vanilla raindrops

email: noreia@planet-save.com.

This is my blogchalk:
United States, California, sometimes Steiermark, Austria, something bored teenagers say when they speak useless words into brick walls of cotton candy, English, German, Noreia,creative writing, fiction, reading, college student, strange, cat power, mogwai, arap strap, dresden dolls, white oleander, the earth, my butt, and other big, round things, welcome to the dollhouse, fuckers.

body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by BodyPUNKS!

 

This is so insanely ironic. I'm back here, at this old blog, now that I don't know what to think. Again. When I had it all "figured out," I couldn't write. How can I explain everything? I just want to tell this computer screen the simple truth, about me and this love and this sadness and God and everyone I know, everyone and their convinces their truthings.

So we're trying. We're trying. I was God's for three months, you guys. Two and a half years ago, I started turning away from him. Before that, he was my best friend and all I needed and I was happy and at peace. Then I turned away from God over a boy. I was seventeen -- how young that sounds. And I knew how stupid it was, and sounded, at the time. "I let a guy lead me astray."

Janet Fitch, the author of White Oleander, says this:

Okay, shoot, I gave the book away. Never mind.

(That's not what she says. But she does say something, I promise.)

So last November, God came and changed everything. You won't understand because you don't know what everything is, was, is. You don't know the beautiful bittersweet terrible lovely mono no aware of everything. But he did, and he came, and he was there and big and Plankeye and Switchfoot and crying shaking rocking, but I got over it. I clung to him because I thought I had thyroid cancer again. I clung to him because I was so tired of not having him. I clung and I surrendered and I trusted. The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life.

And I couldn't blog, I couldn't write. I wanted to tell the whole story, from 2001. I wanted you to know, these pants before, loose and torn, the gold-beige-brown leaves of fall winter spring, the night sky of stars and phyics books and black tea and Lifehouse and beautiful, beautiful sadness. And him. And her. And Him.

***

Yesterday I went to Darke. I wandered around the city picking up flowers that looked like roses but weren't. I walked because I couldn't stay at home without exploding fireworks brain hurricanes tears. Walking past Ian's old house, a grey SUV -- no, it doesn't deserve that, a gray SUV parked in the driveway and I was sad and I thought, I'll never go in there again.

Darke. "Underneath the bridge, top has sprung a leak." Ha, because I want to laugh, becuase it had. There really was a leak. Ha.

So I sat in the middle of the underneath the Darke bridge and it was so peaceful, the water and no people, and this just feels like spinning plates. I sat and stared and tried to be one with it, the air, the greyness and wetness drip drip drip plants in the water cold, damp concrete stone dirt, flowers I'd gathered to rescue to save in front of me they still had roots -- do I?

I sat there and tried not to think about love this love. This love will carry me. But not that love, I was thinking of this love that is dangerous and half of me or more, tearing up inside of me won't ever go away. My heart is like clasped hands, try to pull them apart, try. And one is hers.

Sitting there in Darke, started singing "Jeremiah was a bullfrog, he was a good friend of mine . . ." A black kid in a white jersey and baggy, bleach-spotted pants and blue and white shoes waddled past me, pants sagging. I actually laughed quietly to myself as he climbed across the rocks over the water and up the other side of the embankment, over the bridge, with ease. Started again, "Jeremiah was a bullfrog . . ." I was okay until I got to "and make sweet love to you" and then I felt the heaviness dark hollow eyes tears tears tears. Rocking rocking and singing, and then talking to myself, whispering talking, "You're okay, you're going to be okay, it's going to be okay. We're going to be okay."

And thinking, I'm so insane, I need to call someone. Dialed Ian's number even though I'd just called him yesterday.

"Hey, what's up?"

Are you busy?

"No, actually cigarette break, what's wrong?"

Ian, I'm not doing too well . . . Try to breathe keep breathing. Keep looking around, look at the bridge cement wall plants air. Look at the air, look.

"What's wrong?"

I miss her.

Talked to him for an hour or so, walking back and forth under the bridge, trying not to step on my slug buddy. Shaking and laughing and crying, making plans to go see him in New York for a month. People walking jogging by, uniforms, sweats. Sang him Jeremiah the bullfrog.

And when I stopped walking and looked at the ground, it was moving toward me.

And when I stopped walking and looked at the far wall, the ceiling, it was moving away from me.

And I hadn't eaten much in three days. And I'd had fevers and chills, so I thought something was really wrong but I liked it, the moving things, moving surroundings. Ian laughed and told me to eat waffles.

***

And last night we brought it all back. Are we still okay? I don't know, is it okay to be human? Dear Jesus, I wish I had some cream cheese, I wish someone would put on tea water. Dear Jesus, this is what I want. "No no, this is not what I want." That was ours too, we laughed at that. Dear Jesus, let this be perfect now.

Breathing your breath.

Dear Jesus, please don't let me ruin this beautiful person.

I am the most pathetic of men. Even more than the Apostle Paul. And hey, that's funny, because I'm not a man. Wow. We're freaking out here.

Nem Nem Nem. I love you. I read your words that I hadn't read all this time, and I should have, and I love you.

Posted by: noreia at 08:02 | link | comments |