snake skin.

we hold this world in our hands and try to keep it from flooding out, spilling over our fingers like rain. our lives are about survival (survival of the fittest, if you must). This is how I started to view my life. Like I've left behind the snake-skin of my past self, and what is left of me is the part that was strong enough to survive. we talk about moving forward, but we forget about the footprints we leave behind.

but i miss my shell, my safety. it made me stronger in different ways, teaching me caution and creativity and honest love. now all that's left the the parts that have not been skimmed off the top, the parts that have not been burned down like wax. the parts that have been strong enough to withstand the stress and pain. and i'm not sure if i like what is left.

i want me back.

story telling.

So recently I had this idea of writing a novella of sorts, not quite a novel (wow - that would be hard) but longer than the prose and short little snippets I usually write. Now, I did not realize how big of a challenge it is to write a story. Not because of the actual writing, as I write almost every day. But because of the "let's think of a plot" thing. It is hard. People sometimes say draw upon your own experiences. But I feel like I have ruminated and contemplated my own experience to such levels that they no longer have the same poignancy, and actually end up sounding inorganic when written down, so rehearsed. I could tell a story about a little girl, like me, and what mischiefs she did - only they sound trite and boring when I write it down. Fondest memories turn into a haze of mediocrity. So then, I thought, why not write about experiences I wished I had, or was glad I didn't. But they sound over dramatic and over the top. Too much.

The only thing I know to write about (or at least write adequately about) is emotion. I could come up with a  boatload of similes and metaphors, and things to compare this feeling to the sound of thunder or the hint of rain in the air. But, you can't write a story without a plot, a climax, a lesson... and in the end, my writing ends up being about the present. I'm so wrapped up in a moment that I can't seem to string together moments, in a fluid chain of experiences that form a lasting story.

For now, I will keep brainstorming. Maybe one day something will click. Maybe this is why some great authors only write one book. They only find one story worthy enough to tell.

who am i?

- What a wonderful thought!

can never go home.

I know people say you can never go home, like once you leave, you are too old and different to fit into the cubby named "Leena, age 9" or "Leena, loves drawing" or anything really. Are the toys I left behind no longer a part of me, now that I do not play with them? Are the people no longer mine, now that I have other people in my sphere? Sometimes, yes, I feel so different from them. Like they can no longer understand me. Even my sister, who is but two years my elder, feels a little different. We have not lived in the same house for six years. That is a long time, especially during a time when we are maturing and growing and finally shedding the awkward skin of childhood. So sometimes, we all drift away in a lazy haze, softly like a feathered kiss, without even knowing why.

But the truth is, there is something inherently beautiful about family and home. The peace I felt when I returned was something lovely and sweet and languid, spreading like the warmth of a fire after being lost in a winter forest for days. It is home. It is the streets I know like the back of my hand. It is the lone dinosaur toy I played with when I was young, sitting on the shelf like it is treasured. It is the perfect silence. It is the song I want to play again and again. It is like an anthem in my mind, "You are home." It is where I know I am loved. It is beautiful.

It also made me think of this song, Open Up by Editors, which is lovely in and of itself, but also pretty much expresses everything I felt. At around time 2:30 in the song, the repeated "You are Home" is  pretty much the anthem I feel once I land in Chicago. What a beautiful place.

great migrations.

I was watching a documentary about wildlife and great migrations. How these herds or prides or flocks of animals move together in symphony, moving with the dawns of seasons. Around and around the plains and seas. Every time I watch some sort of documentary like this, I mourn the fact that I am not that free. I do not leave my home except when it is necessary. I have not seen the world and moved with the seasons, moved with nature. I am almost jealous, the closeness other species have with the natural realm. We are so isolated from nature's beauty that I cannot even imagine where these wildlife must preside. Everywhere I look, human civilization has taken over nature, leaving behind only scattered trees and preserves. It's hard to imagine that among the hundreds upon hundreds of species on earth, we are so different. We do not migrate for food or mating. We root ourselves in one place and find ourselves bound by friends or responsibilities or vocations, unable to wander the earth in search for something else.

