tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51070642578251357712024-02-07T18:54:07.148-05:00Showertime ContemplationsI blog, I knit, I think about Things. Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-33631584203215980592013-06-03T21:57:00.002-04:002013-06-03T21:57:33.980-04:00ConstrictedNot so much bubbling up, but waves<br />
Not so much waves but<br />
Pressure exerted upward, pushing up through my chest and into my throat, down through my knees and making my shins and feet jump and contract<br />
I want to be outside<br />
I want to go places<br />
Is this wanderlust?Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-42592958058690014742013-05-07T21:05:00.000-04:002013-05-07T21:05:04.876-04:00RandomI need stress to write. I need stress to write?? That feels so cliche, so "tortured artist", so... counter intuitive. It's true though. I'm forcing myself to write this out, hoping something will get me going. One neuron will kick another, some idea will float down and land on my head (or more likely, plonk down and stare at me accusingly until I do something about it). Right now, there's just no push. The little bit of my brain that works like a typewriter, always clicking and spinning, slows down when I'm actually focused. When I'm busy, I need to daydream, leave myself for a bit, and that typewriter picks itself up and starts producing, all by itself. Sometimes I feel I'm just a vehicle for mad and strange ideas, bits of poetry, fragments of someone else's writing that filter down through the layers of the universe.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-76803022695995727992013-04-21T15:36:00.005-04:002013-04-21T16:16:06.420-04:00I Always Read the Comments SectionI always read the comments section.<br />
Read, and look in, even as my eyes wire words that my brain immediately rejects.<br />
Witness the love, the hate, the ignorance and fear and just plain stupidity<br />
All protected behind the one-way mirror of an internet avatar.<br />
You see out, we can't see in: the perfect mask.<br />
<br />
I always read the comments section.<br />
On good days, words of hope and love abound, rationality rules, logic takes the stage.<br />
On bad days, I see a regression of humanity, determinedly grinding backwards towards a closed, closeted world where free speech doesn't feel free.<br />
Freedom of stupidity exists for a reason, as does freedom of ignorance but<br />
Who are we to indulge in spreading those freedoms?<br />
<br />
I always read the comments section,<br />
and despite my better judgement (or perhaps because of my better judgement), I never comment back.<br />
I exist as a silent observer, quietly categorizing and balancing, actively judging from behind my own personal wall of tightly clasped ideology.<br />
Is that bad? Probably. I hide and have the luxury of praising myself over others. I never join the battle.<br />
But.<br />
Just by reading, I learn, and that,<br />
I hope,<br />
Makes a small difference.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-8345960494623626562013-04-20T20:49:00.001-04:002013-04-20T20:51:23.344-04:00CommitOfficial enrolled. School email, username, money paid in. Orientation scheduled, planning, research. Not even a bit committed. What should be so certain is the exact opposite: none of this feels real. My second option has yet to appear, and I'm still grasping at faint hopes of something better (such an inopportune word, better). Ever so slowly, the selfishness sets in. Money offered, and I'm turning my nose up at something that would make my family feel a lot better. I don't know if I can make that choice, should I have the opportunity to go somewhere else. I'm scheduled to go to orientation in a few weeks, meet people, sign up for classes. I'll be going in not committed, waiting for a loophole to determine my fate. It's the worst kind of helpless.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-37189842445881001882013-04-18T19:55:00.004-04:002013-04-18T19:55:52.717-04:00DrainedTwo papers, one job, a thousand words I won't be speaking tomorrow.<br />
Six classes, two thousand meters, too many people I encounter.<br />
Is it bad I don't have the capacity to deal with Day of Silence right now?<br />
Too many things pile up (even worse, beyond my control) and I can't move beneath the mental weight of decisions that change my outcomes and relationships.<br />
Two weeks, two papers, one memorial service: the worst possible time for everything to come together.<br />
Mental bills pile up: I'm sure they'll be collecting at some point.<br />
Fuck.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-83250178281340665812013-04-09T20:47:00.000-04:002013-04-09T20:47:33.972-04:00RereadingYou made me hurt in a way I didn't think was possible. Going back, rereading even the first lines of what you wrote, the knots work themselves back through my chest and throat, climbing and coiling, and then they just sit: a reminder.<br />
