Excerpt #nanowrimo

The man sits across from me. Rimmed glasses, peeking chest hair, and legs crossed. We've been sitting in silence for at least 30 seconds, we've passed the point at which small talk starts to sound very fake and ice-breaky. The clock ticks. The fan is silent but it's the only thing in the entire room that's moving, so it's very obvious. My mind starts drifting. If someone were to pop in they would have thought they were interrupting something very important and apologize

"How about that weather we've been having?" He says

Goddammit, he did it. I was really hoping he wouldn't 

"Just beautiful, absolutely beautiful" I say

"It's a nice change, from, you know, that cold weather we've had"

"Yes it is... yes it is"

He trails off and looks back at the carpet; yellow shag with visible lint originating sometime in the early 60's. I'm picking at my hands. 

Mom would say that's a bad habit, you need to quit.

Theatre

There's a scene in my favorite movie.

Two lovers holding hands, a sunset

a small house molded to her liking, a quiet beauty.

sapling life a soft vignette.

There's a scene in my favorite movie

the part that makes me weep

his hands grasp the thin bony palm

of the frame of the quiet beauty, asleep

A hospital, chords of fluid, a psalm

There's a scene in my favorite movie

his hands glide along the stone,

the hallowed ground, the grave.
fingers trace the etched-in words
marble as cold as death.

The credits roll.

There's a scene in my favorite movie
Most of the crowds left now
but I know to wait
till the words on the screen have scrolled to the end
and finally you'll see
Two lovers kiss, lips dry and cracked
but only a thought of love.
Together forever no pain, no sickness, no harsh air
that will keep them apart again.

I read it in the newspaper; your obituary.

I read how you fought "valiantly".

They said some things about you in the column.

You're quite the person. Beautiful and gold leafed.

Part kid, 

Part Goddess, 

Part crude oil; 

pumped up from the ground by grasshopper pumpjacks on an open plain.

Your mother was green and she gardens.

Your father is blue, like his collar.

He labors in a refinery at work and at home.

He's always sweaty.

To whom it will concern

Dear Ordinary:

I'm writing a letter to you so that you will stop whatever it is you're doing and realize where you are. I'm writing this letter to you to interrupt the busy life you pretend to live, and to make you look down at paper, instead of you feet for once. I'm writing this letter to you to maybe put into perspective some things. I'm writing this letter to you so you will stop talking and listen to the opening act, shut up and look at the opening band that is trying so hard to make it. I'm writing this letter to you to help bring you back to reality, because I know how you haven't been feeling real lately, and I know how hard that is. You knelt in the sand and asked God to make you real, well hopefully getting a real life letter will make you feel a little like real life.

Things are very limbo right now, and that's OK for now. You're comfortable, and you're early-stale, like when bread starts to get hard crust, but it's still tasty to eat as long as mom makes it. You will start to stink very soon, and I don't want that for you because it's already hard for you to talk to girls. I don't want to make it impossible by making girls not want to talk back. You don't want that do you? Let's now prolong the losing streak. I don't want 6 months to turn into a year, and then into years. That sounds like a nightmare.

Speaking of; Let's talk about those nightmares. Yeah, I know about them. You talk in your sleep. It's OK, don't feel bad. They're just dreams but not the kind you want to follow. Everyone here is following their nightmares these days, when you come back you need to be ready.

Ordinary, you're growing up fast, and you're losing a lot of things. Brain things. That's normal. Stay quiet for the opening act. Watch it. Let them prime you for the main event, let them give you a taste of whats to come, they're very different genres, yes, but you'll love both of them. For now just shut up and listen to the music, watch the guitar player move his mouth weird.

Ordinary, remember who you love, and don't let them go.

Ordinary, you seriously need to start letting people in, and let them stay in your life. But that also means you need to let me in. I'm the most important person in your ordinary life.

I love you ordinary, you'll learn to love me too.

Love,
also ordinary

I don't know why my pictures aren't showing up. Sorry. I can't figure it out.

In The Gorge

The Dishes, who's master grew tired.

Unkempt the bed, wrinkled, feathered.

Pubescent chin hairs quietly long, and transparent, 

like the shabby breathing of solitude. 

The longing is palpable. 

In the gorge; the arthritic ticking 

of a crass, golden-stitched human heart

scorches the cells with life-bread.

In the gorge, dreams strike the tallest trees.

