Older

I feel different -
Older

I rest my spine against the red clay
And thrust my hips to the sky.

I sweat those unsweet memories
In salty, unfiltered beads
And they explode, pensively
Causing volcanoes
And growing molten flowers within the dunes
Glorious in this Crimson yearning

I let go of nineteen,
Naivety,
And whiskey-sours

I smoke weed to sleep soundly
And listen to Labrador snores
In place of crickets.

I realize that pain is beautiful
And meaningful
And
-painful.

Three Little Words

My Mother never said I love you until the day she thought she might die. She was lying in the gurney crying. Not sobbing but just enough that I could see her holding back, trying to articulate things she hadn't said all these years in just a few tears. I had seen these tears before. First, the day our German Shorthaired Pointer died. Then, at my Grandfathers funeral. Maybe I was going to die. They were rolling her out of the room and she muttered "I love you." That was it.

I just read this article, and it was one of those moments of clarity, because what I was reading was what I have been feeling for quite some time now.

The basis of this article is that the majority of the world is going through the motions, perhaps without actually enjoying what they are doing in their daily lives. You're career path, social group, romantic partner-- perhaps it's all "fine," but does it "make your cells dance?" ( I loved that line from the article itself.)

It all makes me question: if I died today, would I feel fulfilled with my life and what I had accomplished?

You see people who are suffering from life threatening illnesses, such as Brittany Maynard, who find out about their disease and if they have 6 months to live, and they drop everything. They realize what truly makes them happy, and the dreams they want to fulfill-- and they do it.

They go out into the universe and Belly Dance, or visit the Taj Mahal, or finally go meet Mickey Mouse at the Disney Castle. They use their fine china and crystal wine glasses, kiss their lovers, hug their children, and live.

But don't we have that choice now? Why do we put these bars around ourselves that constrict our every day happiness? Is it in the name of practicality? So we can properly save money for that one day when we will need it?

For me, since I have graduated college, I have assigned a ball and chain to myself called Student Loans, which has become a daily stress upon my life; an obsession of sorts.

My good friend Sallie Mae left me with 65k of student loan debt for 5 years of college at a state college, in which I earned two degrees: A BA in English and a BS in Elementary Education. I graduated at the top of my class in both majors, but the market for teaching wasn't as booming as we were taught to believe. All the "Baby Boomers" were staying in their jobs, because the economy was down, and they needed more time.

So I landed a job in Technology Sales-- and I can't complain, because half of my friends didn't land a job at all, and even for being a completely different career path than I was prepared for, the company itself treated it's employees with fantastic benefits, and it was a young, fun environment, where I could actually enjoy a Cube-Job.

In my first year and a half I was able to obsessively save my pennies and limit my personal spending to the point where I had paid off almost 30k of the loans by setting a $1500 payment each month, and applying my Tax Refund to the loans as well. I started with the loans with the highest interest rate of around 6% down to the lowest rate of 2% to reduce any additional payment as much as possible.

I have now been at the same company for 3.5 years and am down to 14k in loans. I'm not ashamed to say that I drive a used, beat up 2000 Honda civic, shop thrift shops and sales for my wardrobe, and save wherever I can with my goal in mind to fully pay off my loans by the age of 28. ( I turn 27 this coming January)

I know this goal is completely do-able if I keep consistent with my plan-- it's practical.

The only issue is that after 3.5 years at a an office job where I only feel about half-fulfilled, I have begun waking up less-than-enthusiastic about what my life has become. Sure-- I do a lot of other fun things in my life. I go out with my friends, I play with my puppy and cat, I play guitar and write music, I write.

These are all fulfilling things, but somehow I feel as if something is missing. For years I have had this uncontrollable urge to travel the world and all of my life, I have felt an intense connection to nature. I started doing some research about working in nature, working on farms, living off the land and living sustainably, and wound up finding an organization that I could absolutely connect to: WWOOF. (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farming.)

The thing that is particularly cool about this organization is that it is World-Wide. You can choose almost any country you are interested in living in, and you can almost certainly find a farm in need of help. During this process, you reach out to the farm, schedule your trip and then work on the farm depending on their needs during the duration of your stay, in trade of room and board (usually including meals/ general needs). Every farm and situation is different, so it is important to do your research and find a farm that fits your needs.

I found one in particular in Italy called Podere Amarti that drew my attention as it is not only a farm in the middle of the Italian countryside, but the farm is Vegetarian and is also a Meditation Center including Drum Circle and Trance music-- all things that are already a large part of my life. I have reached out to the farm and have plans to one day visit.

But I feel as if I cannot fulfill my dreams until my loans are completely paid. I feel that it wouldn't be responsible.

I was talking to a few of my peers at work about this personal dilemma, and they came up with a simple solution: Start a Go-Fund me page.

Easy enough to create, simple enough story to share, but would people contribute to my own personal dreams? Something about it feels selfish to me.

