Torch

March 24th, 2009

Long tubes of air
colored pink to orange to twinkling
licking water, tasting with neon ends.

Carpets of coral like a discarded bath mat
hanging off the side of rock
soft and short like babies toes.

I am outside of these, filled with dissonance. I, quiet on the couch with legs crossed and eyelids half lifted, am watching outsiders that the torch coral cannot sense - even with hundreds of bubble ends that taste and feel but cannot see.

A wheel squeals protestingly down the hallway, carrying chairs to an impossibly filled hotel. It is unheard through inches thick glass but the sound echoes in my head even after it has rounded the corner of the long corridor.

Three men, business suits. One skinny, one fat, one good looking. They buy and sell, talk currencies of water pumps and fish. I cannot look at them because I cannot look away from the slow dancing of the coral. It is swaying to a silent melody with a velveteen partner who slips, waves and slides, envelopes. I cannot look at them because I have no eyes for seeing men who look back but do not notice.

There is a fine line and I am perched in 2D

January 28th, 2009

There is a fine line and I am perched in 2D

I have dug a hole into you -
   pawed quietly at your side
   purring in your ear
      like the sweetest kitten
until you are rubbed raw and bleeding

- but smiling for it.

I have burrowed into your side
   tucked away between
   armsandstomachs
quietly aware

I have made a home here
   nestled between

      I love you
      I need you

- 1/28/09

Boston; July 12, 2012

December 26th, 2008

Boston; July 12, 2012

I want to take you to the beach and watch the sun rise
(the ocean-beach)

We’ll drink mimosas with too much champagne
   hold hands
I will give you only one flower,
but it will be in a pot still because
I cannot bear to snip one from the ground.

I will sing a song I wrote for you
   pretend to play guitar
In that time, I will not be afraid of my voice
or my writing
but I still will not be able to play

(It takes too much time to learn
and there are so many other possibilities)

We will curl up in bed and I will read a book
quietly while you sleep
That night we will eat pie and walk in the warm air
   look at architecture
I will love you completely
   just like now
I won’t be able to stop looking at you

- 12/26/08

Remember the time i held your hand and we ignored the camera

December 18th, 2008

Remember the time i held your hand and we ignored the camera

I want to stay forever in the fishbowl
where Robert swims
with electric fins
   and the yellow one races back and forth
      (the twins are boyandgirl but I don’t know that)

Our bubble eyes are covered in film:
‘There is a diver’ you say in a dream
   I peer -

brown blends with magenta and green

   - for a moment there is coral, then movement, and splash
I didn’t see until after the fact
because my eyes are covered in you

We named them all and watched them float freely
   ’If the glass were to break, we would race to find cups
   and arrange them in
      three
      safe
      rows;’
   I would cry for the restriction.

We are alone in the fishbowl where the diver peers,
   (’She could see if she wanted to look’)
but I hope she doesn’t, because
I want to swim along side you in the electric current
where no one can see us and we speak through touch
like Robert and the yellow one.

12/18/08

In learning to perfect the art of sliding my arm from under your sleeping head

December 17th, 2008

In learning to perfect the art of sliding my arm from under your sleeping head

Five inches is the perfect width
to leave the door cracked open:
   Any more and you will smell the coffee
      too soon.

I must remember to find a rug
to muffle the noise of that third creaky step:
   Something gray to match the light I told you about
      after I stayed awake until 9 am and it snowed.

My feather comforter rustles too loudly
but Dawn created that green quilt for me
in another life time:
   Maybe I’ll replace them when you’re not looking.

I noticed this morning that my clock says 12:40 exactly
and it’s ticking back and forth.
   I think it’s only a coincidence.

- 12/17/08

I Pretend I Am a Writer

December 16th, 2008

I Pretend I Am A Writer

I do not write poetry.
I find it unbearable
   impossible
      egotistical
to think that I can defy
   form
      function
and put into simple words
the enormity of feeling,
the intense emotion that I experience

- when I stroke the side of your face
and your eyes dance beneath their lids
and the corners of your smile twitch
and tickle
(and tremble, your whole body)

while you pretend to be
perfectly
stoic.

- when I run my fingers through your hair,
three days unshowered,
and play with curls so perfectly sweet.
Why would you ever straighten this?

- when I put your feet into my lap
(twice now: once to calm, once to warm)
and rub them.
You wear colored socks,
and the striped greenpink
are utterly, perfectly
you.

- when I listen to sounds
that only you could match
to the hidden, cliche parts of my soul.

