That's actually not true. I had one poem I wrote 6 years ago published in a weekly magazine in Livingston, Mt. It still feels kind of cool, though. I just wish they had chosen one of my better pieces.
Follow this link and scroll down to see "Fishing Trip," my silly, small biography.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
At Various Peaces
I have always been someone with too many friends. Living in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia where I know no one save Drew's parents and my (and I use the term "my" loosely) time-share dog, that statement is no longer valid. When I was in high school I not only had Alice (who's been a fixture in my life since I was 7) but dozens of other friends spanning the pot-smoking drama freaks to the pot-smoking, mushroom-eating String Cheese Incident fans, to the over-exercising, lacrosse-playing, melodramatic, Prada purse-owning crowd; not to mention several love interests-turned gay guy friends.
In college, by either good fortune or some incredibly fortuitous twist of fate, I fell into a group of friends so awesome I couldn't possibly have asked for better. We ate, drank, smoked illicit cigarettes (or at least, I coerced several of you into smoking illicit cigarettes while my FCA contingent wasn't looking), took classes, argued, prayed, disavowed religion, questioned, cried, vacationed, tried on several different identities, and grew up together. Then most of us moved to DC and the fun, though necessarily changed by the real world, resumed. Even when I moved to Montana, after several unsuccessful attempts to meet friends, I found one who I hung out with several times a week until we both moved away. I've always felt like the people in my life and the opportunities to enjoy them exceeded the hours in a day, but here I sit, for the third straight day, alone in my apartment. (Incidentally, those who know that I HATE working out will be amused to know that my only break from studying has been doing horrible work-out videos in my living room.)
I've been thinking of all of this because of a look on a grocery store clerk's face this afternoon. After ringing up ONE steak, ONE potato, ONE crown of broccoli, one small, pathetic bunch of flowers, ONE box of brownie mix, and FOUR bottles of wine, the corners of her mouth turned up in an unmistakable smirk. I felt like explaining immediately, "Wait, it's not what it looks like! I have lots of friends! They just don't live here!" But instead, I looked away, pretended that she wasn't thinking that I must be an insane, cat-loving wine-o, and and loaded my reusable bags into my car only to go home, drink alone, and write on my blog. Jesus, who have I become? I used to double-book myself for social engagements so often that my friends thought I was the world's biggest flake.
Even when Drew was here, the anxiety over whether or not I would find people here with whom I clicked was edging near my consciousness. He popped open a beer in July before he left, and under the cap it said, "Be at Peace not in Pieces;" he handed it to me, saying "Hey, this is perfect for you." For the last few months that beer cap has sat on the ledge above my bathroom sink, greeting me every morning and evening when I brush my teeth. It's a mantra I've held for some time now, but didn't have Magic Hat #9 to put it into words for me. There was a time, when I was working as a Youth Minister, and when I was still sick with an eating disorder, that my life was in pieces and I wasn't sure how to fit myself together in a way that made sense: if beer has any cosmic significance at all, I assumed this fortune-beverage was given to me to highlight all the hard work I'd done to be "whole" over the last few years. Yet, since I've been staring at it, I've wondered what else is making me feel like I'm not at peace?
And today, thanks to said many-pierced, obnoxious, tattooed, 19-year-old, probable-red-neck, grocery store clerk, and her stark reminder of how alone I really am in Staunton at the present moment, I realized what makes me feel separated from myself is that I'm separated from the people that remind me who I am. I feel as though parts of me are spread equally between Montana, DC, Leesburg, Charlottesville, St. Louis, New York, Nashville, and Oregon (Caitlin, whatup). Perhaps it's a good thing to have small pieces of yourself spread out across the country. I can't apologize for investing deeply in relationships, and I obviously don't regret anything or anyone I've encountered in the last several years. It's an unfortunate reality that I find myself a little sad, and 2 glasses of red wine deep while writing to you all via a blog, but at least I know that you'll appreciate my jokes, wish we were drinking wine together (except Carrie who'd down a miller lite, or Noof who is STILL pregnant nearly a week after her due-date), and most of you would either empathize with my pathetic state, or want to smack that idiot girl at Martin's grocery store for me. Life could be much, much worse than what I've got going on. I just miss you all, and hope that you're all happy, and reading my blog (preferably also drinking) from wherever you are.
