My King

In response to Wallace Steven’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”:

My King

I would not fall asleep until it sang me to sleep

a small child wailing in her crib until the moment

its sonorous voice reached her ears

It gave me my first hickey

it hurt a lot

but I was proud

it meant I was working hard

It frustrated me – how were my fingers

supposed to do that thing?

When I did it it wailed – no sweet moaning here.

The sound it made

with just the right amount of pressure

the perfect tension in the rubbing

( who knew wood, horsehair and cat guts could do that?)

My fingers don’t feel pain –

they don’t feel anything.

So much pressing in the same spot –

I once touched a hot frying pan

and didn’t even realize my fingers were scorched.

The sweet sounds it makes

(now that I’ve fully mastered myself) –

the frustration and the pain were worth it.

Now I can grab it

wrestle with it

make it say “uncle”

but when it’s all over

I still have to bow to my king/

A new series

I found some old poems I wrote for a creative writing class in high school. I am planning to post them. :)

You know who you are

I'm waiting for you.

Come find me.

Don't ask

Nothing.

That’s what you said I could expect.

No texts, no calls, no emails.

And so  I didn’t. And I don’t.

And you were right.

So not expecting things? Has turned out to be the best thing ever. Not expecting things has meant that we secretly get to connect. The never-boring spark of 4 lips meeting.  Physically mostly, but sometimes, just sometimes, you let me see your emotions. The man you are when no one is expecting things of you, or thinking they already have you figured out.

So what’s the problem then?

In not expecting, I have learned to expect certain things.

The relaxed smile you get on your face once we kiss.

The warmth of your chest.

The strength of your arms around me.

The endearing vulnerability of your truths.

And so on we go, expecting nothing, but somehow learning to expect from one another. So what can you expect from me?

An incontrovertible sense of adventure.

That the lightest touch of your hands on my back will make it arch.

That I will listen.

That I will continue to expect without expecting.

Dear Mike

I've spent a lot of time thinking about you. About what we had, about who we were and who we are. And so I just have to tell you a few things. Not because I think it will change anything, because I don't. Not because I'm hoping or wishing for more. Just because it feels good to say it.

I've spent a few years thinking that whoever said "it is better to have loved and lost than to never love at all" was full of crap. And now, after more than 2 years, I think I get it.

They're right.

I've been going on tons of dates recently. And all of them prove one thing to me.

I loved you. There is a part of me that will never stop loving you. And, unfortunately, that part is big enough to make it impossible for me to give that much of my heart away again. If I did, it would stop beating. The next time I love, it will have to be less, or it will kill me.

So even if you never read this, and even if we never speak again, just let me say this: you are the satisfaction that lasts a lifetime. The amount of love I had for you was enough to last me for the rest of my days.

And that I would be happy living a celibate life, knowing that at one point, I loved.

I loved you.

November 26, 2009

What kind of person uses an email account as a journal? I don't even know. But since no one but me knows about said email account, it helps me sleep at night - knowing that my life is safely stored in binary in an unknown account in google. I don't even know why it matters. Who is going to read this? Some yet unborn daughter of mine? What does she look like? Who is her father?

Just a few things you should know about me first.... before we jump into any kind of cyber relationship, oh mystic void. I am 23. I am strawberry blonde naturally, though not by choice. I am 5'10" and "meduim build" - something that I hope will shortly change.I just got home from a mission which was served in Armenia, and Chicago. I'm sure the explanation for that will come out sometime. Just not now. I have never had a successful long-term relationship. I like to think that it's because I know myself and what I want so thoroughly that I know when I'm dating someone that's not it. Who knows if that's the real reason. Maybe I'm secretly ugly or unpleasant, and I'm just totally oblivious to the fact. Point is, I go long periods of time where I just casually date, and then get flung into short term, passionate romances which some life circumstance then prevents from continuing. Summer camp ends, boy goes home to Wales, girl goes home to California. Two long time friends share a few days and nights together with some hearty makinng out and some handholding in Disneyland and Palos Verdes... girl goes on mission. Two people who are CRAZILY attracted to another have a short tryst, and..... girl gets called back to her mission. Yes, that is my sad romantic history. Not to mention a long string of random makeouts to satiate the long suppressed sexual appetite of an 18 year old mormon virgin.

So Here I am. I'm 23. Single. A virgin (much to my dismay). I speak 3 languages fluently. I have a nice room in a nice condo in a nice part of town. and yet I just feel.... empty.

