Fairy Tales

My father used to tell me fairy tales. He would tell me Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty from memory always with his own funny additions, like how Cinderella had bunions and when the prince woke Sleeping Beauty up, she had to wait to kiss him because she had to pee so bad.
After dinner, at a restaurant or at home, I would climb into his lap and bury my head in his shoulder and pretend to sleep. All the while, feeling his chest rumble as he talked to my sister about her newest track record, or my brother about his newest suspension.
He would quiz me on my multiplication tables as we drove down Leland Road on my way to school, teaching me silly tricks to remember the hard ones, like seven.
But then I guess, I got a calculator.
And I got a new life.
All the sudden his little girl as grown into this thing.
This thing with ambition, and dreams, and desires, and God forbid breasts.
And I can feel his eyes watching me as I stretch out on the couch, in sweatpants and a wifebeater. I can feel his heart palpitations as he takes in the sliver of skin between my shirt and the top of my pants, the dyed hair, the black eyeliner, the fingers flying across phone buttons. And I know he asks himself "Where has she gone?"
I can't be daddy's little girl.
I can't keep the promises I made when I was seven and didn't know what on earth I was saying.
I can't say I won't lie,
or roll my eyes,
or kiss boys,
or get my ears pierced.
He has to let me go.
There is an image in my father's head of what I should be. The image is of a girl with long straight hair, a button down white shirt, simple makeup and khaki shorts. The girl gets straight A's, dates people her own age, comes home at nine on the weekends, and does the dishes.
The reality in front of him is a young woman with a crazy scarf, skinny jeans, piercings, an older boyfriend with a car. She's away from home as much as possible and all she wants to do is dance and make music.
She's a hippie by his standards, and he resents her life.
My father resents what I've chosen to make of myself.
I'm not my sister, and I'm certainly not him,
and worst of all, I have no desire to be either one.
He asked me last night if I would still climb in his lap after dinner.
I looked him in the eye and I said,
"I'm sorry John, I can't."

Cedar Box

It's all in there.
My heart is in that box.
The blanket that swaddled me when i was barely even thought of,
the key to the place I used to call home,
the rose petal from the bouquet I got the first time I ever danced for an audience.
Photographs.
These are the things in the box that I can take out and smell and feel and look at,
and I can smile.
But it's a generous box.
There are letters in the box.
Words of passion and guidance and assurance of the ever fixed marked that is love.
If only it were ever fixed.
The letters are merely the whispers of the conversations that were once had.
Now they're just tear stained paper.
Dry, brittle.
And they lie next to a necklace.
One that was ripped off a neck in a rage of bloody agony and thrown into my hands with a cry of "Take it! I can't look at it! I can't look at love anymore!"
And I did, I took it,
and now I have to look at love everyday as a reminder of what a precious gift it is, and how lethal.
And next to the necklace is a blade. A blade with a crusted edge.
A blade that sliced and diced and ripped it's way through my skin and my soul and my family and my love and my very existence.
And the blade scratches the necklace that rings around the letters that bleed their lying words onto the photographs, tainting their innocence with deceit and remorse.
And the pictures drip their woes onto the blanket,
scarring my very origination.
Fermenting my very conception with dread.
And it's all in the cedar box.
And I can't open the lid.

hmmmm....

I found myself running into this question today.
What makes someone an individual?

Today, as I stood in my closet in a wifebeater and boyshorts, deciding what to wear, it wasn't as if I thought to myself,
"How can I stand out from everyone around me today?"
No. I just picked out what visually pleased me.
Today that happened to be as follows:
-a scoop neck three quarter sleeve black sweater dress that hits just above the knee
-purple tights
-hot pink knees socks
-black high heeled suede boots
-a collection of silver bangles
-a skinny teal scarf
-black ray bans
-and a silver necklace

To add to the assortment, my hair had been recently died to an almost obnoxiously dark shade of chesnut, and my skin has never been paler, so in some ways I guess I leaned toward contrast.

But in choosing this ensemble, I wasn't trying to make a statement, I was just being myself.
So, if this outfit was a reflection of myself, am I a statement?

And what necessarily makes a statement?
Is it bright colors, or loud jewelry? Or bold make up? Or a pretty purse?

Today as I walked through Green Hills, I attracted many looks and received several compliments about my "bold style".

So, for the majority of the day, I was pleased with the thought that I processed "bold style".
That was until I went to my grandfather's birthday party.

I walked into the dining room of Richland Country Club to my waiting family, only to see my sister wearing a practically indentical outfit.

The colors were different, and she lacked the tights and socks, but the resemblance was remarkable. Even her layered red hair was pulled back in the same way as mine.

But my sister didn't look bold. She didn't look edgy. She just looked like a cute girl in a sweaterdress.

So why should people tell me I'm bold, and that my sister is cute?
I came to this conclusion.
It's not the clothes that make the statement, it's how the person in the clothes wears them.
If you compare my sister's personality and mine, they couldn't be more different.
My sister likes to plan everything out, I'm spontaneous. My sister pays attention to detail, and I blow through things. She likes quiet, I have to have music. She loves to socialize, I would rather sit and write.

By wearing practically the same outfit, and having completely different reactions from
outsiders, my sister and I are a small example of a much bigger picture. Individuality is not created, it is innately possessed.
Whether I am bold, or an individual, i couldn't really give a damn.
I just want to wear my hot pink knee socks.

The month of October

Do you remember the month of October
the way the air hung
to thick to cut with a knife
And are you suspended
like a puppet on strings
with nothing good to do with your life.
Are you wary of the month of October
because when the cold comes you have to remember
the picture you painted with your brushstrokes so high
so high so high.
My fears have rooted much deeper
they once were in sand
now they're down in spit wet cement
I wish i could come clean
but there are some things
that your heart wont let you forget.
Are you wary of the month of October
because when the cold comes you have to remember
the picture you painted with your brushstrokes so high
so high so high.
I remember
oh I remember
I remember it well.
Do you remember
do you remember,
remember the way that you fell.
I remember the way that you fell.
And I'm wary of the month of October
because when the cold comes I have to remember
the picture I painted with my brushstrokes so high
so high so high.

Warfare in the time of cavemen

Caves are dark scary places filled with shadows, with nothing to give when we are brilliant and inspired. Surrounded by the cold wet moisture our tears fester, we dwell in a constant state of remorse and resentment, remembering, always remembering what was and what should have been. Haunted by memories, we draw deeper and deeper into the confines of our solitude and darkness, and our sight becomes blocked. The memory of the past becomes such a constant fixture in our mind’s eye, that the past becomes our reality. And just like an invalid, when we are no longer exposed to the light and the goodness of what is outside our little pitiful existence, our skin grows pale and translucent, so clear and removed of color, that our very heart shines through, beating the irrefutable beat of denial. We deny the fact that we are holding ourselves down. That by living in the past, we are condemning ourselves to a life of woe and regret. In no way is this healthy. The past can not be reversed, and it is a waste of our precious time to reflect on how we wish it could be. What good does it do us to lay in bed in the dark, thinking of how our hearts have been ripped apart so many times that the fragments are unrecognizable, the parts no longer able to be put back together. Our warm beds, our caves aren’t protecting us, they’re hindering us, stopping us from living the life that we were meant to live. We were not placed on the earth to spend our time hiding. Life is not about hiding. Life is about learning and loving, and loving so hard that we can’t remember why we began to love at all. If we sit on our asses in the dark, resenting and scorning our love, we are wasting our lives. Love is meant to be shared, life is meant to be shared. Get out of the cave, get out of it, stop hurting, keep loving, grow, and see the light. Don’t waste your life.