<br />
I pride(d) myself on detachment. I warned you, saying I wasn't ready or willing to commit, unwilling to give the romantic gestures you so obviously craved. After the first time, I didn't see you for four months, and except on the lonelier of many cold nights, I wasn't sorry. You weren't worth my time, and for that I'm truly sorry. I know now that I hurt you, more than I meant to, more than I ever intended. I never intended.<br />
<br />
You did warn me, before you sent me the link. "It'll hurt," you said. I didn't listen. I put too much faith in my flimsy walls, sure you couldn't wield power over my emotions. Wrong. Sucker punch to the gut, beating down my heart, curl up in a ball and absorb the blows that just keep coming. I deserved every single one of them.<br />
<br />
Every so often, I go back. Click the link, start reading, and then just... stop. I can't do it. You impacted my world in perhaps exactly the way you intended. I'm vulnerable now. Each admission of my faults, written in your lyrical and devastatingly accurate prose, broke me down further. I haven't made it through a second time, and for that, I thank you. You made a difference on the first try: more than I could ever do for you.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-13779614087123950662013-04-08T22:01:00.000-04:002013-04-08T22:01:15.652-04:00Catch-22When the world gives us<br />
Heartbreaking belly laughing happy/sad crying mind bending circular timelines with syndicates and corrupt colonels and the stark blood and guts of human existence spilling through the pages<br />
Why is it necessary for me to do anything but sit and wonder at<br />
The state of a universe that holds such an existence but still<br />
ceases to give up its own secrets?Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-79621561303031481562013-04-07T10:18:00.001-04:002013-04-07T10:18:43.942-04:003000According to my stat counter, I started this blog in May of 2008. I'm not quite sure why I did, and I'm not quite sure what compelled me to come back, in November of 2013. I wrote sporadically up until mid-2010, and then just stopped. Oddly enough, I continued to get page views, from random places I'd linked the url, or perhaps intrepid Internet trekkers. Truthfully, I think tumblr happened, and I just lost interest in writing when I could instead reblog pretty pictures and spew random text snippets in an attempt at humor. In November of 2012, my senior English class was in the thick of W's, our creative writing assignments, that all seniors do in senior English at my school. Oddly enough, I enjoyed writing, and found I wasn't bad, according to my teacher and my classmates. As always, praise breeds a need for more praise, and a return to the blog felt like a lovely way to get more attention for my writing. (Make of that what you will, I'm a selfish human being.) Initially, I just posted assignments straight from my class (they're tagged "w" if you want to read them!), but the constant stream of writing about certain subjects, or just about My Life tired me out. What if I wanted to write poetry? That'd make a good blog post... and so it happened. Three thousand hits later, I have a Real Life Blog.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-872076258785811492013-03-31T21:55:00.000-04:002013-03-31T21:55:20.235-04:00Captured MomentsLights behind glass:<br />
Scenes presented, each mine for the taking if I choose to simply<br />
Stop and look for a moment.<br />
Fairy lights strung across a window, reflection of someone's small flight of fancy<br />
The interior of a dining room all wood panels, red walls, and vintage chandelier giving away the age of this particular house.<br />
Apartments only give away a glow of color, or in some cases the soft light of curtained interiors.<br />
Some windows show black.<br />
This person has plants, that one leaves the TV on when no one's in the room.<br />
This room belongs to a child, the one above to adults: a family house.<br />
Basement apartment: order on a small scale, bike propped against a wall, hatstand in the middle.<br />
Small snippets, captured moments, windows meant for viewing: glass, after all, works both ways.<br />
