Semantic Symphony

Someday I hope to write a
semantic symphony
for you and I
whoever you are.

I hope you read it and cry
from it's beauty

I hope you read it
and appreciate
the tears poured into it,
emotion evoked in it,
and the inspiration
splashed on every cream colored page

I hope you're okay if it's not
dedicated to you,
or if there is not a poem about you

I hope it's okay if I write about myself
It's the only thing I know how to do.

I hope you love the word semantic
and the meaning you give the meaning

You see I use a lot of repetition
because it's easy and cool,
but really,

I wish that I was Andrea, telling trees
that new leaves will come around in the spring
and that icicles can be kept in your freezer for gifts

Someday I hope to write a
semantic symphony
for you I.
Whoever you are.

I can't seem to write anything today without regretting it. I've started 5 posts today, and even published a post and erased it. I'm not feeling safe and secure in anything that is happening right now. I'm playing small in my life, and that scares me.

Let's Chat.

Music has always had some magical power over me.
It has a way of roping my emotions into an air tight jar
and shaking so quickly my tears jump when they fall,
and my words constantly turn into lyrics.

You said that music could be my hero,
could be a link
for everything that I wanted possible

Well, you spoke truth.

It's the reason why we had the following conversation.

You asked me about
Ingrid Michaelson-You and I
I said, I sing this song with so much damn heart
that I can't wait till I sit on the beach in the
south of France
and joke that you and I could do anything better
then sit on the fucking beach in France counting
the pebbles to a million.

Then there are the songs so beautiful that
just a quick listen makes you somber.

Here are a sampling of my favorites

Glen Hansard- Leave
Mumford and Sons- Timshel
Bon Iver- Skinny Love
The Head and The Heart- Down in the Valley
James Taylor-Fire and Rain

Then you ask me if I speak Spanish.
Of course I reply back ashamed
of my gift of tongues.
But then I laugh.
I do speak Spanish.
Every time I listen to Spanish music it comes back.
I find myself having conversations with verb conjugations
long forgotten and never used.

Then you ask me about my harder tunes.
I proudly whisper that I listen to Rage.
I got three CDs for my birthday from the friend
that taught me to be a renegade of funk,
and that sweaty July nights were worth
the effort when you kissed on top of a mountain
under mounds of stars and sparkles called fireworks

Then I decide to tell you that I love Sufjan Stevens
for the mere fact that he recorded Chicago
 in four different versions.

Then I tell you there are only three people
in this entire planet that have had the pleasure
of singing every single word of
Saints and Sailors by Dashboard with me.
Always in a car, head banging, wishing that
bitter pill was next.

Then I told you about how much I love Regina
and the way her songs make me feel dirty and vulnerable,
and how I actually hate CocoRosie

Then I tell you about the time I saw Modest Mouse
and they finally sang Float On and I literally died of
happiness from the beat melting my ear drums.

Then I ask if you ever imagined your life to a song?
You don't answer... you're not here.
But I say I have.
I image it to Sweet Disposition by The Temper Trap.
Liten to it. Think about it. You could see it right?

Then you say you love country.
You name your favorite artists and I say
I love Drunk on you and American Kids.
They play in my head like i'm constantly clicking
my boots together, in a plaid shirt, trotting my fucking horse
down memory lane,
Man, I miss my damn horse Orvile.

Boy could I go on for hours about this shit.
I have so much to say it's terrible

But I do have to say that From Eden by Hozier makes
me think the hell out of you.
and you totally ruined Lupe Fiasco for me
in a good way,
and I can't even begin to listen to the radio

So yes, you are not here, the above never happened,
 and I talk to myself.
It's a disease I've gained thru the years.
Mostly from the somber mellow tunes I fill
my pretty mushed brain with.

It's ok though. I have gotten really great at
snapping my fingers and doing a two step across
any freshly cleaned floor
in an oversized tank top

Good chat.

Like Sisters of the Moon

Life is so damn interesting sometimes.
It throws the biggest hoops and loops and
literally sometimes takes a fucking poop on your face.

Life

Is not always gushing with happiness,
but life is always there with endless
possibilities

I spoke to an old friend today
and she spilled her shit out there
for me to take, process, love, and embrace.
We talked like the moon was our sister,
and we could bounce for days off of the
laughter and joy and laugh cries and terrible memories
we had witnessed together.
We told each other we loved each other and said see ya one day,
or never. Who knows, but I love ya friend.
Thanks for a great 12 years moon sister.

