if I lay here

"I hope you're old boyfriends tickled your back for you," he says and I can hear the pout playing on his lips. I shut my eyes and feel his chest rise and fall slowly, my ear pressed against his chest bone. I feel those first few pinprick tears starting to play around inside of my tear ducts and blink hard to push them away. Keep myself here in this moment, with his hands painting swirls across my back.

"I honestly can't remember the last time anyone tickled my back," I whisper towards the darkness in front of me. The dark is pixelated by the city lights peeking behind the blinds. The dark is made softer by the crooning records spinning endlessly and closing us into an insular world.

He pushes his lips softly into my midnight hair and inhales deeply. I inhale too, taking in every molecule of this moment. "That's a shame," he speaks, "your skin is so soft."

via *

All the Songs and All the Stars are Yours

I have to kiss you. It's as simple and as complicated as that.

These Words are Nice Enough to Leave Scars

I've been very brave recently. 

And you've inspired all of it. You're beautiful. You're pure. You're hurt in all the right places and golden along those scars. 

I'll never paint you, but I'll write you time and time again. I'll make your paintings jealous by how much I have to say.

via *

hot summer nights

My heart is made of summer nights,
that crushed velvet violet tye-dyed
with wisps of hot pink ribbons
cutting across the surface.
It sneaks up on you and then
presses down on you entirely,
imprinting itself much deeper
than you'd realized.

But once you notice it,
that violet fades to tender blue.
That's where you live in my heart.
You live where ocean breezes and
oil paints cascade in summer
nights framed in silver and gold.
You live where that blue never
burns out and winter never
eats those nights alive.

My heart is made of summer nights,
and those nights were made for you.

via *

telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare, honey

The hazy blue of summer nights makes me feel selfish. With tangerine clouds inching past my window as I lay in bed, I don't know how I became so lucky as to see the world unfold around me. How I became so lucky to have been through so much and lived. To feel that tiny breeze play across my collarbone or that little thought of you peek through my eyelashes.

I bet you feel like summer and taste like ocean breezes.

Lana Del Rey is writing about us, you know.

via *

bleeding out

Feel the pinprick in your heart,
right in the left ventricle. The sweet spot.
Right where he tattooed his fingerprints,
unspooling those swirls and winding them
down your arteries and nerve endings
until they were clouded in cotton candy
films of blood.

Feel the hole in your heart,
smaller than a needle tip begin to grow,
widening very slowly with every
shared word and photo, every fantasy
and dreamscape you share late at night,
picturing him thinking of you
with just as much hunger.

Feel the blood leave your heart,
cascading and dripping over your bones,
dyeing them like wine on carpet.
Dark red like his lips and the tongue
that lives inside his mouth-
aching for a vacation inside
of your mouth.

With no blood in your heart,
all of it pooling in your stomach and
the quivering area right below your
abdomen, try to breathe normally.
Wait for the blood to flow to your
extremities and to taste it in your mouth
instead of tasting him.

via *

but I'm hoping at the gates, they'll tell me that you're mine

It's at that horrible point where I sit awake at five in the morning in complete darkness, save for the laptop screen, and see your face painted inside every song I listen to. I squeeze my eyes as tight as possible until spiders made of fractured light are crawling in the darker space behind my eyelids. This is the horrible point where I flirt with regretting all that I said and wanting desperately to say more. I'm trying to recapture that moment that was so the same three years ago while lying to myself about nothing having changed at all. I'd gladly say it all again. I hope you'd listen again and maybe let me hug you longer this time. But then again, I think I was the one who pulled away first. I should have breathed you in for as long as I could. Because now I'm breathless, but in the worst way possible. Everything is muddled at five in the morning.

via *

cookie cutter

Weeks of rain led to dripping lightning
and sugar cookies, lovely with roses.
He smiled and my heart bloomed;
I owed myself some bravery.

I organized my words like the outline
of a puzzle, working to connect the
skyline before the center can become clear.
Truth tastes better dipped in tea.

His fingers spread across the table top,
I ached to join mine with his, create
a paper doll chain of two before his hands moved.
The cookie remained uneaten, the tea growing cold.

Deeper words came flying out as
he watched the crumbs on my plate,
licking his lips as I dipped my finger
from the frosting to my teeth.

The broken cookie broke his heart
while mine finally unloaded.
The past was long, full of twists.
I needed more time to make mistakes.

I needed to earn someone with a soul of silver,
lips I imagine taste like sugar crumbles
to match the rosebuds that
grow on my cupid's bow.

Again I've said too much, fingers
typing faster than thoughts can fly.
working to close the gap with every word.
My life has never been cookie cutter perfect.

But I'm willing to wait.

moments of clarity

Beautiful Meg just wrote a beautiful post about the types of movies she likes to watch; ones that make her think and ponder about life. "My movies take their time. My movies are simple and they are quiet and they are beautiful in a way that sneaks up on me and causes the breath to catching my throat." There Meg goes again, her words nailing my thoughts exactly. Hi Meg, I love you.

