don’t remember people’s faces when i see them. i only remember things about them that are usually blind references rarely repeated to inspire the connection. because i am the queen of pneumonic devices.

i don’t remember why i didn’t kiss you. i can’t. for the life of me. remember. something about being stubborn and not just putting my face near yours to see if you accidentally put your lips where mine were. why didn’t i? fucking a.

i don’t remember why i stopped talking to him. i don’t remember why i wouldn’t just go for that one drink.

and i don’t remember if i had a big fight with her, or a discussion, or if one day i just stopped calling. or if she did.

i don’t remember because i block things out. especially hurtful things.

i hate that my brother keeps coming up here, because it’s so dark and fucking DEPRESSING, but i know that i didn’t go to the funeral, and i can’t remember what i did instead. i know where i was, but not what i did. and i remember a lot of food at our house. and that everyone was drinking ensure shakes for like a million years afterwards, because everyone seemed to think that we all just needed to drink. because none of us felt like eating.

i don’t remember a lot of things.

i remember smells, without fail. i remember the charged feeling in the air on very specific days of the year.

but i don’t remember street names anymore. i do remember how to get places when home for a visit, most of the time. but never specifics that would enable me to give directions.

one of the most aggravating things that i can never remember is: where did i leave that shirt? where did those pants go? i mean... seriously... i’m a very modest girl. it’s not like i take my clothes off and leave them laying willy nilly at people’s houses. so where the hell have all my clothes gone? i wish i hadn’t given so many back to the goodwills that they came from. and i only know of one shirt’s destiny. i knew it when it happened. and it was verified over 10 years later. at least it was loved to death.

i don’t remember the names of some of my teachers.

i don’t remember what happened after i made big decisions.

i don’t remember my logic when i was not writing, and apparently couldn’t think my way out of some really sticky situations.

again. i don’t remember what i don’t remember.

maybe this is why i am interested in hypnosis. but at the same time, i don’t want to remember what i’ve buried. is there a way to tap only into what i want to remember, and leave forever buried what i do not?

memory is a bitch.

rtw 2.


i remember.

i remember the day my brother died. i remember standing on the edge of the bathtub in the pennell’s house. i remember opening the window and hearing my mother cry out, ‘not my baby.’

i don’t remember hearing the sirens, i don’t remember what happened next.

i remember when i went into my parents dark bedroom and when they told me that my brother was gone. that he was not coming back. that he had died. i remember not understanding it, and not truly grasping the sadness.

in happy times. i remember the day that i got married. i remember that it rained the whole day. from 6 am until after midnight when it was no longer the day of the wedding.

i remember being starved sometime after midnight and going to steak n shake for a meal. i don’t remember what i got. but i remember the booth we sat in. i don’t remember what i was wearing, only that i’d changed out of my dress.

i remember the day we left home. i remember the day we rolled into town. i remember that it snowed on april 4th that year, and i remember being very afraid of what was in store for us and the little yellow car we drove in on.

i remember.

i remember one of my first journals. it was a hard cover pink journal with a little brass lock. i remember i was in the third grade. i remember that the pages were split into at least thirds, and that little chunks of pages were either pink, yellow, or blue. i don’t remember if there were more colors.

i remember the book i started. at least one book. in the binder with the looseleaf, but i already wrote about that, so moving on...

i remember. i remember when i used to stay at brownie’s. making air popped popcorn with extra real butter and salt. i remember making hamburgers on her stove.

i remember days spent by her pool reading textbooks in college. i remember nights in her pool with boys of summer.

i remember that we are not friends, but i don’t remember why.

i remember the way i used to feel when i walked into a room. THAT room. the one with that one person. i feel it now when i read to remember. still in the pit of my guts. i don't even remember. i just refeel.

i remember the face.

i remember the smell. i remember some of the things we liked. i remember pancakes and rollerskates. i remember poster board wings. i remember being completely crazy.

i remember living out west. i remember having a horrible roommate who gave me more complexes than i already had. i remember not succeeding at giving her any back.

i remember the day i forgave her. and then i remember the day that i wished i hadn’t. then i remember the day i got my revenge when she posted that rediculous fucking picture of herself.

i remember that trip to the state capital. to visit nina with brownies. i remember the rugrats movie and the sub shop, but not how or why or what came next. i remember blinking during the beginning of billy madison and blinking again for the closing credits. none of what came between. i remember being somewhere very very far away for a while. i think i remember that it was also about my brother.

why my brother? why now? it’s not june. it’s not march.

i remember that his birthday was june 4 and that his death day was march 7th.

i remember that i have avoided dealing with it for as long as i have been alive.
i remember that my parents would go to his grave on christmas, easter, birthday, death day, other random days. and that i would never go. and if they made me go, i remember waiting in the car until they all came back with tears in their eyes.

i remember the day my dad cleaned the sliding glass door of his tiny handprints. and i remember him completely falling apart. i remember that i have never seen my dad like that before, and that i will probably never ever see him like that ever again.

i remember when mom called to tell me about aubree’s brain. i remember when i was in the hospital, the flat look on her face. her swollen disfigured face. i remember wanting my old sister back. the one with life in her eyes and smiles. the one making all the jokes. not the one who said '6' every time she was asked about her pain.

i remember the day i told the sun about that, as if it would help him in some way, or make him feel more normal. i remember that he never wrote me back.

