I. When A Good Friend Decides to Lie to You
followed by
II. Why I Am Nobody's Best Friend


I.
When a good friend decides to lie to you, listen. Listen closely.

You will learn a lot more about them from the kind of lies they tell than from any truth they may share on that deceitful day.

For example, she does not trust you, is drowning in her pride, and likes it.

For example, he does not know he is lying, really thinks you will always be friends, and cannot see that you have not been friends in years.

For example, she thinks your silence is belief rather than grief, thinks you love the lies, thinks you prefer them. She laughs when you say you value honesty like oxygen, thinks she knows better than you.

Listen!
Listen closely. Why? Because they are telling you how it will end. They are telling you what version of themselves they think you want. They are telling you exactly what is most important to them.

Take it all in.

You already knew you were not important. Do not let this be about you. Do not let them surprise you or incite you. You are not here to lie. You are not here to compete. You are here to listen.

Listen. When the liars walk in, pull up a chair, and feed you to nausea--listen!

Listen to every word.

They are drawing you an inverted map. If you listen long enough, they will color in everything except for the place where they keep their heart.

Listen even closer when the lies grow denser, more palatable, sweeter. They will always be what you want to hear. Do not touch them. Only listen. See if you can't find  the echo of truth in the shadow of each new lie.

When the map is complete, bury it. No. Wait. Copy it. Bury the first copy like the treasure that it is. Then give the copy to the friend. You just might lead him back to himself. Or else, she will only see her portrait.

II.
When I decide to tell you that I know you have been lying to me, I say "I'm sorry" to you for weeks afterwards in empty hallways and as I drive myself to work. I know my apologies never get to you, but I cannot exactly deliver them after our last conversation went so badly.

I know that I was selfish. I have apologized for that every time I have seen your photo on social media. But I wanted you to know that I was not fooled. I wanted you to feel how nauseous I felt trying to swallow so much untruth. I wanted you to know that your lies offended my intelligence. I wanted you to know that you are a terrible liar.

When I asked for the truth, I wanted you to choose me. See the second you sat down with me and brought lies, I realized that I was not the right kind of important anymore. I wanted to fix it. I wanted us to be good friends. So I dressed my intentions up in their best shades of concern.

I apologized in the bathroom at work for not being patient enough to let you find your way back on your own. I tried to give you a map even though it wasn't complete. You couldn't think of a use for it. Instead of bringing us closer, oceans flooded in with new, uncharted territories on their tides.

I have said "I'm sorry" twenty-six times on the freeway since we last talked. Each time, I was thinking of how I could have listened just a little longer.

As it turns out, I loved truth more than you. And that is something I am still unable to apologize for even though I keep practicing.

Poets

I love Sarah Kay's work.



And this, this is excellent.

And me? I am learning who I want to sound like when I grow up. I am aware that when I am done with this season, I will be someone else. I look forward to that. I feel like I should unpack that more, explain that more, provide a little more detail...but I don't really have any. At least, not today.

And if you have the fortitude to listen to a poem about surviving rape, this is as excellent as art made from pain ever gets:

Man. These guys hit it. And when I say "it", I mean that they have such well thought out ideas on race but also education, media, and the value of people. Fantastic. This is invaluable perspective.

This is a poem about rape culture. I found it poignant and accurate. Some of you shouldn't watch it because it will hit too close to home. Some of you really should though. When minorities ask the majority to listen, it is things like this that they are asking to be considered because things like this can help create understanding. Poems are rarely flawless arguments, but they can share a wealth of valid experiences. Also, a word to everyone who has ever told me that rape doesn't happen that often: as I get older, the number of people (men and women) whom I can count who have not been raped, sexually assaulted, or almost raped dwindles. If you can find evidence for sexual abuse being infrequent, you are among the privileged.

I love this.

I live almost exclusively in the future. That is, in plans and dreams. In possibilities and abstractions.  At least, I did until last March. That set a course of alternate wandering and waiting, running and resting. I still try to live in the future. It is still where I derive meaning from. The only difference is lately, I have been rather unsuccessful. Still, I try.

And I wonder if that is as it should be. At the same time, I wonder if I can change that. My curiosity pulls me forward. I want to prove myself. Prove myself what? To whom? I am beginning to recognize that in this place, this desert I am being given a mirror that could show me what particles and pieces make and govern me. In this desert, it is becoming more difficult to divide what I want, what I fear, and what I believe God has for me. I find myself stopping puzzled, trying to remember, "did he really say that?" ...or was that some treacherous, false hope? Was it confidence or pride that led me to the decisions I have made?

