Used to be one of the rotten ones, and I liked you for that.

It’s easy to romanticize what you don’t have, be that security or lack thereof. Lately, I find myself resenting comfort as much as I resented poverty. I’m jealous of the kids like stray dogs, wearing their hunger like a badge of honor. I want to see the sunrise from the other side of morning. I want to drink wine and grow poetry; talk philosophy, and flirt shamelessly with 2am on a weeknight.

Instead, I:

·     Perform mundane office tasks

·     Beat my head against every wall I can find

·     Offer strangers my poetry like a promise

·     Thank people for their time/consideration/cooperation

·     Perform, perform, perform, perform

              

I feel like a coward for living comfortably.

What is courageous? Am I breaking cycles or perpetuating them? How many parallel circles can I run until I’ve eaten up the space between myself and the root of this compulsion to run away from everything I work to obtain? None of this makes any sense.

my specialty is living said a man(who could not earn his bread because he would not sell his head)

Sometimes the right thing happens at the right time and everything makes a little more sense than usual. That’s a really big, vague statement but I’m not sure how else to describe my current state of flux. Last night I visited a friend at the club where she dances a few days a week.

Since moving to Portland I’ve learned to enter strip clubs like I own them. There’s no sense in looking vulnerable. Square shoulders, hands in pockets: 8pm, Wednesday night. Walk straight to the bar. Glance at the stage, but don’t stare unless you plan on tipping. There’s a certain kind of look that exists primarily around food courts, farmer’s markets, and strip clubs. A look of hopeful expectation that makes my skin feel too tight.

When I arrived there were six people in the building. Two dancers, the bartender discussing Jersey Shore with her friend at the bar, one man apparently sleeping in the corner of the room... The dancers were out back, swapping cigarettes and nursing the last drink of the night. I’d come in on the tail end of a 10-hour shift. The girls bantered easily while methodically uncrumpling $1 bills, adding up their earnings.

Pay the house, tip the bartender, cover gas… $7 left. I need another drink. If I’ma be poor, I’ma be drunk.

My friend’s cohort calls herself a coconut; she understands her body as a novelty. She doesn’t have any regulars here. It only takes one to make or break a night. But she’s here for her girls, she loves the girls she works with. I buy her a drink, tell her there are better places to spend her money. She orders a bullet of whiskey, chases it with small swigs of cola.

We sat with a gentleman from Texas. He found his two adult children on the internet three months ago and came north to meet them. He calls me ma’am when he thanks me for his PBR. He’s got a foul mouth and a slow drawl; he could say anything and make it sound pretty.

Pussy? You’ve gotta peel it back and eat it like an Alberta peach.

When he smiles, he holds up a hand to hide his missing teeth, but his smile is beautifully crooked and more than a little drunk. He says he’s earned every scar on his face. He’s weather-worn with sleepy eyes and a quick wit. He doesn’t have time to tell us everything, his ride’s here and he has to stumble out the door.

Girl, I’d like to get a pup out of you because damn would that dog hunt!

The rules bend and blur in that place. Everybody seems so tired. She dances because she lost her identity, literally not figuratively. There’s no romance when you have no escape route.

A little over a year ago I asked Is it arguably as courageous to forfeit all sense of control as to maintain it perfectly?. I’m still not sure how to answer that. The word “courage” comes from the Latin root cor, or heart. The literal translation: honoring truthfully the heart’s innermost desires.

You guys. What does that even mean? Do people actually know their heart’s innermost desires? And when they change, do you uproot everything you’d previously worked for and call yourself courageous? Sometimes my heart’s innermost desire is a turkey sandwich. My heart could be a pendulum, or a compass, or a metal detector depending on whether I need to find something or be found. Or become unlost. Or become.

I keep finding words that aren’t saying what I want to say. Maybe because I’m not sure what to say, except I get scared sometimes and I hope that’s ok. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I hope that’s ok too. Courage is a messy and complicated thing, and it may be a long while before I achieve it. There's no method or plan here. Be patient with me, please? I'll make it worth your time.

I love you all very much.

