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Tag Archives: dreams

Hey Infinity is 6 years old now – being just have had a birthday this month. And no, no one sent it or me birthday cake. Yes, we are offended.

This means I created this little space on the internet when I was 20. Back when I wasn’t legally allowed to drink – one year before I bought my first (and only yet) bottle of adorably pink, strawberry Boone’s Farm wine, and tiny rainbow-sprinkled cupcakes for the crazy 21st celebration I had with my friend and her cat. One year after I voted in my first Presidential election, smiling as I colored in the tiny bubble with a pencil to support Barack Obama, thinking to myself that much-younger me would have been shocked to know that my Republican parents’ opinions hadn’t stuck with me to adulthood.

When it was a new infinity and not a 6-year infinity veteran, I ordered some tiny business cards that have the website on one side and “I think you’re beautiful” on the other.The idea was, I am pretty sure, to give those away to people so they knew this place existed, or forcefully leave them on cars, or stick them in random places wherever I found myself – all of which I never did. When they arrived in the mail, I opened my package to find someone else’s cards, listing actual helpful information like a contact email. I emailed the lady, told her I had gotten her cards by mistake, and suggested the following: She would probably get my cards in the mail soon, and when she did, we would swap, and also report the error to the printer, thereby getting another order for free from them. And she agreed! It worked out well in the end. And so, yes, I have two tiny boxes of tiny business cards that I still am planning on someday giving away. Probably. Maybe in 6 more years.

I’ve been thinking about that statement a lot recently. “I think you’re beautiful.” Six years ago, I was infatuated with newness. With people. With places and all that they held. The world was magical to me. I wanted to see all of it. I wanted to tell everyone that they were a beautiful story. I wanted to write them all poems about the sky.

Right now, it is so hard to feel that way. Is it not? There seems to be so much more hatred and violence and sadness and fear and global warming. Our planet is dying, and we are dying, and our teeth are falling out.

I know it is all still there, everything I used to see. I am searching for it, still. I want to feel all of those things again, and just as deeply. It was a wonderful way to be.

There is goodness and beauty. There will be safety and logic. We will keep going, together. Please send cake next year.

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It is what you wanted to do and it can still be what you want to do.

Gathering the ancient Christmas decorations from their crushed boxes, giving them all their yearly dusting, freeing something else too.

Some people are parts of you. Some people struggle to be until they stop struggling and try somewhere else.

She is beautiful. She is strong. She is confident. She is smart.

It is only finished when there is no room for anything else; the universe is expanding.

It is over now, I wrote our story down, and wept when it was necessary for me, and the tissues gathered up the love I still had. It is all for everyone else now, and they accept it, and they love. Everything is new and you are rotting somewhere old.

We will be happy again, and still, and people watching will think we carry laughing gas in our pockets but it is only in our hearts.

The snow is falling in a way it never has and never will again. Watch.

 

The road is carved through great, dark, blue-gray mountains lined with white. The boy who drives the car is you, but he is not you. He is younger and looks like someone you have never looked like. He is driving and he loves me again. I don’t know where we are going. All I see are the mountains and the face that is yours but doesn’t belong to you. I don’t wonder, I just ride.

Your brain, left unguarded by sleep, free from ego, not bound by physics, time, history, or the beliefs of others or yourself, can give life to the only magic we are capable of.

My magic was peace, resolution, love, acceptance, forgiveness, the beauty of nature.

That boy never existed and you never will again. You are some magical thought that has passed.

He lives in a world where he does not wake up. He has been dreaming for a decade.  At least I know where my blue mountains are and how to find them when I wake.

My memories of you are living with dreams now, in some beautiful work of art I am glad to experience while resting. Let it be some soft beauty instead of harsh ugliness.

You make me want to paint great, dark, blue-gray mountains lined with white.

 

Imagine his parents when they found out they were having him. Imagine the clean love of a new, unused cradle. Imagine a tiny new person.

I am crying and I think it is because all I had to eat today was cookies. My stomach is mad at me, and my heart is mad at me, and my brain is mad at me, so what can you do but cry?

A month ago I was sitting next to the ocean. I didn’t want to leave it. But I did, and I haven’t yet returned.

Three hours south of me is a man I have loved for years. He sits in a wonderful place, scribbling his dreams onto paper. He built something for himself. He built his own colorful world.

I am looking for a wisp. A wisp of something I have lost. Something I have to find again. What is it you are searching for? What do you not have now that you want to have before you die?

It is time to go. It is time to paint rainbows on beaches, scream into ocean waves, laugh so loudly they’ll never want to speak to you again. You don’t need those quiet, sulking people anyway.

The girl is pregnant. Her baby is coming soon. She will be a wonderful mother, you know. New love is coming, and new fear, and new dreams.

Imagine them loving you. Think of how they were born, how they grew up, how they have lived so many days. Look how they look at you. Yes, your mother made you, but I made that smile. It is all miraculous.

