theamyjoy

the night before every day I have off work, i tell myself the same lies. i tell myself i will clean my whole house tomorrow. i tell myself i will work out. i tell myself i will write three chapters of my novel. i tell myself i will start to become amazing. 

over and over i have these thoughts run through my mind. the beating of the insanity is usually what finally lulls me to sleep, and the dull headache leftover is what wakes me up in the morning. i stumble towards coffee and look for a food item in my cupboard that requires no effort. i sit on the sofa, i turn on Bravo. i stay in one place for three hours. during my nothing time, i think of how i want to do my hair for the day. i tell myself what errands i need to accomplish by the end of the day. i mull over who i think should win Shear Genius in this episode. i look at skinny models on runways and glance at the exercise bike standing in my corner. 

finally i pull myself up to go put on makeup like i’m one of those anorexic gazelles, and ultimately try to do my hair in a way that will distract from my present chubby-girl status. i take a deep breath and pick clothes that will do. they aren’t great. but every day is just me realizing again that the beautifully styled me in my head isn’t reality. they don’t make clothes that make me look tall, svelte or as fashion forward as i imagine i am. all i can do is wear what no one expects from someone who looks like me. 

halfway through getting dressed, putting on makeup that i pay hundreds of dollars for and trying to be innovative with my cotton basics, a sudden commercial on the still blaring LCD in my living room reminds me that there are millions of people who have spent these past hours worrying about basic needs and survival. the petty nature of all my worries paralyzes me from doing anything productive for passing minutes. i stare at my reflection and my thoughts are frozen by the amount of eyeliner blinking back at me. my heart wants to go be a people’s revolutionary and my mind is wondering when i should get my roots touched back up to my current platinum situation. 

i shake my head to try and focus on something, on anything, and as i run my hand through my hair i glance at the at my nail beds and decide i will run to the nail salon. i grab the Kerouac i’ve been reading and the huge bag i have no reason to be carting around. 

i tell myself the same lies. i tell myself i will clean up my kitchen later. i tell myself i will do laundry and ride my bike that night before bed. i tell myself i will sit myself down at my kitchen table and bang out at least one chapter of a book before nightfall. i tell myself i will start to become amazing… tomorrow.  

Hold my hand
As we open up the wardrobe
I’ll be beside you
When we tumble down the hole
Just close your eyes
As the tornado takes us away
When we look around
That’s when you’ll hear me say

It’s not for kids anymore, this magic
It’s not a dream I swear
We can believe it everyday dear
We can escape our nightmares

Feel my heart beat
When you see what I do
Hear my soul sing
When you taste life brand new
Run with me love
There’s no reason not to try
It’s all right now
This new world of you and I

strips of pastel streak across the sky
blue
green
yellow
pink
and here is the distance between you and i
this state
this river
this mountain
this city
i hear the rhythym of a guitar and beat of a drum
one and
two and
three and
four
you don’t need to know where i came from
here
there
far
near
my eyes are covered with blues and blacks
shimmer
shadow
stroke
repeat
don’t be one of them who turned their backs
theydon’t
matter
right?
i’m starting to forget your face
eyes
nose
mouthsmile
so come here, no time to waste
tick
tick
tock
tick

as big as a cinema screen, surround-sound in my ears with that unmistakeable twinkle of dust floating through the projection beam - that’s the way my mind plays our history. here i sit, the only audience, and i watch the things i know happened, the things i think happened, the things i wish happened.and when you left, it was abruptly. the film ripped, the whirring stopped, the screen went black.
smooth as soft harmony punctuated by haunting melody, the soft sound of a jazz drum and comforting rhythm of an upright bass, that’s the way my mind remembers our history. the way i stumbled upon you, like an old jazz bar known only to regulars, and the way you already knew how to play my song.but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t new, wasn’t popular and when i walked out the music faded.
my mind remembers what i did wrong, what you did right. my ears hear the words i said, the words you didn’t.my eyes strain to see what you saw in me.
outside a silver screen stands waiting for new colors, new talking pictures to slide across it’s face. on the corner, you sit with your upright bass in hand, expectant face upturned and hands awaiting a new sonata for two, a compostion brand new.
i take a step towards deciding again.take one more, hesitate and pray…
take a step and wait. and wait.

everytime i am in a bookstore, i feel tears prick the corners of my eyes. 

dozens of bookcovers beckon my eyes to linger, with striking photos and shiny print and glittery illustrations. signs call my attention to “new non-fiction,” “inspirational reads” and “twilight fans!” 