Sometimes, I want to get in my car and drive in one direction until I reach the ocean. In between I might see the desert or the echoing shadows of looming mountains. In between, I might see more than this landlocked life I have resigned myself to. I think of this every weekend, that I should just go. go. go. go somewhere, anywhere, anywhere but here. I cannot help this feeling of being trapped in my own world, with no hints of escape.

note to self (or maybe others if you're listening)

First off, I would like to apologize for the angst driven poems of late. I'm sure you can understand why I have been this way if you only read just one. Secondly, I don't know why, but I am obsessed with parenthetical titles to my poems. If this annoys you, sorry. I think they sound quite lovely. However, I will try to stop to stop being so predictable. :)

With that in mind, thirdly, here are some short poems.



---
blackbird song (so this is goodbye)
---

i cradled your hand in mine and 

waited for the goodbye to go by and by

as the blackbird sings its little song

it trails off in the northern sky

oh how you used to feel like lightning static
like raging forest fires and mountain leaps
we were falling like fallen angels and devils
before they sat down to weep.


---
heartbroken melody (of a king and queen)
---

i thought i should write a "heartbreak" poem

but it's much to soon for me,

still see that smile and hear the way

you said together we'll forever be.

so instead i wrote this la-di-da tune of mine

that holds all these memories

of birds and bees and darkened mead

of a painted queen and her lonely king

and all the times they took a hand

to keep from falling apart

and of all the times they left behind all

but just each other's hearts.

writing.

sometimes, i read poetry and cannot help but be moved by the delicate way that these imaginers juxtapose words.

for instance, my favorite poet is pablo neruda. his poetry is beautiful in spanish (though I am by no means fluent, I have only taken a couple classes of spanish and a crash course in a spanish speaking country), the words just flow and curl around your tongue like the sweetest of flavors. But I read most of his work in english, and the translation is like a wonderful melody.

"i remembered you with my soul clenched/in that sadness of mine that you know"

How I know this feeling! With my soul clenched! I wish I had thought of that phrase to describe this gut wrenching missing, emptiness.

In truth, I love writing. But I write like I have no time and I need to get these words down now, now now. Because I don't take time pouring over which adjective would be best, and most times, I don't bother trying to rhyme because it interrupts my thoughts.

When I try too hard, and look too closely, I end up with a manufactured and stilted piece of poetry that has no soul, that sounds like a printed receipt from a machine, listing things without any love. It is rhyming, and all the lines are the same number of syllables, and well, I don't sense any feeling of what prompted me to write in the first place. How do writers go through drafts and drafts, when all I know is blurting what is in my mind, like an unsophisticated blob?

in you

in you, i see the river,
strong and slow as unquiet stones
running across the land without a
moment of rest,
blue flowers at your bank,
curling in to sip at your sweetness.
in you, i wish to bathe,
pour the water on my skin, sliding
like silk across rough patches
and scars from past loves lost
across the skies.
in you, i wish to drown my soul
letting its words whisper to those
who might lay by your river
and dream, ponder, while
looking towards the sky.
in you, i think of spring, the frost
melting from a season of barren trees
and wilted moss and wet earth.
in you, i see so much sun, tanning the
white earth brown, turning brown to green
like the loveliest shades of your eyes.

in you, i see the turn of winter chills,
and the start of sudden, molten thrills
like the sun's smiling down on us.

---

Someone once told me that the greatest writing you would ever write is a love letter. I think this is true. I could write hundreds of love letters and poems and never capture the feeling. It's elusive and warms to the core of your soul. There is something earthy and wholesome and something outworldly. Like, you say to yourself, what is this? what is this feeling?

So, inadequately, I keep writing love poems, like so many poets before me. We try again and again to capture the feeling, writing hundreds of thousands of millions of words dedicated to one feeling.

--

in the palm of my hand.

I hold my home in the palm of my hand.
Its warmth like a sun ray caressing the land.
Diffusing out, like gentle thoughts on the edge
of my mind, like family photographs sliding off the ledge.
Well, when I feel alone, without a comfort in sight,
I hold my home in the palm of my hand
and try to hold on with all my might.
I let it ground me, surround me, and confound me
with lovely illustrations of family and support.
I try to capture the flood of memories,
spilling like grains of sand through my hand.
They rush back and forth, rapids in a gentle river,
as I try to stay afloat.