This is a poem for you.
I wish I were a modernist writer
so I could attack tradition
with brilliance and ease.
I would write imagist poetry on your hand
   and watch the words smear together
      as we press palms.

- 12/16/08

an ode to best friends and the ones who fix us

December 16th, 2008

An ode to best friends and the ones who fix us

Today I am mom, with my arms around you.
I bake you cookies because I see
there is no other way to make you happy
   (except by distraction)

At the store, I play a game -
I put my arms around you from behind
   skip down the aisle
(next to the wrinkled woman looking at confectioner sugar)
until you finally laugh.

I will add extra cinnamon and vanilla to the dough
you’ll understand I will do anything
to hold that smile of yours in the palm of my hand
   - for just ten seconds longer.

I have felt an overwhelming sense of protection for you from the beginning
when you sat across from me in the smoke
and told me how you wanted to be a boy (more than anything)
I wanted to brush your hair across your face and whisper that you are (everything and infinite)
Instead, in some future time where it is okay to tell you of your
incrediblyambiguousbeauty
I will pass you a fresh cookie and smile only with my eyes

- 12/16/08

Chris Bathgate is Playing on the Sound System

December 12th, 2008

Chris Bathgate is Playing on the Sound System

There is grayspace behind the trees.
I’ve been sitting in the corner booth
   listening to music you gave me
   (reminding me of a show I went to without you)

I sat behind you
and her
and everyone
   watching

I called myself an interloper

There was such intense longing with no chance of fulfillment then
the show was beautiful and the snow afterward
   sad
      frustrated
   arresting

I will forever count every moment I spend standing under crystalline showers as anticipation of another
moment with you.
That day, it didnt come

Instead
I sat in my car with cold air blasting through my defroster
waiting for another Sunday I didn’t yet know would come
(the day we wished for snow and were
unbearably fulfilled.)

It is snowing now.
gray morning light with innocent snowfall is
a sweet, melancholy perfection.

I think it will always snow on Sundays and instead of god
I will worship quiet folk shows and stolen kisses
and the bittersweet loneliness
that comes from a snowfall experienced

without you

-12/12/08

Things I Love series pt 1

October 14th, 2008

It is fall. It is so simple to say, but the sheer exhilaration I feel in that declarative statement is unfathomable.

It. Is. Autumn.

This is the culmination of all of my favorite things: hand made caps and scarves, sweaters and cool weather, crunchy leaves on the ground, hot apple cider and pumpkin flavored food (especially donuts!), bright reds and oranges in the trees, deep brown tones and gold glinting off the sidewalk, bon fires and costume parties, candy corn and popcorn balls, apple picking and corn mazes. Michigan Winter is yet to be realized and I am thrilled to walk with the blustery but not-too-cold wind blowing my hair out of place.

I’ve been meaning to do something with this blog for a while now, but couldn’t find the time or motivation to start up a series. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my impending (I say that as if it’s going to happen any time in the near future - unless you consider “near” about one year away) move to Seattle and how much I love/will miss my state. Having been to thirty-six different states in the US, I can honestly say that Michigan is my most beloved, especially in the fall. There is something in the atmosphere here, despite the failing economy, that makes me feel as though this is home (yeah, I know. It IS home. I mean in a sense other than routine familiarity, something that hits deep inside and, as cliche as it may seem, soothes the soul). I love the water, I love the trees, I love the many corn fields and apple orchards and sheep farms. I especially love the sheep farms.

So, considering it is my favorite season and I am ecstatic every time I step outside, I decided to start a series entitled Things I Love in which I document and research my city to keep a record of all the things that have made me fall in love with this town. I constantly tell people about my favorite things in Kalamazoo, especially newcomers or people unfamiliar with the small, hidden areas. Some of the places are less unknown than others (how many people on Western’s campus or who live in the student ghetto and have been around for a while HAVEN’T been to East Hall at one point or another, really?), but, for me, they are all comforting or reminiscent in their own way.

I have lived here for three years but I only recently discovered the secret joy of walking down Wheaton and trailing my fingers along the concrete retaining wall, or strolling near K College’s campus and basking in the visual beauty that is the architecture of that college. I wish I had counted the times I told people I love Kalamazoo more than I ever loved Grand Rapids, despite growing up there. I first fell in love with this city because of the emphasis on art and local entertainment; that love intensified after I started exploring the city more and sharing each place with friends. I never involved myself in the political in-fighting that happens between the city and surrounding areas, and I don’t care to participate in rivalries between local colleges. None of the bureaucracy matters to me. All I know is I love my town.

The first couple places on my list will be the Order In Which I Love The Most, though each location or object after that will be based on whatever strikes me at the time.

