Don't Think Twice, it's Alright.

Happy Monday, kittens! I hope your week is off to a better start than mine.

This morning I woke up, gave myself the usual 5-8 minute window to get ready and stumbled sleepily out to my car juggling the usual assortment of odds and ends: backpack, lunch, and composition notebooks. I flung my backpack into the backseat, tossed my lunch on the floor, and settled in for the 40 Monday Morning Commute. That’s when I realized something felt off. That something was my driver seat, which was about three inches too far from the pedals for my stumplegs.

After some thorough investigating, we determined that the Curry girl must have been smoking and driving…

Ok, but really after some thorough investigating I deduced someone ransacked the Biscuit.

Things that were stolen:

·         (1) Longboard, which had been patiently waiting for me to cart her back inside after a long and glorious summer day of riding in the park.

·         (1) Ipod (AKA Baptard) who has been living in the car since I dropped him on a rock and shattered his screen. Pockets were no longer a safe place for him.

·         (7) CDs including Pat Benetar, The Spice Girls, Eminem, a Buffy the Vampire Slayer soundtrack, and several Betterside end-of-season compilations. Those bastards better appreciate the Chuck/Fuck/Marry interlude.

·         (1) Kindle that had gone unused since I read everything my mom pre-loaded on it. I never figured out how to use Dropbox. Sorry mom. 

·         The emergency bandana I kept in my door panel in case I encountered an uncomfortable social situation and needed a confidence boost.

·         A bottle of lavender sleepy-time pillow mist. Don’t ask me why.

·         An envelope full of sentimental notes, postcards, etc. to help me through rough work days.

·         My faith in humanity.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Once More with Feeling?! Dibs. 

 Things that were not stolen:

·         (2) grocery bags full of empty beer cans, assorted receipts, and empty potato chip and/or candy bags. You know, usual car stuff.

·         The sleeping bag I somehow acquired after a night of dancing at Mrs.

·         The Donnie Darko-esque grizzly bear lighter that The Velvet Fog gave me nearly two years ago. This discovery might be the reason I made it through today.

·         The Spice Girls CD cover insert. That’s right. They took that CD, but they were ashamed to be seen with it.

I made the majority of these discoveries while navigating stop-and-go traffic on my way to work. When I got to the Boulevard I called my bank, not because it was necessary but because I needed another human being to know I felt traumatized. I spoke to a woman named Sandra, who didn’t judge me when I got emotional and my voice cracked. She also assured me they’d monitor my account, and wished me all the luck.

I don’t have high hopes of recovering my lost possessions. By “high” I meant to say “any”. But this experience probably taught me something? Like don’t leave shit you love lying around in your car, use it while you have it. Or maybe this is a letting-go lesson, or a material-things-don’t-equal-happiness morale? I hope the person who owns my things treats them well. I also hope they need that lavender pillow mist to sleep at night, because of the gnawing guilt in their stomach region. 

Oh! And I hope my longboard finds its way to a bulldog in need.

Courtesy of: http://bulldogmixes.com/

Love you, weirdos. Go make sure your cars are locked please.

-b

Dances with Bears ...and Other Ways to Lose a Limb.

[Update, October 24 2013

Huge thank you to everybody that has already purchased my book! You’ve all played a huge part in making my writing dreams come true, and I am forever grateful for your support. This announcement is twofold.

First, you can still purchase copies of Bears via etsy. I’ve even given you guys options! Like cardstock vs. glossy cover. Ok. I’ve given you option, singular. They probably make great gifts, coasters, kindling… You guys are creative, I’m sure you can do something with them.

Second, I’m desperate for reviews and feedback. I’d love to know where my books live, who they fraternize with, what’s their favorite breakfast cereal, what feelings do they inspire, so on/so forth. I’d like to assume I’ve rendered you all speechless with my silver-penned poetic skills. But I’d appreciate your constructive criticism more.

Example reviews (for inspiration):

"It's hard to explain but somehow it just works... I love it.." --Anonymous and generous friend

"It makes your mama's heart cry." -- My mama

"You will totally be 'that one poet that walks her capybara around'..." --You know who you are

In conclusion, I love you all and you’re amazing. 

Fin] 

Announcement! 

Hello lovelies. As some of you know I also write poetry. The first week of July I'll be releasing my first compilation of poetic-type things: "Dances with Bears ...and Other Ways to Lose a Limb". 