Life is interesting how one second you
are lost in a crowded street invisible
to the cluttered world around you,
and in the next moment,
someone smiles, and they catch your eye
and you think of all of the posters
you see on middle aged ladies cubicle walls reading
You is kind.
You is smart.
You is important.
And you thank God you actually read that book
and didn't just see the movie.

Life is interesting in how it mends and breaks
the people we become.
How we never actually have to do anything
and how we actually create the world
we live in. It doesn't create us.

For me, i'm pretty damn simple.
I tend to try and stay that way,
yet I have created a complicated and complex life,
so life is interesting
Just the way I like it.

Evolved

So I have evolved
Into something that I never thought was possible

Who I was and where I was a year ago is total night and day

If you would have asked me a year ago if I thought I would be living in Sacramento,
not going to church,
have a tattoo,
get divorced again,
chop off all my hair,
be drinking coffee,
be drinking alcohol,
swearing up a storm,
and loving life,
I would have judged myself so harshly.
I probably would have spanked my own bottom,
and would have never given myself the room to
grow into a complete person.

Now, I am not saying that the above mentioned create happiness.
In fact, most of the above mentioned has complicated my life to an extent.

What has made me happy, is the opportunity I have given myself
to grow into something that I never thought I would allow myself to be.
The above mentioned have opened up my eyes to see a world different
then the one that I had strictly polluted my world with.

I've learned that I create my own happiness no matter the circumstance
that I either place myself in,
or am placed in.

So...
It's Friday.
I worked my ass off this week.
With my weekend plans ending in an epic cancellation,
I am now free to do whatever the hell I want.
So tonight, I bought fresh paint, paint brushes galore,
and canvases to work with.

I think I'll take a hike this weekend,
place some ear buds in my awkward ears,
bump my tunes,
and paint my worries out.

Then of course have a personal dance party on my way home

An Exercise

Today I did an exercise with 130 other people
We walked around a room in silence and looked at each other.

My first reaction was a self conscious reaction
How did my make up look?
Did I have food in my teeth?

My second reaction was a shallow reaction
Their hair was fumbled, and their beard too scruffy

My third reaction was peaceful
I became okay with looking at people
because I could look at people

I didn't have words to create meaning, I just had people
who had lines on their faces, scars on their chests,
and teeth in their rose colored mouths.

I shared a new found understanding of what beautiful really was,
and what it means to say that we are all individually unique

I hope to one day color my face with lines of stories well told
Dimples so worn in they sag
Scars visible from my fortunate mistakes
and teeth so individual they shine

I want to be that.

Excuse me

Please excuse the following post.

This post is for me in five days, or two months, or six years down the road. I decide. 

You little fucker. 

Here you are six years after you started this damn thing, still writing at Starbucks. 

Haven't you realized that if you just became a gold card member you would get free chai every two weeks? 

Haven't you realized that going to Starbucks at 3pm on a Sunday is the worst idea ever! There are always no seats, and it's crowded as hell. Learn something! 

Girl, you are crazy! Remember that time you jumped out of a plane, and then did it again two months later? 

Girl,  remember that time you said stick that needle into my body and ink me? Leanne read mom's journal entries, and we laughed at the boys that called her. Leanne held your hand and you squeezed so hard. You can't take any pain. Pain scares the shit out of you. You scare yourself out of experiences just because of pain. Change that. 

Girl, smack that smirk off of your face. Remember that letter you found the other day that said open January 1, 2009? You laughed your ass off because you wrote this hilarious letter to yourself when you were 14. It said you should either be married or living in Europe. Boy did you have great dreams, and boy did you get married. Maybe one too many times. Or maybe not one enough times. Who the hell knows. 

Girl, I hope you grew the hell up. Stopped dreaming of a what if, or a could have been, and start living in reality. Take a look at your life and figure out what is real, what is not, what is obtainable, what is your passion, what is important. 

Girl, remember that time you walked out on your then love and called your sister with tears down your face screaming "I can't do this anymore!" She walked you in and out of your hard times. Don't forget that. 

Girl, remember that time you looked at Leanne and told her you were going to do x,y, and z? Remember when she hugged you crying because you did x,y, and z? She told you good job for actually sticking to your guns, for not giving a shit about the always listening, and for being the daughter she lost. Girl, you better remember that. 

Girl, you better remember to love yourself the way that others love you.

Girl, you better remember to keep writing. One day I expect notebooks filled, a book of poems covered with your most inspirational and disgusting moments, notes taken in the margins of your favorite books, and a long list of people who loved to read your writing. 

Meg, I expect a lot. Remember, remember. Just be. So it goes.