<br />Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-49148772671326750732013-03-30T18:48:00.002-04:002013-03-30T18:48:38.666-04:00These DaysSpring break saps the motivation from my limbs. Time moves at a slower pace (or so it seems), allowing me the gift of a whole book in a day, devoured slowly over many hours. It's been a while since I read for pleasure. Long bus rides make knitting a necessity, and a whole pair of socks sits ninety nine percent completed in my knitting bag. College decisions happened, and still, I'm stuck in limbo. Waitlists happen. With two full days left of pure free time, I'm starting to feel the clouds of doubt descend. Work, this break, has simply... passed me by. A paycheck came for me in the mail today, and I simply read the number and set it aside. I take my job for granted, these days. Even heavy chains of potential probation don't seem to drag me down. These days, I'm floating, and I'm not sure how to come back down. Apathy has set in, and the only things I feel passionate about are those the larger world says don't matter, or those I do on my own time. College has never seemed so far off.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-28326273690485886252013-03-16T20:45:00.000-04:002013-03-16T20:45:15.772-04:00Supernothing (Effort, and Why It Sucks)Did I mention that effort doesn't come naturally to me?<br />
Have I ever told you that if it weren't for my friends<br />
family<br />
teachers<br />
I'd be a nothing (supernothing, going nowhere fast<br />
and I don't care).<br />
Take today, for example:<br />
Right now, I'm meant to be at a<br />
Dance<br />
(of all things)<br />
Meeting other queer kids and generally having a<br />
Good<br />
Time<br />
(capital letters merited).<br />
And yeah, that'd be awesome but<br />
Effort<br />
Doesn't come easily to me who<br />
Will probably end up on the streets in five years because I<br />
Blow all my money<br />
On knitting needles and<br />
Stolen library books.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-34561486438812678792013-03-14T20:14:00.000-04:002013-03-14T20:14:06.881-04:00AcheStanding up takes more effort than it should<br />
Muscles and tendons size and compress<br />
The floor pounds into my feet and drives<br />
Up my legs and through my back to my shoulders where<br />
It simply<br />
Sits.<br />
Ache.<br />
<br />Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-84658430066600914272013-03-11T21:20:00.000-04:002013-03-11T21:20:14.125-04:00IdentitySome days, the Internet can be a really, really bad place for me. Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, photos and faces and articles flashing past as quickly as I want. Some days, I get sucked in. I read articles for hours, ogle more photos than I can count, open tabs upon tabs until I cannot fathom the amount of information I have on my screen. Some days, I look too hard.<br />
<br />
I identify myself as queer. I've slowly come around to carrying that label, because it fits as well as any I've used, more so than lesbian or bisexual. It's open for interpretation, and I like that. It doesn't force me to make a decision, or force people to make a split-second decision about me the way I feel some other labels do. I have fluidity in my sexuality, and I've come to terms with that. I love my queer self, and I'm proud of me for who I am.<br />
<br />
I also identify myself as female. I've never felt uncomfortable in my body. It may be that I'm incredibly lucky and privileged but I've always loved my body. I have strong rower's shoulders, muscular arms, rower's thighs, and the core of the equestrian I used to be. I have a Nike-swoosh scar on my face from a riding accident, calluses on my hands from oar handles, bike riding and rowing induced scars on my legs. One of my ankles locks up from an old injury, and I can't touch my toes. When I see myself naked, I'm proud. I've occasionally had bouts of thinking that other people don't find me attractive, but I've never felt like I had to change everything about me. Just occasionally overlooked.<br />
<br />
Some days though, despite my solid grounding in my identity as a queer female, I feel inadequate. I'm fine with my naked body- hell, I'd wear less clothes during the summer if I could, it's too hot where I live. It's my clothed body that brings me down. I've been toying, picking, worrying at my gender presentation for a while. It's been hand in hand with the issue of my sexuality, but up until recently, it was a non-issue. I didn't know who I was, or how to present that person. Now that I have inner balance (most of the time), I've been struck by the problem of outer harmony. I've never been a girly-girl. I chopped my hair into a short, fauxhawk-ish thing over a year ago, and I've been dyeing it various colors for almost three years. My hair has allowed me to explore my appearance, and my confidence has grown a thousandfold because of my experimentation. I shook the first couple of times I went out in public with short hair, but eventually I got used to it and just embraced it as part of my overall changing identity.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I went to a fancy mother-daughter tea-thing at my school for graduating seniors. It was lovely, and I had a great time, despite less than high expectations. True to form, 99% of my class was in dresses or skirts and heels or nice flats. For me, a dress was not an option. For the past year, I've grown more and more attached to pants, button down shirts, ties, and blazers. So, true to form, I threw on a black and white checkered shirt, my black dress pants, my trusty Doc Marten boots, a blazer, and a skinny black silk tie. With my hair looking extra spiky and my tie perfectly knotted, I looked damn good. Or so I thought. When I got downstairs, my mother (who, by the way, has a Masters degree in Women's Studies and as a pretty radical feminist, should GET THIS) looks at me and goes, "Why aren't you wearing a skirt?"<br />