---

There have been times when I thought I could be strong and stoic: all alone, but not lonely. I thought about the fact that I could cool my heart down, trap feelings under the sense of responsibility and adulthood, and leave behind the memories. I thought I was immune to these feelings of homesickness, but instead, it seems that I am just as susceptible, just as compromised. I miss my family, left behind as I moved forward to find myself again. Though it seems like we are the edges of a map, distance measured in miles upon miles, distance seeming like stretching deserts of molten sand, distance seeming like the unseen other shore of the ocean. But they are not far.

They are not far, I know, for they are in my heart.

-

Waiting on the world to change.

I just think to myself, is this worth it? I could live day by day, just worried about making myself happy. I could be selfish and do something that doesn't require responsibility or duty. I could travel the world and take jobs at cafes and little bookstores, speaking stuttering French, Greek, Italian, with soft eyes filled with wonder. Oh my, look at this world around me. I don't even watch the news anymore, I hardly have time to read current events, and I hardly know what's going on in the world.

I think about the fact that for the last 21 years of my life, I've been waiting for my life to start. It seems I keep waiting, and telling myself, soon I'll have everything I want. Except when I'm a doctor, I'll have just as many restrictions as I do now, only different kinds. The kinds that mean others' lives.

Is that all life is? Waiting for the next big moment?

john mayer: 'I keep waiting, waiting for the world to change'

Dreams like Cotton

I've been having sad, soft dreams and headaches lately. Like my head is protesting against the constant barrage of science and body. My dreams are filled with things of how i wish my life was (soft memories of days with my family and love and art and just beauty, beauty, beauty all around me. days of young child, memories of laughter and kisses and goodnight wishes.) Sometimes, my dreams are not nice packages of sweet nostalgia, but rough dreams of things spiraling out of my control. I dream of running, running, sometimes hiding, sometimes dying. Sometimes I am crazy, sometimes i am sane and all around me is crazy. Sometimes snow, sometimes clouds. Sometimes, she dies and I watch, living the moment again and again so I might save her. Sometimes, she hates me and I cry and cry and wait for some sort of redemption. Sometimes, i find that I know this cannot be real and cannot break away from it. Still now, awake and lucid, I feel the dreams at the edges of my mind, haunting me like a chilling requiem.

Still now, awake, I am hungover, imbibed with alcohol tasting vaguely of nightmares and drunken chaos. I have a headache, pounding and stuffing my head with cotton. I cannot think straight, instead I am dazed and parched. I feel water sloshing in my mind, like vodka in a drunk man's cup (it is bitter and sharp and pungent). My dreams feel like dry sandpaper, scraping the edges of my jagged consciousness, scratching, leaving behind scars and bruises.  Like cotton, I feel these dreams crowd (fill, stuff, pack, compress, compact) my mind and I feel dry, dry. Dry and wrung out and waiting for the rain to drown me again.

stars and sky and universe.

I sat with my mother on the balcony one night, and I thought I could see myself in her eyes, though hers are older than my own. I could see the stars and sky and universe in the planes of her face. She had a gentle smile, like a flower unfurling, and I smiled back. We held a steaming cup of tea and watched as the city lights slowly quieted down, curling up to go to sleep. Listening to the cars and busy soft sounds, as if it were a lullaby.

And now that I am growing infinitely older, and as the time passes, the distance between mother and daughter seems to be stars and sky and universe. But all the same, I know I'll always see myself in her eyes. Just as she is forever in mine, since the glint and sparkle and sunlit honeycombs of my eyes are all her.

if i died young.

I'm young and green.

I'm still trying to anchor my roots into the earth. I still thirst for the cool puddle of water, aching to taste something. I still reach for my ray of sunlight, so that my shadow will make an imprint on the world. I'm still eager, eager. But I had a thought today, of how it would be if I died young.

I want the day of my ceremony to be a cloudless rain, with the humid summer air covering the earth in a soft and gentle blanket. I want my people to stand outside in the rain without umbrellas, looking up at the sky, with the gentle drops of rain on their bare and naked faces. With their eyes closed, let the summer sweet rain fall, like gentle kisses from me. Remind them that this weather, this lovely beautiful warm caressing rain, is a day I would love.

