remembering things

I know it’s not Throwback Thursday, but staying up late at night always seems to dredge up old memories that my brain’s hidden from me for some reason. I with I knew why I can barely remember anything from before seventh grade; probably because seventh grade was such a traumatic year in terms of how much I was forced to change due to the new school environment.
I was obsessed with statistics as a child. I remember reading the forbidden last section in the eighth grade social studies book and see all the pages about world religions that the teacher wouldn’t cover because we were too busy doing worksheets using outdated information because the school couldn’t afford new books. I remember seeing that almost 30% of the world was Christian and wishing that it was more… although if that was today, I would most likely disagree with that sentiment, although that’s a discussion for another day. And later, I’d be almost obsessively checking the stats page on the blog dashboard, watching the page views slowly crawl up higher and higher and knowing that someone out there was reading the words that I cobbled together. It was the best feeling in the world for me. Sometimes, it still is.
There’d always be that one kid, no matter which grade you were in, who’d be obsessed with trying to prove that they were better than you in every way possible. A fear of all people named Morgan stemmed from the girl of that name, who was somehow convinced that it was her personal mission to try (and eventually fail) to convince me that her church bible school was better than the one at my church just because they spent more time at a waterpark than actually reading a bible. Although, in retrospect, I would rather have been swimming than hiding in the middle of a row of chairs, pretending that I didn’t exist so that I wouldn’t have to sing the crappy songs (I was never the type to sing in church once my sense of self-awareness started developing) written by someone who clearly didn’t give two craps about any actual worship with substance in it and was clearly in it for the money…. because wearily singing song #402 about the supposed “deep deep love” of Jesus is exactly what we spent our whole morning here to do. And don’t get me started on the clearly-low-budget sorry excuses of music videos that they made us sing along to. Although I guess that wasn’t the church’s fault, seeing as they weren’t the ones responsible for the content itself, only for its presentation to the impressionable little kids. Ah, church… one moment you feel ashamed at everything you’ve ever done and/or thought, and the next moment, you feel like the most loved person on the face of the earth.
Ahem… I seem to have gone off on a tangent here. When I was little, I didn’t have the balance or the motor skills required to skate on ice without falling over and hurting myself. I could do everything else just fine… just not ice skating, so I’d put on a pair of clean shoes and just skate on that instead. Of course, that usually didn’t fly with the people that owned the rink, so I’d go find some patch of ice to slip on. And when it was at school, oh, how I and the people in my grade would try to keep the little kids off the few patches of ice the adults allowed to be exposed. It was worse around the monkey bars, it being that they would provide an actual way to keep yourself upright as you attempted to make your feet encounter as little friction as the ice felt like giving that day and possibly a trip to the nurse’s office.
Seventh grade gym class was always a corundum for me, seeing as one day we’d be having a mile run- which I always hated, seeing as I never saw the ability to run three times around two baseball fields in less than eight minutes as a useful skill for my intellectual mind- and the next, we’d be having a free day or swimming or something that actually engaged me. I have being sweaty, you know, and swimming always washed the sweat away… into a pool with everybody else’s sweat and bodily secretions and God-knows-what-else. (And that even is if you believe in a god at all.) I bet those seventh-grade germs were having a blast watching us attempt to swim without stopping as whatever crap music was popular at the time blasted from one radio as the instructors watched us and made sure we weren’t doing anything we weren’t supposed to be doing in a pool.

As a Poet Burning Oneself Out 

It… It’s gotten harder to post since the accident, like all my motivation for writing down the events of my life left me along with the blood I left on the sidewalk.

Wuji Seshat

Screen Shot 06-28-15 at 09.46 PM

My swirling wants no longer want
The grammar of my soul has turned alchemic
Themes written under duress have come and gone

Passed, like the emptiness of notation
Like art, after the generation of my audience
Have died, the failure of criticism
To detract from the journey
I am a writing automation or

An experience of repetition in a simulation
On how to become a writer and bleed
Ten thousand hours into my craft

The thing most I love, the trip until forever
That’s literature to me, a dying art
Now I know what it feels like to be
A minority, like Native Americans
To have become nearly obsolete

Time takes hold of us like a draft
And the sun produces powerful dreams
That never feel completed, crimson-fingered

We draw in the earth, in the ash
But our designs are never done
There isn’t enough time and fire
To create…

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crash

Hello, fellow crapples and whoever else takes the time to read my crappy posts. I’ve returned from my week of silence, mainly caused by my being in an accident and almost being taken away from this thing we call life. And, no, I was not the one driving.

I don’t really remember that much of the hospital, but I do remember the drugged-up haze from after the surgery, and I remember Constance coming to visit me, saying something about a wiped memory and Emma and Maxine wanting to visit me but having something more important to do.

Remember…

Remember…

not dead, just renewed

He lies in the surgery tank, suspended in the void between life and death as the people he once thought of as his enemies strip him of the one major thing that defined him in the past three years. They notice his piercings, his hair in desperate need of a good trim, and they leave it all alone, seeing as it’ll make a good disguise from those looking for him but not knowing of his doings of the past few months. He’s been gone for a while… his dad is dead, and his mom is notoriously absent in his life, leaving him alone to roam with the girl he is considered married to on another planet.
He is oblivious to the fact that the only place where his marriage is considered valid is on the brink of a civil war, enraged that their queen, who was a major homophobe a few years ago, has completely turned around on everything from religion to her own sexuality and would rather there be two queens (her love ruling beside her) than the symbolic ‘royal family’ that has no connections to her.
He is oblivious to the fact that wiping his memory, his hasteful alternative to the pain in his heart caused by his love being irrevocably dead, will instead cause more problems than it solves. In fact, it solves none except for making the short-term pain less.
The surgeons lift him out of the tank a few hours later, disconnecting most of the tubes that kept him alive while they were severing several vital connections that his body had made through the years. He’d been a harpy, after all. They wheel him to a recovery room, getting him settled so that his body can focus more on healing the numerous scars on his arms and regrowing skin all over his arms and the sides of his chest than on making sure that he’s at least alive. After they’re done, they leave the room, ready to return tomorrow to check up on him… all except for one, who remembers the legacy he and his lover left on Soona Bris. “I’m sorry, Rishen,” she whispers, brushing the hair out of his unseeing eyes. “Maybe perhaps Constance will be able to find some peace.”

no, you don’t remember, because you were never there.

do you remember the summer of ’14?
the summer where we had potential
but you had to screw everything up
and be cut off from everything
for doing something really stupid
and I wasted my summer waiting for you to come back

do you remember eighth grade?
the grade where I was really stupid
and hated people for things they couldn’t change
oh, how I wish I could slap the me
that I was back then

do you remember seventh grade?
I was so confused about everything
and so sure at the same time
but everybody believes that they are right
and that they have their god on their side

do you remember the day that I was born again?
and not in a religious way like you think
no, rather the opposite
oh, wait, you don’t, because you left
and you continue to miss the best parts of me