 

 

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I throw the books into the box to be donated and startle the bird outside the window. It has a piece of straw in it’s beak, looking at me. This is some kind of metaphor, I think, as I pack up my home and it’s building one. But I don’t have time to think of a metaphor, I don’t have time to think of much of anything.

She is gone again tonight. Everyone is gone. They ask me why I would move so far away, when I don’t know anyone, but I don’t know anyone here. Where are my people?

I’m going to the beach, he says, but he won’t go in the water. I understand this, somehow, a girl who grew up surrounded by water who can’t swim. I write about it, I sing about it. No one will read or hear the words.

Why are you going? Why? They can’t understand. I think of the mountains, I stare at the tree outside my window. It doesn’t really matter. One place is as good as another. Why stay anywhere? My tree is growing, moving, it doesn’t stay put either.

Nothing has changed, maybe something will change.

“My favorite book is Winnie The Pooh. I like the part where Pooh goes up in the balloon.” A picture of six year old me. Scraps of life stuffed in books tucked on shelves, throw it all into bags for someone else to keep in their house.

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falling out. the stars are falling out of orbit. we’ve just found a new planet, a thing that has been there longer than any of us. it is not new. this is not new. it is new to me, it is silence and sadness and heart pain. it is shaking limbs; body crying because all the tears have gone, because i am too sad to cry. it doesn’t matter. think of the young boy who died. think of the planets. i loved you. did i? i hated you. you are far away and i don’t know you anymore. you are not a planet; you are out of my galaxy.

there is a quote that gives you hope. a sentence. there is happiness still, sunshine. a memory, a picture that doesn’t exist of a beach you sat on for hours one summer. here i am, sitting on my bed, strumming terrible chords, happy. we’ll all keep looking for new places that have always existed, and people. there is hope and kindness, and once someone invented a telescope, and once we looked up together at a beautiful old building, and it is all magic and sadness and loss.

he tells me i am strong. i believe him. it is true. we are. we are weak and strong and we will keep finding new wonderful and terrible things. this is the bigger picture you can’t see. this is why we are kind. this is why i loved you. did i? this is why people hate. we are scared but together. the sun is coming up and it is so far away. what does it matter? i will tell you tomorrow, if you are still here.

kityy

Would you rather live a year in complete darkness or a year with only sunshine? Could anything grow in the dark? How long could we survive?

My friend messages me from the other side of the world and asks for my address. There’s a letter for me there. It flew from America to Asia, and now it’s coming back again. Who is it from? Who do I even know in that state? There’s only one person I’ve written a letter to that lives there. Could it be? The sun shines in me.

Letters are like memories. Even though they’re written down, recorded, we forget them. I have no idea what I wrote in that letter. I don’t remember how long it was. I don’t remember what my handwriting looked like on the outside of the envelope.

Possibility. It’s a seed of unknown origin. Limitless. It could grow forever, into anything. Memories that haven’t been made yet. Words that have been written down but not read.

Balance is important. Half day, half night. Darkness is quiet, terrifying, calm. The sun is blinding but it lets us live, grows us, moves our skin. Balance. Humility and pride. Sadness and joy. Sorrow. Love.

My friend doodles tiny colorful monsters on paper. He paints them, creates them, shares them. Sells them for the big evil dollar. Nails them to trees. Talks about sunshine. Paints happiness on his feet. Looks like joy. The definition of.

I don’t know anyone purposefully living in darkness. But there are a lot of people who don’t have rainbows on their shoes. I’m getting older waiting for this letter to come. Another week or two. When I’m waiting, sitting under the mailbox, I watch my friends go by. They walk ¬†past me. Some don’t turn their heads. Some are too far away to see anymore. I wonder why my parents don’t have friends. I wonder why people stop loving each other. It’s not that hard. It’s worse to be alone. It’s harder in the darkness. It’s better to try to keep growing as a person.

I wonder where that slip of paper is. Anticipation. Focus. Mathematics and a brain-powered global positioning system. When? Who? What answers will it have? Did I ask questions? Will anything change? Will there be blinding sunlight in it? Sunglasses shaped like flowers? A thoughtless reply?

I’m thinking about that particular smear of pencil lead on the palm of my writing hand. How I can never paint anything very well at all because I don’t pick up my hand enough. That particular triangle shape of accidental art. But I think I wrote the letter in pen.

Wheels spinning on ground. Planes flying in air, high above us, that we still claim as our own. Not outer space. Travel. Thoughts. Responses. Emotions. Relationships. The final delivery, someone lightly stepping on the brake to insert the letter into my mailbox, months after it was first deposited into one and sent my way. Sent to where I was. Sending to where I am.

It will probably be light out when it arrives. Sun. Shine. Wind. The smell of winter. Cold. Ice on the ground. The feel of it. The corners of such a small, flat thing. Who knows?