-b

Open Letter Series: #1

To the ex-heroin addict who needed a ride home:

I was only half kidding when I asked if you were planning to rape and murder me.

See, I have to be consistently aware of this body’s vulnerability. Past experiences have taught me that my sex is risky; something easily stolen or squandered. I am not a safe deposit box or an armored vehicle. I carry my agency like crumpled currency in the soles of my shoes. I spend too much time barefoot. I’ve learned the last line of defense could be my own offensive line of questioning. I arm myself with quips and one-liners. I plot escape routes before I enter any war zone, because retreat is the most efficient means of survival.

But you were the friend of a friend, and maybe it was tequila, or the moon, or a heady flirtation with recklessness. But the way you laughed (eyes closed/head thrown back/mouth open) made me feel safe. Like maybe I could know you. So we walked ten wobbly blocks back to my car. We swathed our hips in swagger, our mouths curled into apostrophe smirks like somehow we could possess Friday night and all of her pronouns. You said: Her. That one wants you. You said: That one? She wants me because of you.

You have a laugh like a cartoon character, something that starts deep inside you like canyon wind stirring rockslides. You talked to me about drugs, Missoula, and women while I navigated down Burnside. On the bridge men and women huddled like stray dogs, tucked into themselves and each other to avoid the worst of the cold. You don’t want to save them. You want to get them good and drunk. Cases of cold beer and a square foot of basement floor, just one night. They could forget themselves for a while, you say. You say Sometimes that’s all anybody can ask for.

There are times I question my decision-making process. Like when you described prison and invited me in for a drink with the same breath. My agreement? Questionable decision.

Thank you for not locking the door behind us.

Thank you for not sitting next to me on your couch.

Thank you for letting me open my own drinks.

Thank you for being trustworthy.

We watched Youtube videos in your basement until your laptop battery died. You called me beautiful and didn’t try to touch me. You introduced me to Tool . I showed you Metric and the Joy Formidable. You are a boy so beautiful I could have kissed you for not trying to kiss me.

Thank you.

-b

[Hello, weirdos. Welcome to the Open Letter Series, where I attempt to write outside of the bounds of longing/nostalgia/depression! These posts will be dedicated to influential strangers, and the feelings they evoke. Lemme know what you think? P.S. you all look beautiful today.]

I've gotta be honest. I think you know.

We’re covered in lies, and that’s ok .

This is not poetry. This is not poetry. This is not poetry.

This is my life: a circle inside a circle inside a circle. Like seven of swords, or summer/autumn/winter/spring, or Demeter and Persephone always looking forward until forward is behind them. Someone once told me mallard ducks love in seasons. I told them That’s gotta be my spirit animal. Because I’ve never wanted a home I can’t burn down. I imagine all mallard ducks are demolition experts with a dramatic flair.

When there’s nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire.

A year and a half ago, I started writing as an act of introspection. I imagined shedding my past like a battered snakeskin, emerging entirely new into a life I could be proud of. Habits are defined as routines of behavior which occur regularly and tend to occur subconsciously. Every time we reinforce a habitual behavior, neural pathways deepen in our monkey brains. Imagine walking through waist deep snow, trudging down the same path, over and over, packing it down tight with the weight of your memories.

Now leave that path wearing your brand-new skin. Call freezing to death a fresh start.

This is not poetry, this is not poetry. This is not poetry.  

I’ve heard honesty is the best policy. Nobody warns you how hard it can be, when you have so many things to say you’re rendered incapable of speaking. I’ve been afraid of the truth, and the things it might do. I’m frequently a casualty of complacency; prone to fits of combustion. November 23, 2011: my front porch, Anywhere Montana. She said It’s strange to think you two aren’t together anymore. She said I hate when you do this self-destructive bullshit.

Lucy. The first time we tried to watch stars fall, we caught the sunrise instead. I decided then that falling is the laziest way to gain admiration. I don’t know how I became so adept at it.

This is not poetry, this is not poetry, this is not poetry.  

Things I meant to say:

·         I’m sorry. I’m broken.

·         You deserve better.

·         I can’t do this.

·         I still love her.

·         Forgive me.

·         I’m an asshole.