In college, by either good fortune or some incredibly fortuitous twist of fate, I fell into a group of friends so awesome I couldn't possibly have asked for better. We ate, drank, smoked illicit cigarettes (or at least, I coerced several of you into smoking illicit cigarettes while my FCA contingent wasn't looking), took classes, argued, prayed, disavowed religion, questioned, cried, vacationed, tried on several different identities, and grew up together. Then most of us moved to DC and the fun, though necessarily changed by the real world, resumed. Even when I moved to Montana, after several unsuccessful attempts to meet friends, I found one who I hung out with several times a week until we both moved away. I've always felt like the people in my life and the opportunities to enjoy them exceeded the hours in a day, but here I sit, for the third straight day, alone in my apartment. (Incidentally, those who know that I HATE working out will be amused to know that my only break from studying has been doing horrible work-out videos in my living room.)
I've been thinking of all of this because of a look on a grocery store clerk's face this afternoon. After ringing up ONE steak, ONE potato, ONE crown of broccoli, one small, pathetic bunch of flowers, ONE box of brownie mix, and FOUR bottles of wine, the corners of her mouth turned up in an unmistakable smirk. I felt like explaining immediately, "Wait, it's not what it looks like! I have lots of friends! They just don't live here!" But instead, I looked away, pretended that she wasn't thinking that I must be an insane, cat-loving wine-o, and and loaded my reusable bags into my car only to go home, drink alone, and write on my blog. Jesus, who have I become? I used to double-book myself for social engagements so often that my friends thought I was the world's biggest flake.
Even when Drew was here, the anxiety over whether or not I would find people here with whom I clicked was edging near my consciousness. He popped open a beer in July before he left, and under the cap it said, "Be at Peace not in Pieces;" he handed it to me, saying "Hey, this is perfect for you." For the last few months that beer cap has sat on the ledge above my bathroom sink, greeting me every morning and evening when I brush my teeth. It's a mantra I've held for some time now, but didn't have Magic Hat #9 to put it into words for me. There was a time, when I was working as a Youth Minister, and when I was still sick with an eating disorder, that my life was in pieces and I wasn't sure how to fit myself together in a way that made sense: if beer has any cosmic significance at all, I assumed this fortune-beverage was given to me to highlight all the hard work I'd done to be "whole" over the last few years. Yet, since I've been staring at it, I've wondered what else is making me feel like I'm not at peace?
And today, thanks to said many-pierced, obnoxious, tattooed, 19-year-old, probable-red-neck, grocery store clerk, and her stark reminder of how alone I really am in Staunton at the present moment, I realized what makes me feel separated from myself is that I'm separated from the people that remind me who I am. I feel as though parts of me are spread equally between Montana, DC, Leesburg, Charlottesville, St. Louis, New York, Nashville, and Oregon (Caitlin, whatup). Perhaps it's a good thing to have small pieces of yourself spread out across the country. I can't apologize for investing deeply in relationships, and I obviously don't regret anything or anyone I've encountered in the last several years. It's an unfortunate reality that I find myself a little sad, and 2 glasses of red wine deep while writing to you all via a blog, but at least I know that you'll appreciate my jokes, wish we were drinking wine together (except Carrie who'd down a miller lite, or Noof who is STILL pregnant nearly a week after her due-date), and most of you would either empathize with my pathetic state, or want to smack that idiot girl at Martin's grocery store for me. Life could be much, much worse than what I've got going on. I just miss you all, and hope that you're all happy, and reading my blog (preferably also drinking) from wherever you are.
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