QwertyGirl's blog

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I’ve never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don’t want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it’s full of cursive letters & swirly “y”s & on black days it’s blocky & full & caffeinated.

The rest of the story can be found here: http://youngwritersproject.org/node/47155
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Once upon a time I had a sister. I don't have her anymore. She didn't become gone from getting sick or getting in a car accident, she became gone from being an artist. See, artists are different from the rest of everyone because artists feel everything. Artists feel everything & they're only artists because they need art so that everything doesn't build up & they don't explode. If they stop making art, it's like closing the lid on a soda bottle & shaking it furiously. They explode. My sister didn't learn she was an artist until it was too late. She couldn't get enough art out & by the time she turned 16 she exploded inside. On the outside it was nothing more then a quick drop with a sudden stop. Everyone said it had "accident" written all over it, & maybe it was because I was 12 & generally pretty oblivious, but I didn't see "accident" written anywhere.

"I like it when we talk."
"I like it when we talk too."
"So, talk."
& we talked.
We talked about everything.
We talked about my ex-boyfriend
& my ex-flings
(because I had never really had a boyfriend before him)
& even though he didn't mean to
he hurt me & I still can't figure out
how to deal with the fact that I feel like
I left him &
I was such a bitch &
you're just sitting there &
you're telling me that everything is okay
because it's not my fault &
he was hurting me, I didn't have a choice.

So, I’m not an eco-freak, but I definitely try to be conscious of my impact on the environment & also my impact on myself. I use all natural shampoo & I try my best to use products that do not involve harsh chemicals or animal testing.

But today I’m thinking about The Story Of Stuff, & so I went on & I watched The Story Of Cosmetics. This freaks me out a little. Just a little. I mean, my shampoo is from Burt’s Bees. As are most of my cosmetics. Because, they’re a pretty eco-conscious company, right? They wouldn’t hurt me, would they?
Heh.
Trust no one, people.

We sat in your kitchen & we talked.
“Remember when we used to be best friends?”, I asked.
“Yes”, you said.
“We were a good match”, I said. I believed it, too. I believe that we were the best friends each other could have.
We needed each other.
“Yeah, we were”, you said.
“Why are you doing all this to yourself?”, I asked.
“Doing what?”, you asked.
“You’re smoking, John. You’re smoking & you’re drinking & I know you’re doing other stuff too. Why’re you doing it?”, I asked.
You shrug your shoulders.

Warning: I drop the f-bomb (I forget, am I supposed to warn?)
___________________________________________

(Don’t forget me.)

Today I was reading “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close” & anyone who has read it will know what I’m talking about when I talk about the chapter in which the grandmother talks about her son, who died in the twin towers on September 11, 2001.
Bodies falling.
Buildings falling.
Bodies falling.
I’m reading this on the plane today & I’m flying over ground zero & I can’t help but cry & so I’m sitting there in my plane seat & I’m reading & the tears are making my eyes blurry & before I know it I’m shaking & my hands are shaking. The pages are shaking & my eyes are blurry & I can’t read anymore so I set the book down & I try to compose myself but I can’t because
What about all those people that died?
&
What about the fathers & the mothers &
I don’t usually cry about this. It’s not something I’ve ever cried about. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t even know anyone who knew anyone. I was in the middle of Colorado & I didn’t even know what was going on. I saw it on the news & I saw the towers go down & I knew that something bad had happened but I wouldn’t really understand for years to come. I cried about Columbine. I was younger at Columbine. Columbine was down the street, I knew people. I hate tragedy & I hate terrorism &
Fuck, why can’t we all get along.
We’re not that different, anyway.

Det-ach-ed.

Childhood happened in
this city &
on these lawns.
This park &
thislake &
this bakery.
Childhood happened in
taxi cabs &
science museums.
Art shops &
book stores.
The library.
Childhood happened in
the dry heat.
100 degrees in the
summer. Not a touch of
humidity. Childhood happened in
the dry snow.
Snow that's more
air than water.

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I’ve never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don’t want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it’s full of cursive letters & swirly “y”s & on black days it’s blocky & full & caffeinated.

I've been in France the past two weeks. I spent the first in Paris, the second touring Provence, & now we're taking our final days in Nice.

Paris is a city. It's a beautiful city, but a city nonetheless. Our apartment was in the "high rent distract". On loan to us from some family's friends (not to be mistaken with "family friends"). It was on a street with lots of bakeries & restaurants. We had a gated courtyard. You needed a pass code to get in. If you walked down the street, you were on the Champs-Elysses. To the right was the Eiffel Tower.