Faint are the whisperings, 

long are the echoings.

In the gorge, blood pumps.

In the gorge, run wildebeest.

Now What/What Now

Why do I always feel like the hands I interlock in front of me, and the elbows on my knees, and the eyelids that go down, and up, and down, and up, don't belong to me. Sensation is such a beautiful and strange thing if you think about it.

I'm trying to be happier, like choose happiness. I figured that, for myself, I have to redefine happiness; in light of my obscured perception of joy, and the sensation therein. I'm finding something out though. I'm a little excited about it. For me now, happiness is very discretionary. It's a little hard to explain so bear with me. Happiness occurs very arbitrarily recently: A moment of haphazard eye contact with a stranger on the bus, or a stranger utters a word from their beautiful lips and I kind of fall in love with them for just a minuscule moment, or a frozen juncture in the ocean where it's enough for me that there is an ocean, and trees, and turtles.

Hopefully I'm being understood. 

I am starting to realize that my expectation for the world is totally off, and that is the root of my problem. I've accepted that life is never a painting for life, uh... let me try again: Life will never feel how you want it to look in a picture (like on instagram) and that's something I've been letting guide me recently. 

Whatever.

“People don't realize that the future is just now, but later.” 
-Russell Brand

(a Revolutionist)

peeling dressers

I laid in the bed of sheetless thinking
I reached back behind the dresser of food, and books of ink
The dresser was a plywood pile of wood in a sellable shape.
Over the plywood is a stensil of real wood making it appear rich
I peel the stencil off the back nervously,
wondering if they'll see this in the inspection at eviction
but not caring that much.
He had a nervous tick, the pile of plywood with satisfyingly peelable stencil was within reach
so it gets peeled.

People who have inspired me.(This is a new years post of some kind)

As I write this I cannot tell you how long this list will be I have the flu and my room is spinning and I'm on the Internet. This is everyone my virus-wracked brain can poop out at the moment. There are many people who have gotten me to where I am today, for better or for worse; both will be included in the following list.

Disclaimer: If you think you have influenced my life in some sort of marvelous way and are not listed, too damn bad. Be cooler. Just kidding. Eat more protein, and send a formal complaint to my publicist Steve Madden.

Andrea: My mother, my guardian, my angel, and the woman I have loved and will love forever.

Val: My Father, my voice of reason, and my cattle prod.

Kenzie: My example of perfect endurance, and non judgemental, understanding.

Curt: My coach, made me feel worth something.

Gabe: My best friend forever.

Nathan: My first, last friend and the epitome of empathy.

Taylor: Got my butt in gear, threatened me if I didn't follow my dreams.

Michaela: My ears, my book of secrets, my quiet, patient sponsor.

Alexandra: My constant friend.

Tessa: My voice of compassion.

Katie: My oldest friend, one of my true loves.

Nate: My pie chart role model, my black beacon.

Meg: My favorite Mormon, beautiful on the inside and out.

Dane: My forgiveness dummy, my comrade in our war.

Natty: My sister, my white beacon.

Daniel: My accomplice in crime, crimes of fun.

Caden: My silver beacon, my secret compassionate guide.

Leslie: My sympathetic, tolerant benefactor.

Drew: You're the psychiatrist, you tell me what you are.
Dallin: My older Brother, my rock.

More:

Sawyer

Soley

Roah

Isaiah

Shantay

Grant

Janelle

Aubrey

Kalli

Sierra

Rachel

Sarah

Zoie

Kyle

Matt

Micah

Cy

Sophie

Brooklyn

Rachel

Lindsay

Tim

Scott Shepard

Parker
Ned

Kobi

Scott

Kyle

Kyle
Avery

This was mushy... But what is the flu and 1:30 AM for, if it's not for writing mushy posts?

This is just me

So, I started the national novel writing month (November) with a flaming passion. It was going great until about the 3rd day. 

Sorry I haven't posted a lot. I have something cooking in my heart. 

Here I am saying this as if anyone other than Mr. Nelson, Allie, and maybe Lauren and Michaela actually read this blog anymore, after all, high school is over. 

I'm moving to Hawaii.

I'm writing a book.

I'm in love with a Mr. Nelson still. 

I'm in love with a woman.

I'm in love with art, and I'm trying to be quiet about it right now, I don't want to speak up something that isn't going to actually happen. 

I write like it's my job don't fret.