My best loved thing about Kalamazoo is, typical of most students here, East Hall on WMU’s east campus. East Hall was the first building erected under the endowment to start Western State Normal School in 1905. It started its long history as the administrative building for the state school and effectively ended its stint as a functional facility earlier this year, after just over one hundred years of history, when the art faculty was asked to vacate. The art department left East Hall to go to the Park Trades Center downtown (another of my favorite places, simply because its where practically ALL the art is located (book arts society, glass society…)) but Archives and Regional History, a branch of Western’s Waldo Library, is still located there. The president of the university has claimed Archives will be relocated, as well, though they have yet to give a date or location to move the fragile materials the department warehouses (though McCracken is rumored to be a possible future site for the collection… talk about exchanging one disfunctional building for another).

Steps to East Hall off Davis

East Hall sits atop the location known as Prospect Hill, which is sandwiched between Oakland Drive and Davis street and overlooks all of downtown Kalamazoo. For me, this is where most of the charm comes from. Though there are links missing from the fences where intrepid (or delinquent, not sure) explorers made holes to climb through and up the hill, there is a set of stairs on the corner of Davis and Walwood Pl (ct? I’m not sure, but it’s a small private alleyway called Walwood).

I don’t advise climbing the stairs under any of the following conditions:
1. While carrying a heavy spinning wheel in one hand, a bag slung over your shoulder, and a cell phone in the other hand
2. A cigarette in one hand, a bag slung over your shoulder, and a half empty bottle of wine in the other hand
3. Excessively, horribly drunk, barefoot, and wearing pajama pants with owls on them (with your boyfriend advising you to please go home and put on shoes)
4. In the cold, pouring rain at three in the morning after drinking far too much and chain smoking even more.

I think I see a pattern here… hmm. Regardless.

Graffiti on the stairsMore Graffiti on the stairs

Graffiti vs. Art at East Hall

I wish I knew more of the history of this part of campus. East Campus as a whole truly is marvelous. If I remember correctly, Walwood (home to many departments, including parts of the Institute for Cistercian studies and the non profit certification program (plus many more, I’m sure, but these are things I’m familiar with)) was renovated within the last decade to bring it up to code and be turned into offices for faculty. In the 90’s (I could be wrong on this, but I believe it was 1998) when the buildings were assessed, it was said it would cost at least $80 million (actually, I think this number is really $60 or $70 million, but whats a standard deviation of about 20 million dollars in the grand scheme of Western’s notorious expenditure waste of late?) to renovate East Hall and some of the other halls on Prospect Hill. (note: I just checked wikipedia - yes, scholars, I feel the collective cringe - and 1998 is correct, though the dollar amount is actually 60).

Like I said, East Hall is, almost certainly, my favorite place in all of Kalamazoo, minus the competition of one specific spot (the subject of Things I Love segment 2). The first time I visited East Hall was over four years ago, before I moved to Kalamazoo, when my ex was showing me bits of the city. At the time, I thought it was a lovely place, though I was distracted by my anxiety over having to move to this foreign city with its hills and brick roads identical to Grand Rapids, though unfamiliar and strange. I don’t remember much of that visit. Looking back on it now, I think I never expected to invest as much into Kalamazoo as I have, so I didn’t pay as close attention those first few visits as I should have.

From the small bits of graffiti everywhere (including the political statements on the steps leading up prospect hill, the little scooter riding stencil images that were recently spray painted on the stairs of East Hall itself, and the political slogan for the campaign to Save East Hall on the side of the building) to the NO ENTRANCE signs in the window and floor-to-ceiling chain length fence just inside the door, it is obvious that East Hall is a building in conflict. Having talked to many art students who had small studios (both legit and secretive) in the building, the move out was not taken lightly. The atmosphere here is far more conducive to wanton inspiration and creativity than the location of the Park Trades Center.

I stood in the driveway of a house on Walnut the other night and looked up to see East Hall in the dark. I had never seen it from that viewpoint before and it was equally as striking, with the front columns lit up by the enormous globe lights hanging from the ceiling over the front steps. The house I was at was situated at the base of the hill in front of East Hall and if I stood in the road (again, not recommended while drunk. It seems all of my “east hall experiences” here have been while intoxicated…. I swear I do maintain sobriety most times) I was able to look directly into the almost too-cliche ethereal glow cast by the building (this actually might have been the alcohol, difficult to say). The view looking up at the building at night is beautiful, but it is not the scene that made me love that particular location. The first time (after that first-first time four years ago) I was at East Hall was at night with one of my best friends. This, honestly, is one of the only ways a person can fully experience everything the campus has to offer. The view from Prospect Hill during the day is beautiful - one is able to see every car and bicyclist passing on the streets of the Vine District below. It is especially wonderful when the leaves change color and start falling off the trees and more of the city is revealed.