I think I want to prove to myself that I can be happy, that I can find contentment. I think it terrifies me to give up on being a mechanic because it feels like putting myself further away from flight school. And flight school has been the goal for so long now that I can no longer imagine a future without it. I think I would like to teach flight lessons. 

I think I want to prove to myself that I can contribute to society, can take care of myself, and can be content all at the same time. Content. I want to know that I won't always be looking for something more, that my identity is not in the movement, the striving, the success, or the forward momentum. 

I want to prove to myself that I am capable. Capable of what? Of recognizing when I have enough. Of stabilizing in some way. Of success without greed. Of achievement without selfish ambition. 

And I think I want to know that it was not a waste, the path I chose. I want to know that I chose it for sound reasons, even if I could not always explain them. 

Most of all, I want to solve my paradox. That is this: that I am awed by and indeed ache for adventure yet I was born feeling already old and desiring a small life. How does one pair adventure with a small life? Do I want adventure because I am irresponsible, young, or foolish? Do I think about it to distract myself from monotony? (Why do monotony and routine seem as evil tyrants to me?) Conversely, do I desire a small life because I lack confidence? (I do lack confidence you know, except for very brief moments of boldness.) Do I want something small because I can control it? Ah, control! Is that what this is all about? Am I at war with myself seeking both to be in control and to lose all control at once? 

Possibly. 

Probably. 

I would do that to myself. 

It may seem easy enough to chide me with the advice to give control over to God. But really, what does that mean? What does that look like? And what if I have misunderstood God all of this time?

Yes, I am at war with myself but with the best intentions. 

I have begun to pray for solid ground to find my frantic feet.

On a totally unrelated note:

This woman. This woman is power. I have spent the morning listening to all of her poetry. It only gets better. There is part of me that wants to be her. To have something to say and the fire to get up and say it. But I am quiet and adaptable. I change myself to the situation before I even ask myself if that is what I wanted to do. I often guess what is expected of me wrong but that only makes me change faster the next time. Forming a solid identity is a slow thing. A clumsy thing. A graceless thing. It is so hard to keep trying.

other people's words

Here is where my food has been lately. This and a poet by the name of Shane Koyczan who tends to talk a lot about sex but he is such an amazing poet that I don't even feel uncomfortable despite my extremely conservative upbringing. Here is the first poem I watched (which is possibly the only one without the metaphor of sex). Here is a heartbreaking one. And this one, this one I love; but if sex makes you uncomfortable, just skip to the last minute and trust me that the beginning is beautiful too.

poetry like a game of scrabble.

I want to drink words that have aged like a fine wine.
     It has been awhile and I do not quite feel myself.
     But...how could I be anyone but me?
     Maybe if I could hear the world in another's words,
     I would find myself.

I want to slow down time and to stop wishing for the rewind.
     I keep missing things and I know it but I am helpless.
     Why is that the important things travel fastest?
     How is it that they feel heavier?
     Perhaps, to force us to drop what does not matter.

I want to hold the seconds tighter as if they could be mine.
     My arrogance tells me I would be a better clock keeper.
     ...As if that will fix my problems.
     Changing time will not teach me to use it well.
     Wisdom comes, it seems, from failing.

I found an old favorite poem and I believe in sharing.

To Walk the Knife

I cherish quiet friendship more than anything I own,
And love the sound of laughter, yet I long to be alone.
A solitary spirit on a never-ending quest,
I roam a twilight forest as a strange, expected guest,

Or watch a new horizon when the darkness turns to run,
And stare with blinding wonder at the beauty of the sun.
A knife of dreams and visions is the price of what I do -
I walk its edge with bleeding feet to bring that world to you;

For sometimes in the shadows or the early morning mist,
I stand between the worlds and know that all of them exist;
And if I were to stumble or to put a foot astray,
Then I would fall to madness and forever lose my way.

The earth is filled with wonder; ev'ry hill and secret brook
Can be your inspiration if you take the time to look.
Exhilarating moments just beyond the blade of life
Will change your soul forever if you dare to walk the knife. 

M. Teresa Blaylock

A bit overdue:

Montana and I are complicated lovers. 
We should probably move on. 
But I cannot. 
There is something about waking up in the embrace of mountains...
of hearing nothing but the very distant car 
interrupting the slow inhale of hills 
and the long exhale of sky. 
It takes my breath away 
but gives me its own breath. 
And so I breathe easy 
as I take in winding dirt roads. 
I breathe easy 
as on cold mornings 
when you can see your breath leave in puffs 
like lost clouds trying to find their way home. 
I breathe easy 
and I know this will always be, 
in some ineffable way, 
home.