Terribly sorry it's been so long. I've been in France. Paris, Provence, & now Nice. I'll write about that soon, too.

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I’ve never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don’t want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it’s full of cursive letters & swirly “y”s & on black days it’s blocky & full & caffeinated.

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I’ve never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don’t want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it’s full of cursive letters & swirly “y”s & on black days it’s blocky & full & caffeinated.

Sorry I've been re-posting the older parts of the story every time I add a new section... But I don't want anyone to miss any of it.
Also- note- I have spent more time on this piece than I ever have on any other piece.
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http://youngwritersproject.org/node/46227
(Podcast for first section)

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I've never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don't want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it's full of cursive letters & swirly "y"s & on black days it's blocky & full & caffeinated.

(Anaïs, I don't really know, podcasts, some sort of short story, We'll see., where am I going with this?)

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I've never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don't want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it's full of cursive letters & swirly "y"s & on black days it's blocky & full & caffeinated.

A character excercise.
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I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I've never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don't want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it's full of cursive letters & swirly "y"s & on black days it's blocky & full & caffeinated.

W,
I sit down at my desk (my little white desk, in the corner of my room), to write you a letter that sounds more like a poem than an angst-ridden & tear stained love letter. I love you (I love you. These things always sound better when said twice). I would call you "darling" on paper, but I really only call you that in my mind. I call you lots of things in my mind. I call you "Love" & "Darling" & "my boyfriend". One time I read something that said to avoid calling people those things. So I do.
Sometimes I miss you so much it hurts & I have some secrets:
i. I cry myself to sleep pretty consistently, almost every night.
ii. I never stop missing you.
iii. Loving you has forced me to stop hating myself so much.
iv. I still hate myself sometimes.
v. Sometimes I worry that you'll wake up & forget why you love me.

1. Shit, Claire, you're in labor
2. A fall down the stairs (broken bones heal)
3. Getting out of the urban sprawl (welcome to suburbia)
4. A friend, a semi, & some black ice
5. Friends move, friends die, you make new ones.
6. A fight (friends move, friends die, you make new ones, part ii)
7. "So how do you like the greenery?
"I hate the color green"
8. Razor blades & red wine.
9. I was never one for organized religion (God slips away. Along with my sanity & ability to sleep)
10. A worried phone call
11. Courting in the new century (Facebook)
12. A kiss on the train platform

Dearest,
We've never met. I don't know you & you don't know me. I saw you crying outside a diner. If the general population is correct, we are 6 degrees apart. If this were a letter I were actually going to send & if this were a letter you were actually going to read then I would ask you what their name was. Who were you crying about? I don't specify gender because, well, you never really know. What did they do to you? Did they break your heart? You cry like someone with a broken heart (I would know). Broken hearted cries are always dripping with longing & shrouded in mystery. Questions. What is? & Who? & Why is? Broken hearted cries are the hardest to interpret. I remember broken hearted cries, muffled in pillows, sprinkled with sand. Left over from a summer romance that didn't turn out so perfect in the end. I remember broken hearted cries into the phone. Over because I said so (I don't think I'd ever broken anyone's heart before then). I remember broken hearted cries left over from the gay boy who would never love me back. I can't tell you everything is going to be okay (no one can) & I can't tell you that they'll realize they were wrong & come running back to you (they probably won't). But I can ask you, beg you, not to let these moments define you. As much as you once believed it, they are not your world. Shit happens & we all learn to deal with it (except, of course, for those who don't). Be that screaming or razor blades or track marks or caution tape, we all learn how to deal.
Love,
A Stranger.

"You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never going home."
...
Sometimes I'll stick my ear buds in my ears & I'll turn the volume up & I'll hold them there until the music drowns out my thoughts & then I let myself smile a little because I wasn't hurting before (I just needed to get away) but I need my music (I need your music) because what else is there to keep me sane & what else is there that makes any sense?
"Music's the only thing that makes sense anymore, man. Play it loud enough, it'll keep the demons at bay."
& I believe that. I believe that because I don't have anything else to believe in & I like the idea of music more than the idea of a god because
I don't think I like the idea that I have no control over where my life is going.
I'm technically "agnostic" but if I pray for anything I pray that there is no god because if there was a god
how could he let people be dying?
&
How could he do this to them?
I pray there isn't a god because the concept of one scares me.