They'll be on sale for $7-$10 depending on how much they cost to print and how much I like eating that week. If you're interested in pre-ordering: send me an message with your name, address, and preferred method of payment. All pre-orders will get an exclusive, hand-written/illustrated blog in addition to the chapbook. 

So get at me, homies, because I need to start my hand-strengthening exercises now if I'ma be hand-writing blogs. All my love! 

-b

Cover art sneak peek (courtesy of the incredible Sarah Widhalm:

Something Vague that We're Not Seeing

I keep aching like I need to write something, like maybe I could have something to say. Words running around and around in my brain, like model trains or carousel horses. But on fire. Only not like that at all, because that makes them sound somehow dramatic. This is not a dramatic feeling, but maybe a dramatic absence of feelings and I think that is why I need to write. As if the physical act (putting words onto paper/onto my skin/into cyberspace) could bring feeling back like massaging circulation back into cold fingers.

I don’t know where/who I’ve been for the last 30 days. Think about two nights ago: sprawled across my bed telling Lew I feel like a bunch of broken mirrors, reflecting people’s projections with this big hollow empty in my middle. Or like a sieve, people sifting themselves through me, leaving traces that take days to flush from my system. I need time to cleanse my system, because lately it feels so hard to exist in a body, you know? To exist and be fully present in a body that doesn’t feel like home. My head that’s crowded with thoughts I don’t recognize, like I loaned storage space to every person I’ve loved. Now there’s too much and I have nowhere to sleep, so I just keep moving.

There are days I could walk away from every human I know, disregard every single relationship, without missing a beat. Those days, losing everything seems like the only way to find myself again. Today is not one of those days, but the sensation of detachment lingers somewhere, like sinew stretched tight waiting for the breaking point. The recoil would tear a whole through everything I consider Reality. I don’t know how to tell you any of this.

I need you to understand it isn’t always like this. I’m sorry for those days my mouth hurts too much to form reassuring words, or the days my face becomes a funhouse mirror and all my perceptions are skewed. I’m sorry for the days my brain’s a trick door opening on a brick wall. I’m sorry for the week I wore silence strapped to my chest like a bomb, and you still weren’t afraid to hold me.

I don’t know how to make this better, or prevent it, or even if it’s something that needs to be made better or prevented. I don’t know when I stopped talking about my hurt in a way that made any sense. I don’t know when people stopped knowing the things that make me a human being. People used to know things, and I never had to tell them because they were there. They saw it happening and how did I get so far away from my own history?

You asked me: when do we stop telling the story of our scraped knees and wearing our wounds like badges of honor? I answered: when we stopped hurting ourselves with acts of bravery. Well fuck that. You bring me your back bent double by lonely and I’ll show you my tongue full of knots. Look, here is broken glass in my palms. Here is where love feels like splinter my body keeps trying to expel. I’m tired of being a mirror when you are looking for a window. Please, please, please. Teach me how to open?  

-b

Confessions from my Aching Knees

…Or how exercise nearly ruined my life.

Ok, let’s get real. This is actually about how I nearly ruined my life through exercise. I've lived with myself for 24 years, 6 months and 17 days. During this time I've come to terms with three major personality traits:

1) I’m extremely competitive

2) I have no real concept of/patience for time

3) I easily and obsessively become addicted to things

Because these addictions are so easily acquired they tend to have a pretty short shelf-life, which is a good thing. But they also tend to be all-consuming, which is a bad thing. For example, over the past two weeks I watched four entire seasons of Arrested Development. In high school I listened to one Bright Eyes’ album for an entire semester, religiously memorizing not only the lyrics but every subtle nuance of how they were sung. May the gods of parenthood bless my poor mother for the year I discovered Final Fantasy VIII on Playstation (or worse, Harvest Moon).

The process is as follows:

Step 1: Discover really cool new thing

Maybe a friend mentions they just discovered a new band, or the protagonist of the book I’m reading is a cello player. Or a stranger randomly comments that I've really got a way with animals, and have I ever considered training dogs? Show ponies? Circus cats? That first glimmer of potential is the first step down a slippery slope. Suddenly I’m convinced I’m a 24-year old child prodigy. I imagine myself as a rockstar/poet/rugby player with a trained guitar-playing hedgehog.  

