expired definitions
I am at “home” in Dallas this week. Partially, yes, because of Thanksgiving. But mostly because I haven’t been here in a long time and my father requested that I come to help him get rid of some of the stuff in the house. This house is filled with stuff.
Historically, I have had a love-hate relationship with stuff. I buy stuff and then I have too much of it and I try to get rid of it and am really only ever semi-successful.
Some of the stuff here is easy. 40 Dean Koontz books I read in grade 8 and 9? Probably don’t need them anymore. Extra boxes of invitations to my high school graduation ceremony? Toss ‘em. The shoes I wore to mow the grass in 1998? WTF are those still doing here?
However, among the stuff, occasionally I run across… sentimental stuff. The shadow box of shells my 9th grade boyfriend gave me in Corpus Christi. The souvenir props from our senior year production of MASH. Notes, letters, journals, photos, poetry books. Oh, yes, you read that right. Poetry books. Didn’t you know? I was quite the famous poet in high school. I had books filled with poetry and accompanying art. People loved them, they’d get passed around and copied down and I’ve even found several of them plagiarized in various places on the internet. In fact, a poetry site was where I made my first internet-friend (oh the days of dial-up AOL!).
This, in combination with some personality-typing conversations I’ve been having lately, have made me wonder about my writing. Before poetry, it was short stories. I kept journals, relished in letter-writing, etc etc. Reading comments in my yearbooks and the like, people thought I would be a writer.
Whatever, right? I mean my 5th grade teacher said I was going to be President and we all know too many compromising photos exist for that to ever happen. But still.
When I write now, it comes slowly and with not as much grace as I remember feeling like I had. Still, I wonder if this gift doesn’t still exist somewhere. I think I’ll start writing again. I don’t know if it will be here or in a paper (gasp) journal of some kind, but either way hopefully I’ll make it here occasionally.
In the mean time! While I am in TX and finding these “gems”, perhaps I will share some of my teen-aged angsty poetry and journal entries with you all. You know you love it.
Wish You Were Here
circa 1998, 15 y.o.
The way it used to be was
There was never any question
You always knew where I’d be
For you, with love and affection
Now you wonder where I’ve gone
Silly boy, I’m still here
It was you who wandered away
And left me standing in tears
But the past is all behind us
I’m not holding a grudge
And I’m happy that you’re happy
Even if it is without my love
So where exactly did I go?
Off in a corner to cry
Hiding the tears from the strangers
So no one would ask me why
Maybe I just didn’t follow you
Because I was happy where I was
But that didn’t stop you from wandering
Just as a boy always does
Maybe I’m better off this way
But who is to be the judge?
I just wanted to know where I lost you
Because now… I’m alone… in love.
defining sexuality
My friend Jamie wrote a nice blog post today on defining sexuality with more open ideas than binary (or… tri-nary? oh i guess it is “tertiary”) definitions.
I know lots of people (yes, including me) that could have benefited from growing up with ideas like this about sexuality. The number of friends I have that think this way does give me hope for the future, but still sometimes I feel a liiittle bit impatient for the future to be here Right. Now.
Maybe next we can address gender binaries?
Protected: opening up [in a password protected entry. um, yeah]
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today
Today I will accept that just because I liked something when I bought it 2 years ago doesn’t mean that I have to like it (or keep it) now.
critical length
Having bangs is definitely more work than not having bangs. For the most part, I think I’ve handled it well over the 2 years I’ve been a, um, “bang-ed” adult. Insisting on using my flat iron while camping at Sasquatch last year was not a high moment for my “I’m pretty low maintenance” self-view. However, despite the occasional snag, it’s been alright.
When I got all my hair chopped off in… March? they gently chastised me for cutting my own bangs (again) and reminded me I can come in for a free bang trim anytime. I like wearing my bangs pretty long, so they do require pretty frequent trimming.
As much as I love my salon (Lana Cyrus — if anyone lives in Chicago and has curly/unruly hair, go to them!), it isn’t really on my way to anything, so that didn’t really happen. Unfortunately I also haven’t cut my own bangs, so they’ve just been getting longer and longer. Sometimes I clip them back, but sometimes I’m all “No, I can totally work with this!”. I then pretend I can rock a side-swipe look and that works… for maybe 2 minutes, or until I leave my bedroom, whichever is first. So I think I am walking around with just a bit of hair in my eyes and boy am I cool.
Not bad, right?
Then, I catch a look at myself in something reflective.
Alright, FINE. I’ll cut my damn bangs.
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