And there's no real reason why I should. My life is simple enough. Successful enough. I am just really sick of feeling alone. I don't want to label my milk anymore. I don't want to wake up alone anymore. I don't want to have a series of transient friendships and relationships that are just killing the time until I find the real person I'm going to spend the rest of my life with.

Something else you should know? I hate the unknown. Not suprises - they're fine. The unknown. Like what's at the bottom of a hill when you go sledding or ice blocking. What's at the bottom of the aqueduct you're sliding down. Skiing. Snowboarding. Skateboarding. Any and all of it - I hate it. And for a long time, I pretended to like it. I thought it made me adventurous and fun. I don't give a damn what it makes me look like anymore. I just don't want to do it. And no one can ever pressure me into it ever again.

It just doesn't seem fair to me, in terms of Karma, that other people get to be so happy when I feel like I deserve happiness too. I don't want to be single anymore. But maybe I still am because I think to far ahead. I went on a date last saturday, and I've already pictured our first kiss and holding hands and snuggling. I'm creepy and weird. But that's who I am, so I'm sorry. I don't like the unknown, remember? I like to know what's coming. If you could sit down on a first date and plan out the possible scenarios for how the relationship is going to play out, I would do it every time. But that sends a very controlling, creepy message.

I'm going to counseling right now because of what my counselor calls "an extreme caretaking personality". I've learned to negate my own needs and put the needs of others so far in front of my own that my own never get attended to. I still work at a job that's far away from my house and that takes me for granted because I don't want to leave during the busy season. I swallow my own needs in terms of my house as my roommate Jenny stomps all over me and I end up as her part-time maid. I admit I'm wrong when I'm right so that the other person can feel good. I don't give the answer first sometimes even though I know it because I know that it will make someone else feel good to give it. And I'm trying to get over this. So step number 1 comes tomorrow: I'm giving my two weeks in my job.

But what after that? I should have DONE something with my life at this point. Instead I have less than $100 in the bank, no car, no boyfriend, and a hair color I hate because everyone else seems to love it so much.

Is the only answer to become the selfish girl that I never wanted to be?

Let me tell you who I wish I was.

I wish I was tall, slender but curvy, with auburn hair and tan skin. I wish I could wear pencil skirts and snakeskin tops and tall boots without wondering if I'll get stereotyped. I wish I got asked out on dates at least once a week, preferably more. I wish I was still swimming, and was running and biking as well. I wish I had a boyfriend who adored me and let me adore him - who made me feel secure enough to adore him however I wanted. I wish I was the quiet, popular girl - that I was striking and kind. That I stuck up for what I wanted and that I helped others do the same.

Wishing don't make it happen though.

So, cyber void, I guess you get to be my log. Of how I'm going to become all the things I want to become. And I could wait until January, when it's even cold and I start getting even more depressed, or I could start now. Tomorrow. I'm going to quit my job, no apologies. I'm not going to apologize for who I am or how I feel. Because that's who I am and how I feel. I'm going to exercise and go hungry until I can put on my size 9 pants and stun. I'm going to go after the hard jobs and the big projects and the top grade. I'm going to be the woman I know I can be.

So by next friday night - what do I want to have accomplished? I want to have exercised every day. for at least 30 minutes. I want to be caught up in my school work,. and I'm going to do my darndest to get Alan to ask me out a second time.

Pretty good for a week, eh?

Saturday, March 29, 2008

I suppose the pen and paper are too slow to keep up with the fast-paced modernity of my thoughts. Only the heartless keyboard seems efficient enough to sufficiently express the depth of my feelings.

There are these periods of time in my journals, when I just don't write. For weeks. Or months. And those are the times when I really should be writing. When half my time is spent on my knees, praying for all the wrong things, trying to get my heart in the right place. When I have the final blonde epiphanies of knowledges others gained so easily. It seems I really just need to learn everything the hard way. That I have to struggle and talk and freak out and give in before I can just say; "oh. I get it." But that's fine. Heavenly Father works with the way that we learn.

So I was sent home from Armenia in the 6^th month of my mission there. And really, the medical reasons are just the excuse so that someday I can go back. So I'm having all these savage medical tests done. But really, I guess the issue is me.

Jake says that I am not my problems. The Armenians are not their problems. But we are the same: in Passage to Ararat, the author hypothesizes at some point that to be Armenian is to be crazy. And not crazy in an endearing way, but actually crazy – that the innermost parts of you are twisted. And I suppose that's how I feel.