i sit in the corner, drinking flavored coffee at extortionate prices. next to me is a towering stack of the most eye-catching books, some by writers i’ve read multiple books by, some by unfamiliar names. my mind dances through the self-deprecation and humor of memoirists, the strokes of brilliance in the turn of phrase and plotting of story. 

emotion starts to coat the hollow gap i now feel right below my sternum, a chilly layer of wobbly gelled tears that i refuse to let come out. words push me through the first chapters of each book, beautiful words, colloquial words, intelligent words, profane words, inspiring words. 

and there in the very middle of a poppy little book on a writer and what good films have taught him, he tells his son that Andre Gide, a french writer, used to get enraged while walking down the street, upset that others passing him couldn’t see the greatness in his eyes, couldn’t see the masterpiece he would one day create. 

Gide went on to win a Nobel. 

i am not prone to rage. but i am prone to soft crying. 

and knowing that someone else feels the screaming needy child that inner greatness can be, knowing that someone else feels that emptiness that comes from wondering if the people who don’t know you ever will care to remember your name. 

and i realize i’ve been sitting in this corner chair, time and patrons passing before my unseeing eyes. 

i put my books back, gather my things and stroll to the door, fingers grazing several tables, seeing for the first time the christmas themed books, the holly trim on signs. 

i feel my throat tighten and the corners of my eyes start to fill. and just in time, i duck out the door and into the night. 

For nine months of the year I can live in denial in peace. In January and February I dress up in snowy weather gear and chat over coffee about new beginnings. In March and April i dream about vibrant flowers and push myself outside on those few sunny days. In May, June and July I find new adventures and stay up late with friends and seek out outdoor summer night concerts. In August and September I find myself walking aisles looking for new notebooks and new areas to teach myself something new. And then about October I start realizing that I will soon find myself stumbling across three significant dates. My mid-November birthday. Thanksgiving. And the mother of togetherness days… Christmas. And then the stress-cracks on my shiny-as-the-plastic-of-my-iPhone-3GS facade start to show. For years and years, especially when I was away at school, people would ask me what it was like to be away from my family. To have my parents on a different continent. And for three fourths of the year I gave an apparent honest answer. I’m okay with it. And then someone will ask me the same question in October. And then I remember… I remember that I’ve never had a good name for the type of homelessness I start to feel. It’s not the kind that means you are an orphan, though it feels similar. It’s not the kind that means you don’t have a place to live. I do. It’s that I don’t have a real home. A place for my heart. A rest for my mind. Home for me is the sound of my dad singing old hymns early in the morning and my mom swishing around in her robe making coffee. It my sister and her increasingly loud laugh. Home for me is telling stories in front of a fireplace and remembering past holidays. In college I spent a fair amount of holiday time with friends. When you spend your formative years learning that family isn’t always around, you learn how quickly non-blood related people become family. I consider these friends, whether they are related to me by blood, law, or God - they have been and will Always be family. I’ve been lucky to have some great holidays with my blood family, But I’ve always been somewhere my heart and mind felt welcome. This year more than half my family will be living in far away and distant lands when the holidays roll around. My best friend, my psuedo sister, moved to the South with her family months ago. And here I am. Wrapped in a loneliness I feel I’ve crafted for myself. No beacons of heart-warmth and mind-rest on the horizon. This house, the walls I live inside of have been silently still save for the clicking of my fingers in these keys. A soft wind just blew cold air past my window and I can hear a train not too far away rolling slowly past this lonely spot. Seconds are ticking by, inching closer and closer, reminding me that if it can all just go by a bit faste, I could speed past this season. If it can go just a bit faster, I can reassemble this cracking facade in the winter light of the new year. I could continue this life of denial in peace. 

Today was loud.
People demanded ( as they are apt to do) my time, my attention, my patience, my knowledge, my skills and my love.
The world was noisy today. Construction equipment moved the earth around me, stores opened, radioes blasted, people yelled, they swore, they cried, and my own mind kept up a running narrative.
Emotions were high. People rubbed aching temples, shifted on tired feet, cracked sore necks.

And then I arrived here. Sat down in the low lit room.
People bowed heads to focus on You. Some sat plainly, some knelt on work-weary knees. Some sang aloud, some whispered requests, some read Your ancient promises.
The loudness went away. Peace grew as we waited in your presence. Your beauty caused the demands and insults to fade away.

You changed the world in a matter of moments. You changed my world with a simple word.