Overflowing.

I promise...
to do more seeing
and less talking.

There are too many words here.
Too many so as to take the place of Oxygen.
So let us look
because our eyes are not yet full.

This is a story I am sure to rewrite again and again until I find exactly what I am trying to say.

I have my mother to blame for my love of flowers,
which is not such a dark thing to blame your  mother for.
It is most definitely her fault though. 
I remember, summers at the farmer’s market.
Always waiting until we were ready to leave 
to go to the vendor we had asked to save our favorites.
It did not occur to me then 
that we did not have money for flowers
--but she bought them anyway. 
I learned from her
to love summers and flowers;
and that beauty is worth the price you pay.
At least, it is worth it for flowers
--More than makeup or high heels.
Flowers cause no pain.
And so I learned to love those summers, 
just us girls: my sister and my mother and I,
between my father and my stepfather,
between one school year and the next,
deep in that place of rest
between one remembered event and another.
It is a gentle space
too quickly unappreciated
for its lack of busyness 
and for its brevity.

Unofficial Title: [Something New This Way Comes]

I want to write
but it has been such a long time.
All of the words try to come out
ahead of each other.
As you can imagine,
this makes communication difficult.
Pretty soon, there is no message.
Just me breathing in so many words.
My lungs become jealous for Oxygen
--and that’s not fair because, well,
I need both.
And yet I get neither.
I guess I am out of practice.
I always forget how clumsy practice can be,
even for simplicities like breathing.
Breathe before you speak.
Or risk running before you can yet walk.

what I have left

The walls are better at listening than you or I are
And I guess this is due to their immobility
And lack of lips and mouth and tongue to fill the air between us.
Their spatial awareness is superior to either of ours,
Like how many words it takes to fill the room
And tip the emotional scale,
until there is not Oxygen enough for after thoughts like human lungs.
I have never seen a wall's proverbial ears
but I suppose this is not their only secret.

----------yep. I wish I had more; but that's going to have to do for now.

there are no drugs for this

My past is being rewritten for me it seems, and not in the typical 'fell back in time and made different decisions' sense... if that is typical. It is a very different kind of being rewritten. People I know keep remembering things differently. Not anyone I live with in Portland. And not any one particular person. But I have had about three weeks of  people who either do not remember at all or who have totally rewritten a past that I shared with them.

It is a very ambiguous sense of loss, a very certain alone-ness, and very likely steps toward losing my own grip on reality. My past and my reaction to it have made me who I am. Memories are important if fleeting. Count how many times God tells the Israelites to remember, to teach their children, to take care not to forget. I am not unaware of how much my whole life has been built on the breath of God willing me to make it long after I am tired and do not want to try anymore. I do not want to forget a thing, good or bad or even ugly.

However, I am afraid these past few weeks have made me question if I truly remember my own life. There are enough people telling me that what I know is wrong or worthless, I feel I have lost all my anchors in the past. It brings about great existential questions like, "If my remembered past is remembered wrong, am I still who I think I am?" and then "Should I be me or someone else?".

The answers may seem obvious to the reader. I however, have had a heck of a time trying to even match words to the feeling and now that I have perhaps, I hope, the answers will feel obvious and real. But the truth is, I still feel the weight of those questions and others wearing me down inside much more strongly than I feel their counterparts. This wont be forever, I hope; but if I am extra exhausted in these coming days, it is because I am trying so hard to remember history that no one else wants to and I do not always remember the value of.

I have tried to see 
the world through your eyes;
but they are closed.
There is nothing there.
If I could but see the pictures
painted on your sleeping eyelids,
maybe I could understand.


Tell me,
could you wake if you wanted to?
Your sleeper's life must be so beautiful
to have held you asleep for so long.
So much more beautiful 
than your memories of this waking life.


You told me once that you
no longer remembered
anything but your somnambulance 
and I wept.
I cried the tears you could not.
I cried until the clouds above 
were tired of my rain.


I wept because you will never know 
the color of my sky
and I do not quite remember 
the color of your eyes.
I imagine them to be the same though,
your eyes and my sky,
the one forgotten by the other
and yet the same stardust and storm.


I wish I could see the world
and your own sky 
through your eyes,
sleepy as they may be.
But there is one problem.
I am wide awake.

