I can be a part of you for only a little while.

It’s strange what goodbyes do to you.

It may seem like a word or two, perhaps a hug. But the difficult part is that they involve people. Humans. And whenever those are involved.. whew.. things get messy quick.

I’ve been in this place now for approximately 3 months and 15 days. Just enough time to become a familiar face, to get past the awkwardness to those deep-bellied laughs, to fall in love..

I have those feelings of anticipation to be home, of course, but currently they’re pretty swallowed up by fear of what will happen once I get there. Change is definitely a scary thing. I think I’ve forgotten my place back home. I know where I fit here, even if I don’t like it, at least I know.

Leaving can’t be easy in any way, I’ve decided. Even for me, who’s felt so uncomfortable in this place and has had a homecoming countdown on her phone since the first day.  It’s like having one foot in two places.
Actually, it might be like not having feet at all.
Not like you have to use your feet to jump from one place to a different one, but instead, your feet don’t go to either place. There’s no feet because there’s no movement. You’re just sitting, stagnant. You’re left with a lot of second-guessing. How good was home again? Who’s waiting for me there? Maybe I don’t fit in either location. Maybe I’m still searching for where I’m supposed to be in and all these others still aren’t them.

Even worse, what sort of goodbye am I going to give to these people who now have a part of me, and I of them? How do you sum up over 3 months of laughs and conversations and thankfulness to these humans in a moment? I only have a moment before the cab takes me away. Just one. And how do I begin?

Months ago, at one of my first visits to the stream that became a savior for me during this season, I wrote while standing on the banks watching the water move continuously onward. The words I wrote were, “There’s nothing I can give to this, I can only be apart of its life for a little while.” I was talking about the water rushing over the rocks, the leaves as little boats on their hurried mission. It was all so perfect without me. So utterly perfect, and I had nothing to do with it. I couldn’t even bother it severely. It would continue whether I liked it or not. Perhaps now, even though I have impacted these sweet ones some, they will continue. I can only be apart of them for a time, but ultimately, they’re going to continue in the way they will go, and so will I. We only got to have one another for a season, and for that season, I am thankful.

There’s so much more to say here, and I’m afraid these words I’ve left don’t make much sense and are especially disorderly. But they’re the one’s I have. I needed to get them out of the way so I could go back to my studying.

gaping

with eyes blinded and arms out in front of myself to try and sense the way toe tapping puddles elbow scrapes ancient words that have fallen from above to this lightless below me feeling anxious feeling just the right size to push through past the hounds baying in the distance to this voice right in front of me speaking sounds of honey that cause question and keep on walking blindfolded into the pebbles on boulders on inverted mountains that grow wider and deeper each day mirrors the gaping holes between these bones.

the cold cuts clearer

she's gone back to her digging

summer's blood died with the leaves
and was trampled underfoot
the night's coming soon
she finds the seeds that permeated never planted
the frail roots are breaking
(no matter how numerous)
the frost's grip is too tight

the bare moon offers no answer
neither from the cracking pine
there were too many witnesses, she worries
but could it even be considered crime

the distance long becomes the distance high
you knew that rain didn't fall for growth
it fell out of fear
now it freezes
and the cold cuts clearer

the wallpaper

Part identical dropping petals and branching stems

from the gaudy floral

Their dots and dashes in congruency

Creating a cohesive mass to drown in

I tip-toe, stretch and

play the game of Operation

but the buzzer sounds and like a piece of flypaper I stick

and they stick back

I’m redrawn into organized layers

of chevron and hound’s-tooth

polka dot rubber to my knees

pin-stripped wax fabric covering my arms

my canvas is covered into a mixture of patterns

that stifle and I just want to be solid.

Like the crop fields of continuous brown or green.

Undisrupted by the interplay of other colors

I prefer to be siphoned by mole holes and

crow's nests

I prefer to be a part, not the whole pattern

Only ravaged by rays of sunlight that bring depth and life to the countryside

Instead of the chaos of order that plagues the rest of this

Tapestry of mess.

schematic schooltalk

words are those clever devices
we skip and drag and tie in knots
and before we’re done with them
spit them out and not expect any spots

that leave a trail giving ourselves away
as we rush and stumble our way back
not feeling surprised we’re made out of clay
still sticking to the ones who’re late for the play

a song, dear, and keep singing loud enough
to drown out the

..clearly words are still causing a fuss.

the prelude ------------>

through the pouring kettle 
tumbling head over feet, we race.
mix a little sea and sky with a smattering of ice
and day will yield to night.
the perpetual sunset presses against us and
shadows spill out like oil
creating sharp, grotesque creatures
that frighten and fight against
what will save us
but our faces have met the sun still
and tasted its honey
as it sinks, momentum gains
under the weight of anticipation
as we wait in expectation

middle-march-autumn

apple picking, indian curry, literature, and feminisim were
just enough before
rain caught and left us breathless
stomping through puddles and
the terrible feeling of incongruency
falls quicker than this storm

they call it the retrograde of mercury
the turn of tides and planets
of things I don't understand
is there any difference from those far-off
and of these held in my hand?

the yellow house

Still when I lay my head down to sleep,
if I let myself I can hear the
ticking of the old clock that hung between the windows
the scrape of dishes in the kitchen
and laughter reverberating off those awful beige-toned walls
trailing into the bedroom
and contentment again nestles in beside me.
The pair of them sitting on my bed and
speaking and giving and debating and
hiding
as we grew together but apart and I never realized.
The familiar sliding of the door across the wood and the thumping of heels amidst a string of muttered curses in midmorning rang familiar and warm.
But still the clock ticked and the kettle boiled and the oven unthawed those pizzas and life moved sleepily forward inside that yellow house.
I just never quite realized.