The best view, however, occurs at night when the buildings are lit up and porch lights twinkle on and off until sunrise. You can hear the metallic sounds of the city groaning in unison with each passing train and car (and if you haven’t walked around the student ghetto at three in the morning and heard those sounds echoing off the heritage houses while that one drunk man misses every third or fourth step behind you and has to catch himself, definitely try it out. Especially if you’re female and walking alone. Not). I vaguely remember watching the sunrise one morning this summer while one boy lightly strummed a guitar and a few others chatted a few feet away. No matter how many people are gathered on the steps - and there always seems to be at least two or three at any given time - it never fails to provide a communal experience while at the same time feeling completely, soul searchingly solitary. It seems like the most cliche coming-of-age summer story experience to tell it, but moments like these have built up in my mind to make East Hall not only a perfectly beautiful historical landmark, but an experience that most people pass up or take for granted.

My roommate and best friend went to East Hall with me recently and said she preferred a few specific spots in Grand Rapids. The friend we were there with at the time seemed to agree - and I think a part of me agrees, as well. There are certainly more beautiful spots hidden around even this same city, though I’ve found very few of them offer the reminiscent, almost anachronistic feel that the grand old building of East Hall and surrounding acreage offer. I know the experiences I’ve accumulated at East Hall have contributed to my love of the area; however, the moment I walked down Davis and up the stairs, I felt much more attuned to this spot than any other I had been.

The Friends of East Campus are currently running (and have been for quite some time now) a campaign to educate about and save the historical buildings on East Campus. See the following links for more information:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_Campus_(Western_Michigan_University)
http://www.myspace.com/friendsohec
http://www.wmich.edu/foec/history.htm

It is too soon to tell

August 14th, 2008

Avoidant. Vulnerable. Afraid. Exposed. Anxious. Restless. Torn.
Hopeful, but distant and sad.

I try to quantify the person I once was, before you knew me. I’ve been talking about it more and more lately, attempting to rectify the differences between the past me and the present me. I analyze the differences, see the reasons behind the avoidance and despair, and equate them to my present self as if on a weighted scale. Occasionally the past outweighs the present and the balance of my delicate equilibrium is disrupted. I know the fundamental catalyst that affected each change, but it still seems impossible that the timidity I felt has been replaced by such obnoxious exuberance and drive.

Vulnerable. Exposed. Restless.
Hopeful and so close.

There is a place very private to me I imagine when the anxiety edges in. I close my eyes and fill my throat with air thick with fog. It settles evenly at the bottom of my lungs, rolling through veins, into delicate capillaries. It dissipates into arterial walls after diffusing in my rapidly beating heart. When my body is filled with mist, my rigid skin and tightly wound muscles are eventually eased into cashmere softness.

I am lying on the grass, blanketed and consumed by a sweet fog. In my head, it is early morning and the light is only bright enough to reflect dimly off the particles of moisture that settle on my sweater. I breathe in again.

The colors here are not bright, but earthen and muted and soft. They are shrouded by a dazzling gray blue, so the richly colored grass and early dawn sky mingle in the space between to form a deep sea that constantly shimmers with change.

I lay at the base of a hill that is part of a chain which rolls gently around me in a sea of deep green grass. This valley is a small haven for the fog to settle into, and I gladly let it seep into me as if I were part of the earth. The air chills my skin, but it is comforting in comparison to the deep flush of anxiety that would otherwise overwhelm me. I exhale hotly out of my nose. The cloud that escapes me mingles with the air and eventually there is no difference.

It is to this place I go when the unease rips through my body and threatens to burst from veins and arteries. I have described it to few people on occasion, and always it is calming, though rarely understood. I taste the air; I feel the grass like downy feathers between my fingers. For others, fog is an omen of misfortune bred from horror movies and nightmares. The solace I feel is in its silken sweetness enveloping me and denying the vulnerability that is always present.

Hopeful. So close, and so vulnerable.

I do not know how to tell you that you are a compilation of these favorite things. I am afraid of sounding redundant when I tell you how beautiful you are, but the color of your eyes and the feel of your skin and the softness of your hair are undeniably the same as every moment spent in my head. I breathe in the smell of you and it is a perfect substitute for the fog that once cleansed me. Your arms around me are more comforting than being surrounded by any number of resolute mounds of earth.

Hopeful. It is too soon to tell.