And I'm finding comfort in the most random places. Armenian history. Sister missionary clothes. Let me tell you, future family – I was fashionable. Datable. Attractive. I carried myself well. Accessorized well. I had lots of boys that tried very hard to date me. Some succeeded. But usually, after a few nights of "good, clean fun" (aka making out and a few movies), I was over it. Because I guess I was never under it, if you know what I mean. But now all I want to do is go to bed early and read books about Armenia. People keep calling me, undoubtedly to invite me to mind-numbing social activities in the name of fun. But I think that so many people have tried for SO LONG to numb themselves, that they have no feeling anymore. I like the pain. Of knowing that I'm stupid. That I left the most amazing place in the world to come back to a selfish and petty people. Not that I hate Americans – they are my people, but what is America if not an extinguishing of race? A release of tradition? An opportunity to forget that people suffered so that you could forget them? I like that pain. Because I really did leave my heart in Armenia. And to some that seems trite – that I'm trying to claim that I was a good missionary, and so my heart breaks for the people. But I wasn't – a good missionary, that is. I talked about Babylon. I laughed. I wore clothes that were probably too cute. I had sparkly earrings. Sometimes, I sat through lessons passively. Because I didn't get it. That this is what life is about.

That Armenians have suffered – ¾ of their race extinguished by a people that lived, worked, played alongside them. Their brothers! Their brothers beat them. Tortured them. And there are so many messages from the dust, testimonies of long ago, people who cried to God, with no proof he could hear. But he did. He always does.

And he sent his answer in us. Only the gospel can save this people – these crazed Armenians, with the poison of genocide pulsing through their veins. Their inner twistedness from too much pain, torture, war. The pain of knowing that there is a whole world that doesn't care. And one of the greatest lessons we can teach Armenians is this: that God heard. That he answered in his own due time. And now they know, that their dead, forgotten by many, unacknowledged by even more, are remembered. That they will be given the chance to stand, in their own, beautiful flesh, and testify of the atrocities that happened to them, their women, and their children. And that after they testify, they will be held by a loving, caring God, and that they will heal.

So I have spent so much time examining my already blaring, apparent faults, trying to find something that I'm supposed to learn so that my time here in California will make sense. And I have found substance enough. But I guess what is more sufficient is that I have discovered the history and sufferings of a people so long forgotten and disregarded. The Armenian Genocide, to most, is a statistic. A tragic figure. But if we heard the individual stories from the thousands of people brutalized, then we would stop eating the mashed potatoes on our plate. Not only would we stop, but we wouldn't be able to start again. It wouldn't be "just another segment of news" to shake our heads at and tsk the world for becoming what it is. It would be the reason for pressing forward. To bring this message forward.

"Now, what do we hear in the gospel which we have received? A voice of gladness! A voice of mercy from heaven; and a voice of truth out of the earth; glad tidings for the dead; a voice of gladness for the living and the dead; glad tidings of great joy."

Now here's the part about us as missionaries:

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that bring glad tidings of good things, and that saw unto Zion: Behold, thy God reigneth! As the dews of Carmel, so shall the knowledge of God descend upon them!"

D&C 128:19

So here I am, in my house in California, wearing jeans, walking on carpet, with ample peanut and maple syrup glinting at me from their sick, shiny plastic bottles in well-stocked cupboards. With a bed that does not hurt my back. With streets free of trash. With all the amenities of an American house. But even while I'm sitting here, I can literally feel my heart beating for Armenia. My soul aches to go back. I'm pretty sure, that God and men let me, I would serve the remainder of my days there with no backward glances.

So I guess I'm grateful for this opportunity, to have my heart break. Because we have a good, obedient, hard working mission. But there are probably still that go home and think "well, that's over. Next step. College, marriage…" But I guess I'm just stuck on this step. The whole "mission" part. And maybe I never will go back. Maybe it's over. But I can honestly say that "I have a rash, and the only prescription is MORE ARMENIA!"

In all seriousness, my soul will never rest until my feet rest once again upon the bloodstained soils of Hayastan, until I hear the voices of Armenian women wailing the few hymns they have (don't worry, I'm on that one), until I can see groups of pointy-shoed Armenian men squatting on streetcorners or slouching on buildings.

The rest of the world thinks they are pathetic. But I don't. We don't. We see them as they are: beloved children of a Father in Heaven, who must trust and love them so much to give them that their share of adversity and affliction, and know that they would still worship him with all their hearts.

Now let us help them in worshipping with all His ways, to add to their hearts, shall we?

"Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life."

2 Nephi 31:20

P.S. Isn't it hilarious that we try to teach the Armenians about enduring to the end? I've decided that's something to chuckle over.