<br />
I just looked at her. She's always been very accepting of my sexuality (even though I haven't *exactly* come out officially, but she definitely knows), so this was just kind of an unexpected blow. I know it wasn't her fault that she mentioned it at a bad time, but she brought me crashing down from the high I'd been on. I was so confident in how I looked, feeling really dapper, and suddenly that just... disappeared.<br />
<br />
For the last twenty four hours, I've been brooding. I was home sick today, so I had ample amounts of time to distract myself with the internet. This proved to be a rather bad idea. Instead of a pick-me-up, I got a downer slipped to me by mistake. Each article I read, each photo I saw, made me question myself a little more. And each question brought up more bad feelings. I'm not unhappy with my physical body, but even so, this new sense of dysphoria made me feel extremely off center. I'm unhappy with my presentation. I'd love to have a more masculine of center, androgynous appearance. I want my jeans to skim my curves, not hug them, my shirts to show off my shoulders and not my breasts. I want to wear bowties and blazers and oxfords and cool sneakers and dress like a hipster boy and be a dapper queer and wear snapbacks, even though I look bad in hats. Almost everything in my closet feels... wrong, and that makes me sad. I don't feel very confident in myself anymore, and that makes me even more sad. I want my confidence back, my assurance in my queerness. I want to find my swagger.<br />
<br />
But.<br />
Where do I look?Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-90247594251205141572013-03-10T10:37:00.002-04:002013-03-10T10:42:25.215-04:00PosedIn their eyes, you are not you anymore.<br />
Reduced to a series (collection, grouping, abundance)<br />
Of lines and planes, dark and light,<br />
Shadows and highlights,<br />
Tones.<br />
You look at them but they do not see you,<br />
Only<br />
The precise geometry of your ratios:<br />
Eyes to nose to mouth to chin and shoulders, beyond.<br />
Pure, spatial construction, no<br />
Judgement tweaking fixing just<br />
Faithful recording<br />
Setting your lines down on paper<br />
Capturing<br />
In a moment<br />
What you truly look like.<br />
<br />Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-9473705269943418962013-03-07T14:15:00.000-05:002013-03-07T14:15:06.201-05:00None For MeTwo for you<br />
None for me<br />
Uneven math, of course. It's what I<br />
deserve.<br />
One plus one is two that's<br />
Two for you and<br />
One plus zero (one) for me.<br />
Hint: that one is<br />
Me.<br />
Is that fair?<br />
Hint: (it's not.)<br />
But I guess that's how<br />
It has to be.<br />
Two for you and<br />
One (none) for me.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-51075723948838795062013-03-03T17:25:00.001-05:002013-03-18T11:56:23.086-04:00SundayAfter a week of clouds and heaviness, stepping outside this morning felt like heaven. Still cold, but the clean, snapping kind of cold that comes with the lingering breath of winter, not the sticky oppressiveness of a damp, 40 degree spring. A wind came through last night, and whisked aside any traces of moisture. Even this morning, we still felt the briskness, heating our cheeks and roughly slapping our chins with bouts of cold. Above our hatted heads, the sky seemed washed clean, taking up more space than allotted. It flew down between buildings and scraps of cloud, piggybacking on the wind, a force of depth as much as temperature. The sun glinted, stinging our eyes with a light as bright and cutting as ice. Even in winter, the sun can wound. Trailing tears of cold and light, we continued on our way, still aware of the vastness of the sky, falling away around our heads. We encountered a busy intersection, and paused. Almost unnoticed, we spiraled up and out of ourselves and flew with the clouds, skimming over previously unnoticed buildings and hidden rooftops. The world, for a moment, distilled, small crystalline images forming and melting quickly as snowflakes. When we touched down again, I looked at you and remembered sitting down here and now to write this, on this particular blustery Sunday, just one in a string of Sundays that connect our weeks. In a year, will you even remember?Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-9078825443615901042013-02-27T22:14:00.000-05:002013-03-18T11:34:11.369-04:00Random Bits (My Day)Last night: a random Target shopping cart, probably stolen and dumped, standing forlornly on the corner of a dark and rainy street. My dog sniffed it suspiciously.<br />