I don't want anything grand or overdone. I want a love song at dawn, I want a candle on the river in the soft glow of twilight,  and my oh my, I want you to smile.

simplicity.

I believe in simplicity. Truly I do. 

On most days, I believe in the simplicity of words. Stripped and washed cleaned of any extra padding, hung out to dry in the humid sun, where the descriptive and over-fluffed words melt into the air and disappear. I believe in the strength of a single word. And the strength of a period in ending a thought. I think saying

I love you.

is more powerful than saying a million words proclaiming how much you love someone. It is sweet and tender, and whenever I see those three words followed by a simple, happy period, I am overjoyed. Other people don't understand this part of me, instead they think I'm being short or abrupt. They don't see the sweetness of a few well-placed words. I think of words like God or Peace or Awe and I know, deep in my bones, the light and the beautiful music that accompanies those words.

I think this concept, for me, is derived by the way I see nature and life and the world around me.  My heart pounds when I see a lone tree in a field, or the small creek bustling over some rocks, or a little girl drawing smileys on the sidewalk. I remember seeing photographs of these quaint, beautiful farm houses. Where a girl walked through the corn fields. Where two girls laid down on the crisp grass and pointed at constellations. I remember the images of wild horses running on the sand, while the tide of the ocean rolls in.  I want to draw these moments in, form a patchwork quilt of memories sewn into my skin.  

In truth, I am a simple person. I think I could look at a river all day, and think about how a person saw it five, ten, twenty years ago. How where I'm standing a little boy once stood, learning about fly fishing from his father (who in turn had learned it from his father). I think of the way the river carved through the earth, etching its place in this world. And most of all, the river runs simply, moving through life in a gentle cascade of motion.

physiology.

I have come to realize that physiology is all about balance and cause-and-effect. if one thing disturbs the inner peace that is your body, a mechanism, a motion, or an action is set forth to correct it. it's like a balancing act... teeter-totter, up and down, and around and around we go. everyday, we walk around without any concern for how we are living. or that with every breath we take, all the little cells in our body are dancing around frantically, moving things, holding onto precious things, letting go of the useless, ugly things in our lives.  and yet, in a moment, our body will fix itself. too much bicarb, or sodium, or potassium, or calcium or ADH or aldosterone, or any number of compounds, it's all under control. - on autopilot, cruise control. it's a well-oiled and experienced machine, with the responses already cocked and ready to fire. 


but the very essence of what makes us, well, us: our soul, our mind,our hearts, our character, our morality. whatever you want to call it. but that part of us, well, we have problems. we go through our whole lives fixing ourselves. we spend so much time patching up that broken heart, filling the empty hole in our soul, putting together the puzzle pieces of our sanity. we talk about our problems with therapists (or well meaning, but often times condescending, friends) until our throats are sore and our eyes are weary with tears. we write about the disappointments, the highs and lows. we spend energy, in volts and ounces and meters, thinking about that one moment over and over again. 


and i have come to realize that the two parts of us, physical and emotional, are two different halves of a whole. two twins that look nothing alike. on a normal day, our bodies are efficient, under control, functional. on a normal day, my mind would be lucky if it managed just one tiny moment of true functionality. 


-in general, i am just awed by our bodies, which does so much more in one day than I could ever hope to accomplish. 

a tidbit about me.

because people always say i'm quiet. as if it's a bad thing. as if i had nothing to offer, because i was too shy, too repressed, too isolated. sometimes, i need someone to see the me i see. see that i am just a girl who looks at the world sometimes through starry eyes and at others, through weathered and experienced eyes. 


sometimes, i need people to understand that though i am quiet, i have things to say. i have thoughts, such beautiful thoughts, and perhaps, that is why i am quiet. i am lost in the comforting sea of my own colors, visions, and recollections. 


it is a good place to be.

tonight. the sky.

i went outside on my balcony. it was chilly and foggy and the lights of the buildings around me burned in a soft glow. i felt less alone, because with every light, there must be a soul, living, breathing. And, maybe some of these lights that shine at night has an owner thinking about life, and maybe, just maybe, feeling the same way i do.