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flip

suffice to say things don't always turn out as planned. but that's not a surprise. yay, i just, like, love surprises.

#ohGreatGodofHighestHeaven

well...





depend not on the world's promises
for they delay or expire.
well, do not doubt that the world will make promises
for they are many and mighty.
believe in as many as you can
for there is no test to tell which is mighty and which is not.
use these as brick and mortar,
not as foundation.
use as insulation and kindling.

better a foundation the heavens:
upside down, inspired by unconquerable space
for whatever its parts
(which are many)
and its secrets
(which are mighty)
interwoven are its promises:
singular and strong.

earth and heavens:
indecipherable its runes
while i stand on the ground
...but should i flip in order to build up to down
not staircases, ladders, not wings will be necessary to me.

I don't understand my face. / When did I become an adult?

I don't understand my face.

My face breaks out like Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption: dramatically and without fail.

A year ago now, I was at my annual check-up when my doctor asked me about my acne. I wanted to say, "Well, it's there," but I remained silent. Then he asked, "Aren't you self-conscious?" I looked down at the floor as he passed me a paper with the name of a recommended dermatologist. I took it and left his office. I didn't understand his question because I wasn't sure he'd understand my answer: OF COURSE I'M SELF-CONSCIOUS but I don't let it control my day. Usually. Sometimes.

Sometimes my self-conscious is like white noise: I don't notice it until it's perfectly quiet and I'm perfectly content--like a whisper curling around and into my ear, planting diseases to destroy confident synapses.

"Aren't you self-conscious?"
   "Isn't EVERYONE self-conscious?"

Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm not, like, hideous, but I'm also definitely not America's Next Top Model, y'know what I mean? I'm normal. I asked a friend once if I was a pretty and she answered, "You're pretty, but you're not like Vogue-pretty [which technically no one is.]"

To a certain extent, I think what my doctor meant by his question was, "Are you not doing anything to heal your acne?" And I'm glad he was concerned, I guess...right?

It's just...it's my face. I know what's on it. I am well-aware acne is embarrassing. I know I'm self-conscious, I don't understand why you need to know- why you need to confirm my self-consciousness? I don't even need to use the possessive adjective 'my' to express how personal self-consciousness is because SELF.

I guess...if yooou don't want acne on my face then imagine how much IIIIIII don't want it on my face.

"So, why don't you just use ----?"

Because I have wishy-washy morals. Suffice to say I no longer want to use anything with sulfates or parabens. Yep. Simple as that.

Although, admittedly, removing harmful things from my life is about as easy as growing carrots in wintery Jersey, which is like Leonardo DiCaprio winning an Oscar...so. No.





When did I become an adult?
When did I become an adult?
Perhaps when shy became self-conscious.
When loud became obnoxious.
When pretty became a standard.
When money became an object.
When people became collector's items.
When things became morals.
When fun became a luxury.
When decency became a rarity.
When dreams became responsibilities
and responsibilities became torture
and reality became prison.

When did I become an adult?
When hate overpowered love.
When I lived for the next romantic date.
When I cried more over chick flicks than death counts.
When newscasters only broadcast death counts.

I remember wanting this.

Why did I want to become an adult?
Because adults could wash dishes
and drive cars or fly airplanes or perform surgery.
Because adults could buy candy
and slept when they wanted and crossed the street without holding hands.

The illusion was so well-believed adults never warned children.
Or, at least, adults didn't know to warn children
because they're not entirely sure they're adults.

Russia.

i know your full name;
can pronounce its every syllable.
but if it is the title of your story
i am not allowed a peek at its contents
nor even its table of contents.
only a title and a hint of a publishing date.
you may not've locked-and-thrown-away-the-key
but your pages are glued together.
if not glued
then printed with invisible ink.
like Napoleon burning down Russia
you are impenetrable.

Why I Read

Currently, I am reading The Mysterious Education of Nicholas Benedict (I know, I haven't updated my 'Currently Reading' section of my blog since last summer) which features a character whose name is John: a young boy of thirteen or fourteen years who lost his parents. When I first met John he's described as having "numerous pitted scars. [He could] have some contagious disease. [...but he said,] 'They're only chicken pox scars, I'm not contagious anymore--it's been a year. They just didn't go away like they usually do.'"

Chapters later, because the book is illustrated, I am treated to a picture of John who does look like he has freckles. And I smiled. Because I, too, look like I have freckles but that isn't at all what they are. I smiled because I encountered a kindred spirit in a way I did not expect.

The Mysterious Education is hardly a book about looks but often the best books are the ones in which you learn unexpected things.

Most books are often full of characters who 'sparkle' or go from ugly duckling to HELLOSWAN! Don't get me wrong: I don't begrudge them for bedazzling the world with one glance, but sometimes I feel as though every author is eager to make a physically perfect being who is humanized with flaws. But is it so far-fetched to humanize them with their looks?

So far, I've observed that plain-looking characters are human to begin with and whatever flaws they have need no dramatization.  Generally, I have found most dramatization forced--I am not suggesting that perfect-looking people can't or don't have horrific back stories- that would be too presumptuous and besides, we are all still people no matter our looks-, but it is a bit tiresome only to find books about Mary Sues and Gary Stus who've got everything on two legs fawning after them while they have to save the world.

Thus, as a warning: should you have any fangirlish feelings for Divergent or The Hunger Games Trilogy you probably shouldn't talk to me.





I realize I read because it is an existential experience: I find a piece of me tucked away in pages full of words a complete stranger might've taken seven years to write. I read because I am eager to find characters and authors who share my secrets and questions and fears and dreams and insecurities. I read to feel less alone. To encounter different perspectives. To come across friends who don't hide in coffee shops or book stores but are trapped in basements or live in faraway countries. So.

A Study in Membership: Part 03- The Hub

The question to conquer today- what qualifies as church?'

--It is going to take me a long time to write this one.

mother of God, i want so much.

i need a haircut.
i need to take deeper breaths.
i need to look more people in the eye.
i need to give away more books.
i need to forget reflections to grasp something solid.
i have mistaken wants for needs.
i need to learn not to do that.