Keep in mind these really cool new things are never practical. Additionally, I never consider the improbability of becoming a culinary master or productive entrepreneur overnight.

Step 2: Obsessively research really cool new thing

This step is bark but no bite. I purchase equipment, extensively research, and obsessively daydream. I consider this the honeymoon phase of my addiction. Or maybe the long-distance-dating-but-planning-to-live-together-next-summer phase.

Step 3: DO REALLY COOL NEW THING!

Ok, THIS is the honeymoon phase. When I first start listening to that new band/training my friends’ dogs/competing in that obscure sporting event everything feels great! I've got this fiery motivation to do, and do, and do. I’m capable of tackling every obstacle with debilitating optimism. 

Of course there are setbacks! 
Of course there’s a learning curve!
I can’t be good at everything on the first try, right? 

Any natural talent I possess only serves to prolong the obsession, because obviously yes. Yes, this is the reason I was put on this planet.

At this point the Thing takes over my life. Hygiene falls by the wayside. I go weeks without human interaction outside of the Thing. All progress is dissected, weighed and compared, because competition is a real thing for me. When I’m not doing it I’m talking about it. Initially my friends will mock my dedication. Eventually they’ll consider staging an intervention. Don’t worry, this is where my concept of time comes into play.   

Step 4: If at first you don’t succeed….

Depending on the activity’s difficulty level, I start to get discouraged within 2-6 weeks. I start to question the universe and my place in it. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a professional soccer player after all. I mean, it’s been five days and I still can’t bicycle kick a goal from the half line. This is when my dedication falters because if you can’t do anything well why do it at all? I’m sure that’s how the saying goes.

Step 5: … Drop it like it’s hot.

Cold turkey, bitches. Like it never happened.

That rather lengthy and intimate description pertains to this post, I promise. See, way back in February I attended my very first Beastfit Nation group training session. And just like that: addicted. During the research phase I’d decided to try 2-3 sessions per week, with yoga and distance running as my primary forms of exercise. After my first session, I knew that wasn't going to happen. I went back the next day, and the next, and the next. My fitness improved. I reached training goals. I established friendly rivalries with my training group.

In March they introduced evening classes, and I added a few of those to my weekly routine. By April I was training 8-10 hours per week, but I still wasn't seeing the results I wanted. I started jogging on my lunch breaks. I was afraid to miss a session because I might disappoint my training buddies, or worse: not be able to keep up with them. I was eating and showering sporadically. I wasn't writing blogs or doing laundry at all, because I never felt like I had enough time. When I wasn't working out I was sleeping. I’d crawl into bed exhausted at 8:30 and sleep until my alarm went off at 6am for the morning workout. My social interactions dwindled. Then the injuries started. My back ached after 5 minutes of sitting. My knees were constantly swelling. My calves got so tight that my feet fell asleep every time I ran.

Listen.

Beastfit is an incredible experience. The strength, motivation, and body confidence I learned from Nick and Sergio are invaluable. The Pay it Forward Project has created a platform for human beings to benefit other human beings while bettering their own lives. I’m proud to be associated with the movement, and I’m still participating periodically.

But I let myself get carried away, and I’m paying for it with extreme burnout and a heavy-handed dash of depression. Turns out doing one thing you love, while excluding everything else that you love, is an unhealthy lifestyle. Sometimes I need to stay up writing past 9pm, or drink a glass of wine with dinner, or take time to tweeze my damn eyebrows. These are the things that help keep me sane. I guess I’m trying to say I’ve started eating regularly again. I’ve been writing, showering and spending time with friends. I’ve been to three or four Beastfit training sessions since the beginning of May, and while I’ll probably increase my attendance I’ll do so cautiously. I intend to listen to my body/friends/family when they tell me I’m going too hard.

So hello! Hi! I missed you guys while I was gone, but I have a well-fed, well-rested functioning brain again. The moral of the story: all things in moderation. Or you know, your legs might fall off.  

All my love, day dreamers. I’ll talk to you soon.

-b

P.S. If you are ever in the Portland area, I really do encourage you to check out the Beastfit program. I mean, it doesn't get much better than free right? They cost of each workout: three acts of kindness. You can follow the #beastfitnation #payitforwardproject on Tumblr and instagram.