This weekend I had the incredibly joy and honor to go see a short film made by an incredibly talented local director, Ebrahim Ghaeini. His short entitled Moments of Clarity was exactly the type of film that Meg was talking about, a film that sank deep into my skin and took over my brain matter while I was watching it and for a long time after. I'll spare you a plot summary, mostly because the feelings I felt are much deeper than the plot covers, something I think that speaks to a great director and a great film. Also, I'd hate to color the opinions and conclusions that you would come to when you see the film by giving you my synopsis of the film. This film was tailor made to allow for the viewer to inset themselves and their own story inside of the work. Adore adore adore.

via Moments of Clarity Facebook Page

The director of this film, the actors, the crew, the astounding artist who drew 30 different and delicate portraits of the character Claire, are all passionate artists. They stood before us at this screening and their passion was just seething off of them. In the way they talked about the process of filming, the way they gave their opinions about the film's meaning(s), even just in the way they thanked the people who attended the screening or donated to their kickstarter, you can taste their passion and the care they have for this film. That passion cannot be learned or taught, it runs through your skin. They had it and their film showed that. (Also, Natalia Noble who played Claire had GREAT style. That jacket was on point. Just... the entire crew looked great. Beautiful people. Hi.)

One of the greatest themes I found threading itself through this film was what the life of an artist means and how the brains of artists work. The fictional artists in this film have that same "passion to the point of obsession" mental mechanism as the creators of this film and of artists in general. Jason works and draws portrait after portrait of this woman (who may or may not be real), creating representation after representation of the perfect person, the perfect work of art.

Don't we all do that as artists? I've written poem after poem, sentence after sentence, trying to capture the people I see and love around me in the most perfect way I can. I slave over syntax and metaphor trying to find the perfect one for the person I'm writing about. "This person is a vacuum.. no that's not right, he's a black hole. That sounds better. This person, with his beautiful hands and emotive eyes, he  is something else. Not cavernous space, but something just as heavenly. What are his words?" We hunt and hunt for the perfect shade of paint to capture lover's eyes, the perfect words to hint at how deeply we feel and regret a kiss we never received; we lace our lives with the hunt for the perfect words for these people we make perfect in our minds.

This film reminded me a lot of one of my favorite novels, Paper Towns by John Green. They both flirt with what I think to be one of the most far-reaching and important lines in that novel: "What a treacherous thing to believe a person is more than a person."

Now, although I remain unconvinced that Claire is a real person in the movie, I think what she represents as a manifestation of an artistic muse or idea is much more powerful than what a real person could ever be. And THAT, my lovelies, is what an artist is always hunting for. The people we love become so much deeper and bigger in the pedestals of our brains. It's less scary to love a fictional person because we are in charge of how they act toward us. We make fictional people out of every single person in our lives because their story wraps into ours, we see them through our own filter. How terrifying is that prospect? The person you spend months talking with and dreaming of has as many emotions, worries, and faults as you have. That's overwhelming. It would be much easier to stay solo and write yourself the perfect person, adapted from life into fiction.

Too bad hands clasping feels much better than a pen against a palm. Too bad two bodies curving against each other feels infinitely more pure and vital than unspooling words from your nail beds. Art and life must co-habitate to form a beautifully flawed person instead of false representations of selective traits tailor-made to the artist. Reaching that balance is a gorgeous feeling. There is your aspiration, there is your life, not the perfect representation of something that doesn't exist. A person is a person, after all.

This film brought me clarity and the ending cleansed the entire film, a baptism of new life and a new creative journey. Watching this film is a journey and thinking these big and wonderful thoughts about humanity is a beautiful journey I invite you all to take. To the cast and crew of this film, thank you so much for sharing your passion on screen and for letting us all be witness to this beautiful work.

If you ever have a chance to see this film, loves, please please do. It is so gorgeous to watch and just as gorgeous to think your way through.

Here are some important links and such to the film. Spread the artistic love :)
Moments of Clarity Website
Moments of Clarity Facebook
Moments of Clarity Kickstarter
Blooming Studios Production Company



Moments of Clarity - Official Trailer from Blooming Studios on Vimeo.

drifting

With his name resting on my tongue and images of a night soon to come on my mind, the city lights drift by as the melodies brush through my hair. The car drifts cooly and we laugh together, laughing with the comfort of close friends and knowing we are young and beautiful and strong. We know we will cry, we know we will be hurt, but tonight in this car, nothing hurts and there is nothing but hope and stars.

via *

to the artists

Let me be your muse.
Let me breathe inside your mind
and wrap myself in technicolor.
I want to drive you mad,
make paint bleed from your fingertips
and watercolors drip from your pores.
I want you to taste me as you dream,
Taste my aqua gaze,
my tangerine tongue.
Run your fingers through my hair
and sculpt every strand in clay.
I'll live in canvas and dance in marble.
I'll be your Nike, your Sistine Chapel.
Whisper my name to Van Gogh,
let Manet long to have me as you do.
Never let me die or fade.
Let me be your muse.

via *

lightning rod

I like him, I think.