<br />
Today: the unexpected surprise of early dismissal from practice, and then the complete letdown caused by a huge traffic jam of unknown origins. The firetrucks didn't seem in any hurry.<br />
<br />
The Wasteland: phenomenal. Layers upon layers of words and meanings, waiting to be picked apart: the ultimate cake. Delicious.<br />
<br />
Unexpected depth: velvet sky turned liquid, the moon suddenly giving light to thousands of unseen miles between Here and There.<br />
<br />
Morning tea: arrived on the doorstep sometime during the night, heaven in a cardboard box. Perfect.<br />
<br />
Lovely: a meeting of the minds, beyond class, of books and the power of wishlists. These things should happen more often.<br />
<br />
Overall: fueled by caffeine, in the best way possible. Amen.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-49947356810704069472013-02-26T19:41:00.003-05:002013-02-26T19:41:57.934-05:00InteriorSlowly, ever so<br />
Slowly I'm<br />
Learning, infinitesimally, to<br />
Take an interest, even<br />
Care a little talk a little stay a little longer<br />
Branch a little fail a little fall a little more<br />
Each<br />
Time<br />
Until<br />
I resemble<br />
Humanity<br />
No longer boxed up<br />
Caged in<br />
Bottled and stoppered feelings mixing colors until they're just<br />
Dark<br />
Murky<br />
Brown.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-80714146051557279732013-02-23T20:23:00.001-05:002013-02-23T20:23:29.603-05:00A Sudden Wave of Being an AdultUsually, the library isn't mentally draining. There's no pull on my brain, no pressure behind my eyes, the thrumming of monotony normally kept at bay. Today, not so. Endless hours on the children's desk, punctuated only by overly questioning children and slightly overbearing adults. Periodically, the phone rings, inquiries from upstairs. Yes, I say, it's fine. But really, the turbines of monotony only provide anti-power, sapping me of my ability to Get Things Done. A small children's book, reeking of memory, keeps the day bearable. I read the whole thing.<br />
<br />
The day drains rather than ends. There's no sharp crack between work and play, work and the rest. On this day, one simply flows into the other. On the bus, my SmartTrip has no money, and I stupidly add the coins to the box before swiping the card. Sixty cents lost, and no bus ride for me. Want to ride? the driver asks. Not worth it, I reply. I'll go through this next time I need the bus. Instead, I disembark and walk a lazy loop to the Metro, descending through wafts of an unidentified stench. Twenty dollars on the card, and maybe a train soon, if I'm lucky.<br />
<br />
If I'm lucky.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-67326078420482786802013-02-20T22:48:00.001-05:002013-02-20T22:51:49.417-05:00Wind-Up GirlNo lock and key exist for me to<br />
Open up your head so I<br />
Drink up, crunch down, mascerate<br />
Mundane and esoteric facts, letters and questions that<br />
Inform me, entice me with everything but<br />
how<br />
you<br />
work.<br />
<br />
Some days I just want to climb inside your<br />
Head and walk around and<br />
Build a blanket fort and<br />
Curl up and this way at least I know you're thinking<br />
<br />
(Of Me).Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-21634862931650549522013-02-17T14:36:00.001-05:002013-02-17T14:36:17.698-05:00For BostonYesterday, I fell in love with a city. I didn't mean for it to happen. It just... Did. Boston felt right, from the moment I arrived at Logan Airport. Flying in from DC, all you get is this expanse of water, then a lighthouse perched on a little rocky island, and then the airport. There's almost no indication of the actual city, so I had no idea what to expect.<div>
We took the Silver Line bus from the airport to South Station, where we hopped on a Red Line T headed out. I basked in the beauty of public transportation. Coming from a city where the Metro is overpriced and not very extensive, the T and the bus system in Boston felt like a savior. The ticket-buying machines were both simple and easy (miracle of miracles!) and the stations felt cozy and, oddly, less hostile than the ones in DC. The Davis Square station both smelled and looked like any station in the New York system, but felt infinitely more friendly. Wonderful.</div>
<div>
I'm not entirely sure what got me, but before I knew it, I felt at home. Even though I embodied the lost tourist, iPhone map in hand, I could get around. The whole city (and outlying areas) felt laid back, almost welcoming, friendly. The bits that felt touristy were definitely that, but even more out of the way parts had something to offer. I didn't feel like an out-of-towner- in fact, I was asked on multiple occasions for directions! I guess I look like a college student, so people just assumed I knew where I was going. It was a pretty crazy experience, and I can't wait to go back again. Hopefully, (fingers crossed!) Ill be going to college there next year. I really, really hope so. </div>
Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-24590555066652270842013-02-10T17:30:00.003-05:002013-02-10T17:30:48.439-05:00Good ThingsMorning sun, enough to take the edge off but<br />
Will probably burn my face if I'm out all day.<br />
Suddenly, spring seems within reach.<br />
Good things are coming.<br />
<br />
A good hair day, enough so hats<br />
Aren't needed,<br />
Warm enough to go without a scarf.<br />
Good things are coming.<br />
<br />
Meet up, new faces in familiar places<br />
Old friends still at hand.<br />
Across the bridge, adventure awaits.<br />
Good things are coming.<br />
<br />
Pick through old CD's, new music to my ears.<br />
As reggae-dub plays over the radio,<br />
I smile at the man behind the counter.<br />
Good things are coming.<br />
<br />
Too crowded for coffee, back to beat the streets.<br />
Wrapped in the smell of warm pita, I take a bite.<br />
Suddenly, everything feels perfect.<br />
Good things are coming.<br />
<br />
Tip my head up to catch the final rays of sun,<br />
Back across the bridge towards home,<br />
Where the downhill caresses my worn out knees.<br />
Good things are coming.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-19393903099161270422013-02-09T18:11:00.000-05:002013-03-18T11:31:41.285-04:00Things On My DeskMy phone<br />
My glasses that I never wear, complete with glasses case they are never in<br />
Mini scissors shaped like a cat<br />
Size 1.5 Addi Lace circs, still in their package<br />
A just finished library book<br />
One jar of bottle caps, 3/4ths full<br />
One jar of pennies and soda tabs, also 3/4ths full<br />
A hole punch<br />
A container of Sharpies, mostly used<br />
Miscellaneous papers, including some that are probably important<br />
A single stitch marker, retrieved from the floor<br />
An opened letter, still in the envelope<br />
Two thumb drives, hardly used<br />
Two tax information forms, left to die<br />
One headphone case, unused<br />
Multiple blocks of sticky notes, always scribbled<br />
Welcome to the detritus of my life.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-13520784036698578942013-02-07T20:36:00.001-05:002013-02-07T20:36:23.868-05:00I'm A Car DancerThere's a feeling, indescribable<br />
Connected, infected, reflected<br />
Up your arms, down your ears, warming you<br />
From the inside out and<br />
Outside<br />
In<br />
Crackle and pop<br />
Radio static clears<br />
And a song<br />
Comes<br />
Through<br />
Crack a grin and sing<br />
Bang your head and dance like<br />
No one's watching<br />
All alone in your car.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5107064257825135771.post-43828352777935371432013-02-04T22:42:00.001-05:002013-03-18T11:59:27.254-04:00Work Walk #3The cold nips at your ears, reminding you yet again that you forgot a hat. Spurred on by the brisk weather, you stride around the corner of the library and swing your way across the street. Your breath plumes out in front of you, even though the thermometer reads thirty-six degrees. Practically balmy. Crossing the street, your gaze momentarily flies skyward. Clouds cover the previously clear sky, and you briefly, achingly, suddenly miss the stars you weren't used to seeing. Your long strides make your boots clump reassuringly down on the frozen sidewalk, and you're so taken with the sound and the glittering lights over the horizon you walk right across an alley without looking. A brief burst of panicked adrenaline propels you the rest of the way, and afterwords you laugh inwardly at the complete lack of trucks coming at you. Across the street, the new addition to the elementary school glows softly under streetlights. The stairs have a poetical air to them, like an unfurled seashell. Were they always there? There's a sneaking suspicion you are just noticing them now. Ahead of you, a couple laughs, boy and girl moving in harmony as they head to an unknown destination. You follow them, momentarily diverted onto a similar path. After all, you are going the same direction. Just before you reach your endpoint (almost caught up to them now), something catches your eye. Hulking and heavy, an orange snowplow sits at the corner, shyly peaking out from the darkness of a lesser known street. The plow in front almost looks like a smile, jauntily curved up towards you. And you? You smile back, in the face of the thirty-six degree weather that can't possibly include snow. Just you and the dinosaur snowplow, grinning.Amanda Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13634044840467984816noreply@blogger.com0