--

I was trying to be alone, you know,
saturate my senses in the smog of the
newspaper city
embraced
and
enveloped
I let her in
I breathed her in
Staked my claim and planted my feet
I should have brought my own handmade flag to
anchor in those layers of grime and soot.
But she is malleable
fickle
she fought back and
wouldn't budge
I was only hers for a time
She showed me my fears in the
winding, calling darkness
Then spit me out when the last grain fell

and I was ushered like Jonah to Ninevah

with my teeth gritted and my hands tied I fought
but, regardless, here I sit

The great eastern
-in its howling and hollowing
the waves
-in their breaking and mending
I shiver and quake

But, do I do well?
In this restless anger, do I do well?

whisperings

These prints proclaim my separateness.
(throat thickens, heart quickens, brow furrows into restless desperation).

“How do I reinvent the past?” 
            or, even more anxiously,

“Must I destroy it?”

Ancient words ring audibly.
Words of proud families and excited friends.

It was natural. 
     It was usual. 
           It was comfortable. 
                It was expected.
Like those first noticed warm breaths in the morning. 
Like the feeling of feet in shoes.

If everyone was so sure then, how am I supposed to fit?

From this angle, I’m much too small. 
I fit in the cupboard that’s forgotten on the corridor. 
Mind-forged fetters contain me - but how could I complain? 

,,

the past and present
they sidle and gently whisper

these irreconcilable two 
somehow saturate
and lose their 

boundaries bleed
together they're as real
as a walk down a
peat path

the two tied
and one haunts the other
until reality ceases

and I hate it
I can pull and push
grit my teeth and kick their welded bonds
I would try anything to

detach 

but I'm the walker on the peat path

my inhales and exhales create the rhythm that fuels them and
independence raises a white flag.

skin

and the wind really does howl, love.
you can hear it coming, thundering, like timpanis
just before it tries to take you with it on its undoubtedly malevolent course
"it’s only skin" he says, sleep-talking
but it is this skin that’s pierced by icy incisors.
this skin, here
the one gaping and hollow
holding the bones being gnawed at
day after day after day.

it’s only skin, yes, yes you’re right,
it’s only skin that contains and protects.
perhaps I’m coming to that
this skin, this skin here,
is not enough.

wuthering

time stagnates.
like childhood, I wait for the door to unlock
for the crack in the corner to elongate
break apart and release
into Canaan
or at least the freedom of any familiarity
until then
I rise in silence, darkness,
accompanied by the ghoulish wind
that winds itself in circles
around this stone-encapsulated town.

lines composed at 37,000 feet in half-sleep

skin cracking

dirt covering

knees buckling

dig

layers then layers

sandstone, limestone

rock quarries

the belly, the gut

the soul of the earth 

the hidden within

then - 

suddenly -

the space between

and we inhale.

north star

constant,
unwavering

to wrestle beneath
this guardian of the night

a guide homewards.

ruach

I do not feel afraid
The sadness has passed
I am linear
I flow
Always forward
Against my roots
Against myself
But on the wind
But for myself.

song of myself

soldier on, little lady,
with the weight of a thousand suns
soldier on
with knowledge as a lover
while curiosity continues to kill

balance, little lady,
one another amongst your swamp of a self
balance
careful not to let on
slyly tip toe across the ragged edges of the world.

photo by Thad Kopec

a ghost a ghost a ghost a ghost

a spectre
moving listlessly from town to town
stops once then twice
leaving me sliding,
grasping,
as she disappears
as soon as she appeared

a spectre
clad in dust is gold
buried in the bed of the river
enough to keep me constantly
guessing
as I fumble
as she, knee-deep, trudges on

this spectre
oblivious to mountains that provide her shadow
as much as insects that gather in the shallows
and even me
especially
me, the one timidly knocking at her door
she, the one who has no home

photo by Thad Kopec

bootleg

This is one of those posts where I very quickly tell you some things that I wouldn't normally mention on this blog because it's news. And I don't usually tell you folks news about my life because I don't believe anyone actually reads this; it's just for my own use. So technically this is bootleg information about Palmer Durham, you lucky duck.

Palmer is going to study at St. Andrew's in Scotland in the Fall so she's going to be gone for a little while.

Palmer goes to either JJ's (her favorite coffee shop), Whole Foods, or both every single day. She wonders if this is pathetic.

Palmer lives in a new house with two friends who are kind to her.

Palmer has a newfound love of gardening and tea.

Palmer is also going to the Holy Land in May.

2013 means many different countries for Palmer and she's happy about that.

Palmer is learning to love people who are way different than her.

Palmer is struggling to find a church.

Palmer reads books for class every day so she won't fall behind.

Sometimes studying all the time makes Palmer lonely.

Palmer saw Les Mis 3 times in a week.

Palmer doesn't know why this is in third person.