You steal gravity out from beneath me,
Let it slip down my quickly swallowing throat
And ask me to speak.
But my words have too much added weight...
Instead of flowing up and out of me,
They fall and fall hard
Downwards.
Inwards.
Up and down have moved
And somehow my lungs or my heart or both
[I cannot quite tell which yet]
Have become the center
Of my known universe
Threatening to suck everything inside
Until the hungry desperation subsides
And I burst.

[Re-fried]

It takes me about a week to do anything of any real importance that does not fall under the category of damage control. With that said, it's Saturday. I am getting lots of things done. Letters. Phone calls. Baking banana bread. You know. The parts of life that somehow get shoved to the wayside even though they really are the marrow of living.

Today, I miss my sister. And, even though I have previously posted it, this poem is particularly fitting. Can I do that? Repost something...? I don't think there is an authority to appeal to on this one. After all, I did write it for her and all the times I tell her I am making something tasty and she should join me for dinner/dessert/whatever and move in with me...drop out of high school, move 600 miles, and what not. It's selfish. I am getting better, I think. Ok, so I just sent her a letter and told her to come to me. Someday. Someday I will grow up and into who I know I should be.

Unrelated: I think I need a whole cork board wall to pin prayers on. People and things to pray for keep coming to me in flocks or herds or torrents depending or your metaphor; but yeah, you get it. And I, I have lost all discipline for praying regularly especially on the intercessory level... for myself and for others. Maybe this is a good enough reason to buy a new journal ...since that's a bit more private than a wall. Maybe I will even buy a journal with lines in it. I haven't had one of those since I stopped writing my prayers in high school.

10 of 10

I have two tool boxes.
One I use to fix airplanes
And the other?
I fill with colors and all of the tools
I need to explain how I see the world.
I keep painter’s tape in both.
Not that I have ever tried to tape an airplane together
Or even that I use it so often in art.
Rather, it is a reminder that these two worlds
Are not so far apart. 

Artists need tools and precision.
They work in this same world after all,
With its limits, tangibility, and laws.
Mechanics need imagination and creativity and longing too.
Who else made the impossibility of flight possible?
It was not for a love of law,
Though maybe for love.

Or maybe just to tell gravity
That it was not the only authority we may appeal to,
That the ground does not own us,
And that we will decide how far is far enough.
So I keep painter’s tape
To remind me to always question
If the limits that are set
Are the limits that have to be.

Do they serve a purpose?
Can I color outside of those lines?

Painter’s tape is such a brilliant blue
That I cannot look at it
Without wondering if I too may try
To sail straight through the sky into the sun
In a last glance with only smoke
And wax tears to show behind me.
Perhaps not,
But only if I find my bearings.
Fly over the prison wall,
But stop at the sun.


My two worlds are held together by this blue
This brilliant, unmistakable blue.
And each gives the other context,
A strong foundation to build on
And a little something to look forward too,
If only in my mind's eye.

9 of 10

I learned how to build home on the topography of my father’s emotions between wandering the woods and chocolate chip cookie making. He was a man still working through the rubble of his own upbringing and so he brought me up in the crowded space between his own tears. I learned to read him the way sailor’s read the stars, the clouds, and the sea. I learned to sail him like he was the only ocean I could ever love. I tried to learn the words that could bring us both home.

He taught me everything I know about emotions and feeling. “Don’t bottle them up and stuff them in.” he’d say, “They’ll always find you because they are not the sort of things that fade unless you face them.” So while he told me not to keep them in, I resolved to be better than that. I chose, instead, to keep them always out.

It took years for me to figure out  that short cuts are just longer ways to the same place for those who want to put off confrontation until it hits you from behind, knocks the wind out of you, and demands your silent attention. It may be the shortest distance between two places; but there are no places or paths for lessons like love, forgiveness, and getting over yourself. Those are long roads you have to walk yourself. Do not skip a step or you may miss it altogether.

It took me even longer to realize that sometimes the act of sorrow is all you have to give. There are no wrong ways to feel, just wrong ways to cope with the feeling. Still I forget and so I say again, there are no wrong ways to feel.

I have now been brought up as far as anyone else can bring me. I do not always feel the things I know. And I do not always understand the things I feel. And yet, the longer I spend trying to feel truth and questioning the why’s and the how’s of feeling, the more I stand by that statement. There are no wrong ways to feel... but my emotions are often malnourished, ignorant, and a little disconnected.

The struggle is to bring all of me into agreement. The struggle is to learn my own coastlines, correct my compass, and learn to sail a new sea. The struggle is to connect and educate all of my emotions in the hope that the daughter I do not yet know if I will have will never have to try so hard to ride my waves, weather my storms, and bring me home.