rtw 1.



a small lie. almost picked bear.

because i can almost bear no more.

what will happen next? hard to say or think, let alone to give in to the temptation.

i don’t really know what to expect. i think that maybe kit will have an idea.

and i can’t wait to see nina. this whole trip could just unlock me and leave me swelling over. welling up with tears.

a lie. i lie. the tape lies on my table, some words that are old. of mine. recycle.

will anyone know that it is actually me, miss tea, writing that thing?

i can’t believe that someone stumbled upon it. found me. i mean, what are the chances? changes. googled and up i came.

oh that hum. i don’t know what to do about him. i want to give him the money honey. i want him to stay not go.

go. go. run. faster than lightning. like the wind.

this game is kinda stupid. i am already running. out of things to say, i mean.

it’s thanksgiving and i’m not even having any turkey.

what would she say if she knew that i loved to eat meat? that rat lady kinda freaked me out a little and all that talking about rats as pets.

what if she knew about the fucking mouse cemetary that is my back deck? there must be at least a solid 36 mice out there by now, one even landed on the tomato plant which made me sad and angry all at the same time.

i mean, no more tomatoes though the plant is still bearing fruit.

it is fall, nearing winter now. warm unseasonably for thanksgiving, but not the feeling, bone chilled wet soaked in. what next?

i wonder about typos and wishing i was writing pen to paper but then how could i share it? retyping would suck and i’m just too lazy.

what will i write about?

i started something in my head about kicking leaves. rustling underfoot because of my dissatisfaction with life. with my life. with my lack of happiness. kicking leaves intentionally for the sake of looking as dissatisfied as i feel.

but then where to go after that, really? i don’t know.

keep wandering off the page. keep wandering in the night through the dark. hit the next page.

sounds good to me.

an exercise in double spaced page filling. i hope i can come back to it. to you. to my happy little circle. hamster wheel. wheel well. well i am finally done. DONE.

room to write. thanksgiving 2009. nov 26th.

so there's this desire i have. right now. to begin writing fiction. i've kept a journal since 19, and only in my darkest times have i neglected to write. i guess because i knew it would just hurt too much to come back to those times and re-read.

but i have not written a story, per se, since middle school, or maybe it was high school. i'm nearly positive it was middle school. i remember the binder with the story, but not the last time i added to it.

college rule loose leaf. in a simple hardcover 3 ring binder. a story about a teenage girl. i remember writing about the dream house that she lived in, and she must have been old enough to drive, though i doubt that i was at the time, because she drove my coveted middle school crush car: the mazda miata convertible. i remember that there was a drawing of the house. we'll call it what it was, a MANSION. with a star shaped swimming pool.

and i know i borrowed heavily from the themes in 'daphne's book', my all time favorite book. which i just re-read again four days ago. awkward girl (i always was) with restrictive parents (mine always were).

in any case, that, paired with a few other things happening in my life right now, as in, this week, have really made me want to write something other than journal entries. i mean, writing out my life...whatever.

but the thing is, i have always struggled to write outside of what i know and what i live. i'm great at writing in the first person, i do it almost every day. but it's about my world, and my thoughts. and like many writers, i do my best work when i'm completely hearbroken, and it's always topical.

after finishing 'daphne's book' this past sunday, i went down to the dining room, where our bookshelf is, looking for something i'd been meaning to read, but hadn't yet. and i found two books that jumped out at me. 'hypnotism made easy' and 'room to write'.

i don't read. i hate that i don't read. i don't make time for it. and it almost always makes me fall asleep, so it usually takes me a while to get anywhere with it. about once a year, i read on a plane, during a flight. but i miss reading, i associate it with my single life, and college. so i am now trying to commit to reading again.

hence, the visit to the bookshelf.

i've been craving hypnotism lately. but i've only had one experience in person.

we were all made to close our eyes (a huge room full of people - an auditorium at our high school), and concentrate (duh!). and with our hands laced together, at the end of the little relaxation speech that the hypnotist gave, were told to pull our hands apart. if they slowly came apart, those people were told that they would be easier to hypnotize, and went on to the stage to be made to do funny things for everyone's entertainment.

much to my chagrin, my hands came right apart, and from that moment on, i thought i'd never be able to be hypnotized.

but i really really hope that is not the case.

besides the self-conscious girly desires to be hypnotized to not love sweets, and to have an appetite half the size of the one i've got to be forever thinner, there are so many things i'd love to be hypnotized to do and not do.

maybe this year, i'll seek out a hypnotist that can work on my subconscious a little. in the ways that my waking self cannot.

there's this workbook on the shelf, called 'the artist's way'. a friend of mine shared her copy with me when i lived out west ten years ago. it really helped me at the time, and i've since revisited it once since marriage.

i do love it, but didn't want to go back to it for a third time.

so there was the second book i picked out. only this time, in grabbing 'room to write', i noticed that on the cover, there's a quote from the woman who wrote 'the artist's way', endorsing the book.

so i'm going to start 'room to write'. today. and i hope i can stick with it. because i want to write. and i hope it can help me in a different way than 'the artist's way', but also by tapping into the creativity that i feel might be simmering inside me again.

i did something today that i have never done before. i wrote little thank you notes to the people who mean the most to me, telling them how grateful i am that they are part of my life.

happy thanksgiving.

and with that, i sign off.