I've never felt comfortable asking anyone for anything. I enjoy working hard and reaping the benefits of the work. I also know that if I continue to work hard, I can achieve this goal of paying off my loans completely on my own. The problem is, (and the cliché too...) "I'm not getting any younger."

Locked Out

The rain reminds me of you
Maybe that night
The mist gathering on our skin
The beer balancing on our tongues
Spoke to me in diatribes
Told me our future in ready lies
Sang siren songs in rain filled seas
Oceans upon Oceans
You and me

It's too easy to imagine
your eyes are too deep to unwind
and I know you without knowing you
feel you without my senses
insanity in melody
unable to drop you
a smooth coin in a fountain of hope

Labor Day

Norah's white dress was lace but the grass stains on her naked knees were lime green. It was Labor Day in New Haven, and Norah tied her hair into a side braid as she walked down to The Noodle House. It was a bad day, but the coconut curry noodle soup was always good.

Norah's sunglasses reminded her of every state trooper she'd ever seen and rested softly upon the slight notch on the slope of her nose. She thought it was convenient, though the bump still emanated a dull aching pain from the accident one month earlier.

She wondered how many other mildly-pretty women had been kneed in the face on a multi-rider-waterpark-ride. She remembered the blood streaming out of her nose and into the wading pool; her hands cupped under her face, catching the crimson liquid, and then the ice bag pressed against her face as she waited in line for the next ride. One knee to the face was not going to ruin her entire day.

"Fuck you! You're an asshole's dick, and I never loved you anyway!" She remembered screaming those final words at David before slamming the door behind her and tripping down the porch stairs to the sidewalk. She wondered if David got hit by a car today, running down the street, trying to win her back-- if she was okay with those final words. But she also knew that potentially, no one but David may have heard them, which would grant her years of pity and sympathy for losing the one she "loved."

Honesty for Robberies

I imagined you walking in

The shadows on your silly grin 

Your words resonating hot with sin

There was oil in my blood

Or maybe something slicker 

Tried to thin you off my mind

But you're only getting thicker

I hardly even know you

But I feel you like the sun

I could stay right here forever

But I really have to run

It's that humanistic fever

Denial of the truth 

When your turn off the receiver 

And try to seem aloof

Honesty for robberies

There's passion in the pain

Your eyes avoid my contact

But I feel it just the Same

She Gave.

Laila’s eyes widened as she pulled the skin on her face up and back, forming a temporary face-lift. She moved close to the mirror examining her pores, too large, her eyebrows, un-groomed, and the wrinkles that were slowly fading into her life one by one.

She watched the water pool in her small hands and splashed it onto her face, letting the cool droplets fall back into the sink. There were turquoise toothpaste stains speckling the basin, surrounded by stray brown hairs that had confettied out of her head each time she had brushed her hair.

Amy was supposed to come over for wine later that day, so Laila opened up the cabinet and grabbed a wipe from the Clorox container and wiped down the sink. She used her fingernail to scrape the stubborn toothpaste that seemed to become more of a design than a mess, even though she knew that Amy was likely to flake out on their rain-date.

She looked at her phone. It was 7:10 am on Laila’s 26th birthday, and as she shuffled out of the bathroom, and down the hall, collecting her purse, scarf, jacket, a banana and a salad she had prepared last night, she thought about how she didn’t want to go to work.

She felt like everyone else in the world. At least like everyone else in the world that she knew. Maybe there were those fortunate few who had perfect lives with jobs they loved, and every day, they woke out of bed with a big, ugly, smile on their face, ready to take on the day. Laila swore, that if she was ever to wake up next to one of those freakish fucks, she would absolutely murder them with the closest bedside object. Another reason to add to the list of why one-night-stands are potentially a bad idea.

The thought of her double monitors nauseated her. The black bezel framing her entire world in neat, ongoing, excel tables and red and black PowerPoint presentations about profit growth and territory planning. She was tired of her three-thousand-dollar rolling swivel chair, and how it made her ass increasingly more flat each time she sat in it. She thought about the sound a keyboard made and multiplied it by fifty-five—the number of keyboards she estimated to be able to hear in any given moment. They were all drones. She was a drone. A part of the while-walled, cube-separated, double-monitored, Dunkin-Donut munching, elitist group of corporate America.

But, once she arrived that day, after the usual forty-five minute commute and typical talk-radio drama, Laila settled into her cube, crossed off Monday, and decided that her desk calendar gave her hope. Today, it was her birthday. She was officially in her “Mid-to-Late-Twenties,” which was semi-traumatic to any woman (or at least it was supposed to be). However, today, Laila was sure her mother would call her--at the very least to wish her a Happy Birthday. It wouldn’t be a long conversation about how she was doing, or what she was wearing, or where she would be going out to eat later, or even the weather, but she thought, a “Happy Birthday” wish would be just enough.