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colorado

1/29/2015

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I'm gonna do everything I can not to philosophize so much, since I think philosophy can be a waste of time.
Every time you meet a philosopher who is born to think
i think, i think, keep thinking that
2015 is going to be a good year,
now I don't wanna jinx it
as much as i think about how
my days have lead me to this place
and the memories not yet made,
waiting to be unwrapped like chocolate in foil
so ready to spoil

these nuts really hit the spot.

I swear my mother generates idioms
and catch phrases, by accidental word play
and it becomes real
hits a hot spot when the temperature drops
but it's soft like slushy snow and that sounds sweet
when you're sailing down the slick white rooftops
of another place, in another city
feeling your body move through vertical persuasion
white lightnin in a non-verbal world
if i'm an oyster, this is my pearl
whoever invented this sport is a genius

i've got so much to think about
you have no idea how difficult it is not to just spill it
all over this page like beer on the coffee table
after a knee-jerk reaction to a football game,
i don't even like football unless it's real football,
let's just stop calling it soccer for fun.

i swear i'm a body bursting at the seams,
sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally
i want to be a book that someone reads for fun
and they read it again because it resonates
and it makes sense
I want to breathe and irrigate the depths of someone's mind
who takes time to bother with reading my little words.
yes folks, this is anotha late night ramblinz
brought to you by me,
while i'm nowhere near the sea
wishing i could stay a few more days

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Late nite ramblinz

1/21/2015

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Being home feels so good. I feel like a child at Christmas. I love my parents so dearly. The best part is I know they love me too. I know a lot of people out there can't say that about their parents. I am not one of them. I am grateful for every single day I have with them. I've had friends lose parents recently and it hurts to hear about it, pains me to imagine them going through my absolute worst fear I've had since I was a really small kid. I used to cry myself to sleep at night thinking about how one day that would be me. Sometimes I still do.

I play chess too much. I am slightly addicted. I once read it reduces risk of Alzheimer's so I started playing it more regularly and now I can't stop. I don't ever want Alzheimer's. I want to remember everything so I can one day publish that book I'm going to publish one day.

I practice yoga now. And running. I've learned to appreciate my body instead of scold it all the time. I don't really experience anxiety much these days. 

I can't drink hard liquor very much anymore. It upsets my stomach. I might have an ulcer in there somewhere. Who knows. 

I had an amazing time in Cancun with my mother. I thought I would be so depressed to come home but so far I've been having a great time. I still think about maybe returning to Russia some day but only if the timing is right.

I'm in the midst of developing an idea for a book of memoirs.  Maybe if I get into grad school it will be my thesis. Oh please higher power, God, the angels, forces behind the wheel, please let me into school. I promise I would rock it. Even if this blog entry is absolutely no indication of what I can do.

Now....I wait. And try to sleep. If I get into school, I'll....




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Silver Dollar

1/19/2015

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I'm not in the mood to camouflage my words in metaphor. I'm not in the mood to shift certain events in my life in order to construct a narrative. Not at this exact moment in time, I'm not.

It's coming to seven years since his death. It hits me sporadically, and tonight it has chosen to do so. I think the last time might have been a few weeks ago actually, when I was in bed during the morning hours and I could feel myself crying in my sleep because somehow the thought of him entered my dream. I had no memory of that gentle mourning until much later in the afternoon. It comes and it goes. Grief is weird.

However, tonight feels a little different. My sadness is mixed with a little anger, betrayal, confusion. And overbearing disappointment. How someone's death has felt like a huge missed opportunity, how the course of our lives both could have greatly intercepted and altered our paths if he had only allowed me that chance. But he didn't. I want to know what he was thinking just before he put the needle in his arm. Did I even cross his mind? Did he stop to wonder that maybe someone out there was wandering around hoping to greet his face? I wanted to charm the pants off of him. I was so eager to do it. But he never gave me that chance. He chose death instead and that angers me. 

I see his picture in obituaries online and it feels so cold and stale. It's from his high school graduation, and based on the boy I knew, he probably couldn't wait to get out of that suit and into something more comfortable. And I read these notes from friends and family, offering love and condolence to his parents. Are they still grieving? I've never met them before. I don't want to. I'm scared the egoist and naturally vulnerable girl within me would introduce myself as that missed opportunity, the lifeboat he chose to let raft around in a bar somewhere while he stuck himself with heroin. 

I'm grateful that our story has allowed me to write something I'm proud of, but I would trade that piece any day for that night to have happened differently. Even if he had decided he wasn't into me or I had gotten too drunk and made a fool of myself. I don't care, any of those possibilities. But deep down I know, at least I tell myself I know, that if he had put the needle down and come to the bar, he surely wouldn't have regretted it. I think we would've liked each other a lot.
It's a burden sometimes, to think about that night and how nonchalant I was after, absolutely clueless to the fact a memorial service was being held for the guy who stood me up. And now, the little secret meetings we sometimes get are the ones in my head while I sleep, and some are so dark and terrible while others are beautiful and pure, like the dream I had after I finished writing the story. He collided into me like a wave and I remember touching his smooth shoulder blades while he pushed himself deeper, thanking me for this final exchange. Neither one of us was crying. And when I woke up I knew the story was officially finished and there was no need to go back and edit it any more. 

Still, I miss him. A lot. My only hope at this point in time is that he'll pay me a visit tonight after I fall asleep, and maybe offer me a little apology. Knowing me I'd forgive him right away and just be glad he was there in the first place. 
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