Monday, September 29, 2008
[joseph campbell] went on to say that when you commit yourself to following your bliss, "doors begin to open for you where there were no doors and where they would not open for anybody else." while this may sound somewhat mystical, it is really a matter of trusting that the intelligence which is in all of life—the intelligence that turns the heavens, that migrates the birds, the intelligence that tells a seed when to germinate, that beats your heart and digests your food—lives inside of you and knows what to do with your life.
i like that.
i need you to get good fast. i find myself eyeing other cities on my big map of a shower curtain. i think about portland while washing my hair. i think about missoula while shaving my legs. i even think about the familiar traffic-jammed streets of seattle, wondering if the few aspects i like could be enough to sustain me.
bellingham, sometimes outside i get giddy just knowing that i'm taking your air into my lungs and your grass in between my toes. i always say that the birds sing prettier and the dogs smile wider in your city-space. but i fear that my love for you is an entity all it's own—not something that can be incorporated into who i'm destined to become. you are my lover, yes, but not my mate. you are my collage to my poetry. my sylvia plath to my erica jong. a novelty full of organic cream and exboyfriends who taste like the sadness of cigarettes and beer.
you are the city in which i experienced my first ear-ringing, wall-spinning bout of drunkenness in a bar that no longer even exists. the city in which i learned about the pretentiousness of l=a=n=g=a=g=e poetry and fell in love with ginsberg's angel-headed hipsters. the city in which i befriended the professor who's spent her life following her whims around the world. the city of the lone seaside kiss that should have gone further. the city that taught my tongue how to tangle with beer. the city that still rocks and cradles my heart.
but bellingham? i fear my love is not enough to keep me.
p.s. december 1 - 22
Thursday, September 25, 2008
come december, i'm running away to central america with a boy. we're buying plane tickets on monday.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
at the risk of sounding like a freshman in sociology 101, working at a law firm has reawakened my almost dormant disdain of societal structure. it's hierarchical to the extent that in the mailroom, the attorney's boxes are on top of the assistant's boxes "so they don't have to bend over as far." i could never be an attorney for a multitude of reasons, but mostly because i would find that shit embarrassing.
sometimes it seems like society is made up of slots. and that people spend their early-adulthood shaping themselves into forms (often cutting off ideological limbs) that will fit into them. and then they dutifully take up their places and create an identity out of ideas like:
i am a lawyer.
i am a democrat.
i am a christian.
but we were born into a world where these things already existed. it's one thing to select a pair of pants out of a catalog, but i think it's extremely limiting to select our spiritual, moral, and, social values out of an existing set of options. and i guess that's why i've always hesitated to identify. and i guess that's why i always feel lonely. not in an everyday sort of way. but in a way that makes me unable to take most people seriously, and therefore, get to know them in any meaningful way. my mom always says, christina, there's never a crowd on the leading edge of thought, and narcissistically, it makes me feel better.
i try not to think about this too much though. anais nin says the inner chambers of the soul are like the photographer's darkroom. one cannot stay there all the time or it becomes the solitary cell of the neurotic. i've found this to be true. its been eight years since my high school photography class. but i remember how good it felt to walk through the revolving door of the darkroom and lose an afternoon under the amber lights. it's easier to create when it everything is dimly lit, when the edges of everything are softened. but eventually you must come out to breathe clean air and rinse away the sharp, bitter taste of the developer that somehow always ends up in your mouth.
oh, and i really, really want a peahoodie.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
and that, my friends, is that.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
my friend suggested, as an exercise, that i make a list of all of the things that i know make me happy, and not worry about to what, if anything, they add up. for what it's worth, here's my list:
- falling asleep with the wind on my face on a cold day
- the colors gray and mustard yellow side-by-side
- reading missed connections religiously
- smiling dogs
- prose poetry
- making out in a tent when it's raining outside
- how everything sounds softer when it snows
- rachel nunner
- eggnog lattes
- penciled notes in the margin of a used book (deal breaker = highlighters)
- an especially good day of thrift shopping
-going on real dates (not "hanging out," not "meeting up," but genuine old-fashioned dates involving a public outing and butterflies in the tummy)
- never being hung over anymore!
- a brand new bottle of shampoo
- the irregularity of handspun yarn
- swiss cheese omlettes from voula's offshore cafe (with hashbrowns, english muffins, and coffee)
- handwritten letters
- civil rights-inspired sermons from the 1960s
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
i know a man—and i just want to talk about him a minute, and maybe you will discover who i’m talking about as i go down the way because he was a great one. and he just went about serving. he was born in an obscure village, the child of a poor peasant woman. and then he grew up in still another obscure village, where he worked as a carpenter until he was thirty years old. then for three years, he just got on his feet, and he was an itinerant preacher. and he went about doing some things. he didn’t have much. he never wrote a book. he never held an office. he never had a family. he never owned a house. he never went to college. he never visited a big city. he never went two hundred miles from where he was born. he did none of the usual things that the world would associate with greatness. he had no credentials but himself—jesus.
so i'm going to try a new approach and just "go about serving" in my daily life, being extra kind to everyone who comes my way. maybe that will tide me over while i go about finding my true life's work. because i want to be happy and helpful in the meantime.
the whole town is moving. chemisty books and television sets line the streets like crazy—things no longer worth the space or hassle—cast aside like old friends outgrown. on every block there's a father backing a truck into a driveway. i look at the incoming freshman, and think:
you're not thinking about the fact that in four years you will be gone, that this town will be scratching you like a wool sweater to the throat.
they're only thinking about how many boxes will fit under their beds and the toothpaste they forgot to grab as they were rushing away from their suburban homes.
i have a secret. it involves reevaluating whether i could really never live in seattle again. besides my lovely rachel, i think i was spending time with the wrong people. living in the wrong neighborhood. going to all the same tired bars. i've been wondering if i could do it differently. maybe get in with a crowd who listens to motown. find a studio in ballard or fremont. go to bars where only one or two people in the room are in bands. go to beauty school. attend a liberal church on sundays. make crafty-things for my doting technical-writing, cabinet-making boyfriend who's the perfect blend of seattle and bellingham and is really good in bed.