Every morning I wake up to one of the 3,000 some odd songs on my iPod & then usually, if I know the song well enough, that song is stuck in my head for the remainder of the day. This morning I woke up to Death Valley Queen. So, naturally, it’s been running through my head all day. Not the parts about whores or billy goats or anything though, just the chorus. Or, maybe it’s not really the chorus. It’s not really a chorus. The song doesn’t really have a chorus. But, well, it’s what I think of as the chorus.
“And I, have always loved you.
Yeah I,
yeah I,
I have always LOVED YOU.”

"An m'master, he whip me until the blood start to run. An'then he took me into the kitchen an'he rub salt an'red pepper in th' wounds. An, I never not do m'work again."
We did this to people. I look at my skin (paper white) my family did this to people. The Rutenbecks, the Divines, the Letourneaus, the Sullivans.

People for money.
Work for blood.
Blood for cotton & tobacco.

"Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home..."

We sing their songs now. Light hearted, often filled with laughter. They've lost their meaning for some.

Today I remembered why a few months ago I promised myself I’d make my arms stronger (I couldn’t even lift my parents’ dresser).

I’m watching the snow fall from the sky onto the green grass & the even greener trees. It’s May. May snowfall.

My floors are a pale bamboo now. My bed is covered in multi-colored flowers & trees & my walls are littered with prayer flags. A calender hangs from the wall next to my desk. It’s in French.

i. If there's anything I've learned about writing, it's that, you write your thoughts down when they come to you. Always have a pen (something to write with is optional. I always new my skin was paper-white for a reason). No matter how beautiful the thought is, you'll forget it if you wait.

ii. Every worried phone call I've made has only solidified my relationship with the recipient.

iii. History class--
head -> desk.
Out like a light.
Rain coming in through
the window
getting the floor
wet.
Rain coming in through
the window
distractions
distractions...

An April snowfall.
Tea cups,
blow dryers,
orange tee-shirts.
Missing springtime already.

Yesterday afternoon
I sat in the grass
while my mother & sister planted a peony garden
along the curb of our driveway.
I had to
wear sunscreen.
(I got burnt anyway. Y'all know me. Pale as pale can be.)
I do hope the peonies don't die.

I planted Susan the tomato on
Tuesday
(Wednesday?)
she is living on the windowsill in my kitchen &
I hope she doesn't die.

I made cookies today.

Hey, guys. Click the link. Add your name.
It's important.
_________________________________

Hi,

Have you heard that right-wing groups like Focus on the Family and the American Family Association are insisting that gays and lesbians should be disqualified from serving on the Supreme Court?

It's outrageous. With a Supreme Court vacancy opening up after the retirement of Justice John Paul Stevens, I just signed a letter to President Obama insisting that sexual orientation should NOT be a factor in selecting his Supreme Court nominee.

Swore off love addled poetry in grade eight when my words were dripping with angst & I didn't really know what love was.

Sometimes I wonder what love really is & I wonder if I really know what it is & I think I do because sometimes I'm so sure of it I'd bet my life on it but other times...
Love isn't anything permanent. I've learned as much from my extended family.

Once upon a time Little girl wondered why the
sky was blue & the grass was green.
Daddy told her that was
just the way things were &
she need not worry about it or spend her time on
thinking about such trivial things.
The sky is the sky &
the grass is the grass.
The colors don't matter & thinking about them was a waste of time.
Little Girl didn't believe him.
She thought about them anyway.
She thought about how maybe
God made the sky blue to
make the people happy, because,
blue was a very nice color.
She thought about how maybe God made the

My parents have never been the sentimental type. I've heard the story of how they met once or twice, from my aunt. Never from them. I've never heard my mom talk about their wedding, I've never heard my father talk about the proposal. The only thing my mother ever said about it was that my father didn't dance with her. Not even at their wedding.

So, as many of you know the Champlain College Young Writers' Conference is coming up (you should all apply! Submissions are due by April 10 http://www.champlain.edu/Young-Writers-Conference/Application-and-Fees.html)
I have the problem that I cannot decide which piece to submit.
Anyone care to help me decide?
I've narrowed it down to three...
http://youngwritersproject.org/node/37791 (Fire Places-- Poetry)
http://youngwritersproject.org/node/36568 (Medication-- Poetry)

Rain is falling & all I can think of is how much I have to do & how much I have to say & how come? & why is? & who said?--
Who said high school had to be like this?
Once upon a time school was about going & learning & being with friends & understanding & now...
Now...
Now it's just... sitting & listening to teachers I couldn't care less about & geometry. Oh how I hate geometry.
I want more creative writing classes!
I need poetry & prose let into my schedule somewhere because somehow the musings I scribble in the margins of my biology binder are never very pretty.