What I said: I’ll still be here. I meant it as a promise but it sounded like a prayer. Like a coin on a gravestone to ferry your soul back across the continent. I’m sorry I gave up on religion so long ago. I am not brave, I am not brave, I am not brave. But you know that now. You called me your anchor, but I’m much more fluent in hurricane.

Honesty is the best policy. This is not poetry. This is not poetry.

You deemed people mirrors, a means of reflecting on yourself. I fancied myself a projection, deflecting people away. I think that’s what this boils down to. Don’t ask me how.

You fucked up, kid. I know.

Do you hate yourself that much? Yes.

You’re going to be lonely the rest of your life. I know.

Is that all you have to say for yourself? Yes.

We really wanted to believe in you.

Thank you.

-b

Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby.

I’m the oldest of five children. I was 18 years old and a college freshman the year my youngest brother was born. As such, people expect me to be comfortable around tiny humans, but you guys. I’m just not. Let’s go over the reasons I should never be responsible for your children:

1. When I think something is cute my first impulse is to either tightly squeeze or shake it. Neither action really pertains to responsible childcare.

Cue vigorous shaking. 

2. My ability to communicate with children is on par with my ability to communicate with adults. Minimal. As an adult, I overcome this by studying up on current events and trending topics. You know, develop opinions and common ground, and so on and so forth. But kids are unpredictable. Following their line of reasoning is like chasing an errant rugby ball. For example, a recent conversation I had with my little brother:

Me: So what’s your favorite animal, dude?

Ben: Penguins.

Me: Oh yeah? Why do you like penguins?

Ben: Because they’re cute, and they have big eyes! And hippos. Do you like chicken nuggets? Come jump on the trampoline.

[Note: my baby brother has an endearing speech impediment. For historical accuracy please replace all C’s with T’s and R’s with W’s to reenact this scene. Also, somehow, N’s become D’s. For the record, my name is Bwedda.

Cons to conversations with 6 year olds: no logic or concrete talking points.

Pros: when all else fails, popsicles.

3. Kids hit. Kids hit a lot, and sometimes it hurts and when you ask them to stop they just laugh and hit you some more. Where do you go with that? Obvs the only logical answer is to hit them back, right? Right. Violence is the only answer to violence. Always.

4. My primary response to frustration? Uncontrollable weeping. This condition has plagued me the majority of my life. My throat swells, the space behind my eyes throbs and my lower lip does this horrible, seizure-y tremble thing. It’s the primary reason I don’t coordinate large groups of people, engage in philosophical debates, or learn how to do new things in front of other humans.

Coincidentally, babies also weep uncontrollably!

The last time I officially babysat, my little sister was about 6 months old. [Note: she’s 10 years old now, which is a testament to just how terrible I am with babies.] She started crying approximately ten minutes after my parents left the house. I managed to keep it together through the first hour. I checked her diaper, fixed a bottle, paced and bounced and sang to her. She wasn’t impressed. About halfway through the second hour I decided somewhere dark and quiet might work, since babies are essentially animals. Animals love their creepy little dens.

My parents came home about forty minutes later. My mom found us sitting in the dark on the upstairs couch, both crying quietly, staring into the fish tank. 

The morale of the story: I’m not the best with babies. I’m certainly not the worst either. Chris from Skins is the worst, but that is neither here nor there. What I’m saying is my terror of half-baked humans has long overwhelmed my desire to interact with them. But recently my work friend (whom I tolerate/miss horribly) birthed a 7 lb. baby boy. You guys. He is the sweetest little nugget. He sleeps so much he didn’t even bother to cry when I held him. He’s also freakishly strong, adorably fuzzy and one of my ovaries exploded a little bit when I saw him.

Nobody worry, I won’t be birthing one of my own any time soon. Let’s be honest, I can barely keep That Cat alive.

But I needed to say that I am proud of my friend, and only mildly terrified of her progeny. I would even like to hold him again some day, if she doesn't mind. I hope motherhood is everything she could have asked for, because I think she’s doing a fucking fantastic job of it. All of you who have babies, go hug them stat! But not too tight, ok? Their little brains need oxygen.

All my love, weirdos.

-b