I don't remember how that feels.

The tripping trepidation,

the bubbling bewilderment,

the thought of someone new

on the horizon. 

A few weeks back

he told me he was ready to

give up on love.

He's been so hurt,

his care never being returned.

He says my friendship means the world.

How do I tell him

I've been hurt too,

I've given all of myself

and lost every inch of who I was

for love.

His words always inspire me,

his last name sounds like adventure,

his first name sounds like hope.

He is an artist.

I'm weak for artists.

His mind is marvelous.

He makes me feel creative.

Heard.

Understood.

Worthy.

Talented.

I don't want to see our 

friendship disappear. 

I can't make him ready if he's not. 

But every time his name flashes

on my phone screen,

my heart flips.

I told him not to 

give up forever.

Just for now.

Wait it out,

love will strike again.

How do I tell him that he

has become my lightning rod? 

via *

i can feel you touching me

All my friends tell me

I should move on

I'm lying in the ocean

Singing your song.

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah

ah ah ah ah ah

That's how you sang it.

Loving you forever 

can't be wrong,

even though you're not here

won't move on.

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah 

ah ah ah ah ah

That's how you played it.

And there's no remedy 

for memory

Your face is like a melody

It won't leave my head.

Your soul is haunting me

and telling me

that everything is fine

but I wish I was dead.

Every time I close my eyes,

it's like a dark paradise.

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you

won't be waiting on the other side.

Every time I close my eyes,

it's like a dark paradise.

No one compares to you,

I'm scared that you 

won't be waiting on the other side.

All my friends ask me

why I stay strong,

tell em when you find true love

it lives on.

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah

ah ah ah ah ah

that's why I stay here.

And there's no remedy

for memory

your face is like a melody,

it won't leave my head.

Your soul is haunting me

and telling me 

that everything is fine,

but I wish I was dead.

Every time I close my eyes

it's like a dark paradise.

No one compares to you,

I'm scared that you 

won't be waiting on the other side.

Every time I close my eyes

it's like a dark paradise.

No one compares to you,

but there's no you

except in my dreams tonight.

Oh oh oh oh 

ha ha ha ha

I don't wanna wake up 

from this tonight.

Oh oh oh oh

ha ha ha ha

I don't wanna wake up

 from this tonight.

There's no relief

I see you in my sleep,

and everybody's rushing me,

but I can feel you touching me.

There's no release 

I feel you in my dreams,

telling me I'm fine.

Every time I close my eyes,

it's like a dark paradise.

No one compares to you,

I'm scared that you

won't be waiting on the other side.

Every time I close my eyes,

it's like a dark paradise.

No one compares to you,

but there's no you

except in my dreams tonight.

Oh oh oh oh 

ha ha ha ha

I don't wanna wake up

from this tonight.

Oh oh oh oh

ha ha ha ha

I don't wanna wake up

from this tonight.

via *

three worlds

Right now my head is inhabiting three very different worlds simultaneously, all coming together in the strangest connected web. That connection tells me that fate is playing a little waiting game with me, a cruel game of keep away. Not cruel in the usual sense. Not a mocking cruelty. More like a cruelty that is teaching me patience, the meaning of following your heart, the meaning of resilience and diligence, the meaning of what it feels like to see it all coming together right in front of you, just out of reach.

World one is the present. I'm here, coasting along. The present is the blank canvas. It's there, there isn't much going on, but it is there and ready to burst with potential.

World two is the past. This is the defiant splash of red paint that seeps deep into the canvas and gives it life and breath. It's all of the little coincidences that is making my world come together and keeps hinting at a future that I am more than ready for. Over the past few weeks, little bits and pieces of life have been reappearing in front of me that eerily connect to things that were happening at the same time last year at this time. An old friend who I had dinner with on the night of a very tender memory contacted me yesterday after I spent all day planning to contact him. Eery fate. A group of customers who used to frequent my cafe, who then ended up being jerks and disappeared, have began reappearing at their little corner table. Weird fate. That late night lonely feeling has crept back in. The kind that can only be quenched with either a Netflix binge accompanied by a late night cheeseburger or staying up rereading the darkly sexy passages of Lolita. Fate is toying with me and watching me squirm. The suspense is killing me, darling fate.

The puzzle pieces are all laid next to each other, they just need a little urging to get them connected in the right way.

World three is the imminent future. It's destiny and it's hope. It's the moment when you step back from the Monet to see the full picture pixelating together before your eyes. It's the moment you can feel coming in your heart long before your brain gets the memo.

I can feel you in my bones. I feel you in my soul. The wait is long and lonely. I know that the three worlds run on my ability to over think and over analyze. I know these are dangerous and if my ability to over analyze and over think could power the world, we would have an energy overload and no need for fossil fuels. But analysis and deep thought make me feel powerful and dangerous. And feeling dangerous makes me feel you.

via *