Monthly Archives: June 2013

Anthem: I Am You

Tell me does it move you, does it soothe you, does it fill your heart and soul with the roots of rock and roll.*

There are lots of songs that give me chills. Lyrics reach down my throat and clutch my organs until my eyes water and my breath stops. I’ve been knocked back ,wind lost, words like fire inside me repeating. I am you. I am you. I am you.

Standing in a photo gallery in Tulsa the words play, immediate goosebumps and shared glances. I am you.

Traveling with strangers through hills of California to destination Sunset, live music two shows back to back. Electric, acoustic. I am you.

Borrowing words from songsto etch ink into skin, a permanent mark of the effects of music. I am you.

When you cant get through it, you can listen to it. *

* lyrics by Isaac, Taylor and Zac Hanson.

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Anthem: Sing It If You Know It

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a melodic word
this is my anthem, sing it
rhythmic piece of me

here is a small selection of my words, my anthems,
songs I love more than anything else.

Melanie’s 2013 ANTHEMS Mixtape

“they don’t know what it’s like to love one band, one silly piece of music so much that it hurts” – Almost Famous

Melanie Kristy

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Genevieve’s Cycle Two, Week Three: Anthem

forestpath

Seven a.m. post-sex godiva
chocolates and a blue sky wide
enough  to curl into.
You croon black magic
woman into my ear, tell me
I’m Jessie’s girl, ask me
what I dreamed last night.
Darling, I am in my cowboy
boots and so afraid of gaining
weight, I am an inch away from
your pretty love and trying not to
cram it into my mouth. What
is delicate, what is fragile anymore?
From this vantage point we
are a hundred pieces of the
sharpest glass scraped from one hundred
of the unluckiest, broken mirrors.
Our edges, they are pressed
together like this, like this and you
take my fingers between your teeth.
Turn it up. I’m your radio girl
and last night my dreams were of you,
they were strewn like bread crumbs on
the forest’s path, guiding me
back towards the morning.

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Week Three: Anthem

when you can’t get through it, you can listen to it*

When my favorite band announced the title of their new album would be called Anthem I immediately thought of it as a theme for the Kindred Collective. Music has been a huge part of my life since I was twelve years old and discovered this band. Since then, I’ve had many songs been my own personal anthems, many from that band but so many others. I was extra excited to realize my week coincides with the releases of Anthem (on Tuesday). How appropriate!

An anthem is a song that moves you, an ode to you that describes who you are or what you are. It’s the music that’s inside you, the themes to your world.

Tell me does it move you
Does it soothe you
Does it fill your heart and soul with the
Roots of rock and roll*

Xo. Melanie Kristy

*lyrics and music by Isaac, Taylor and Zac Hanson

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Unfold

 

Image

 

 

Unfold

From child’s pose

Into downward dog

Fold over

Mountain crumbling

Like an avalanche

Swan

Dive forward

Reach

Far out

Ignite the fire

With dragon’s breath

Petals of pain

Peel away from the lower back

Roll down

Rest on strong thighs

Supportive standing legs

Hug knees

Release

Stretch deep

 

 

 

 

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Curled

Curled
I’m a ball
I’m a bed sheet
Folded
Haphazardly
From dust
And
Life

Keep the corners tucked
Rolling through time
Chronologically
Holding my breath
As to not get caught
On debris
And conflict

Can’t stretch
Can’t move
Can’t breathe right

Something’s awry
In this messy pile
Of should haves
And would nots

It’s just you, baby
Controlling your ride
Unfold slow
Or quickly
Maniacally
But do it now

Before you
Can’t breathe
Can’t stretch
Can’t move right
Or at all
Too late
for your roller coaster ride

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Imaginary Taxidermy

Once it was done, it didn’t feel like such an unnatural thing to do to an imaginary friend. I mean people do it to their cats all the time. And cats only are only in your life for a short time, 15 years if you’re lucky. They do it to moose too, and deer, cutting them down like trees, without even so much as a “Hey how’s it going”. They mount their heads on walls of damask and velvet and thick wood panelling. People stand beneath them drinking spirits on rocks and smoking, saying things that don’t really mean anything to anyone, and they just have to be there, absorbing all the smells into their petrified hides, the sounds into their ears stopped up with stuffing, the sights into the orbs of glass eyes.

This makes me feel a little bad about Claude. She’s been a part of my life from my own “Day of Remembrance”; the oldest memory I still have  is of her blowing out the candles on my fifth birthday cake. I’m almost 25 now.
I didn’t choose her. If I’d had the chance to choose, she wouldn’t have been taller than me, she would have had blonde hair, not black as tar black, and she would have been a bit more into books. She would have been named after some sort of flower; Bluebell, or Daphne, or Rose, or maybe even something a little weirder, like Foxglove, or Witch Hazel. But Claude was not the kind of friend you invite into a safe, warm, childhood place. Claude was a force of nature, a spark thrown into my life from a fire burning in some distant (perhaps even parallel) universe, setting fire to the edges of what’s been mapped out for you from the moment you were born.
Her eyes flicker in firelight; glass buttons stolen from the sleeve of an old cardigan. Built up like Frankenstein’s Blythe Doll, she sits with those eyes facing south, and all of her limbs point straight down to the ground. The moon has carved out a hole in the black velvet of the universe, and it casts light upon her, witchy white light rendering her features paler, her black hair bordering on blue. She’s wearing one of my old doll dresses, the sleeveless sheath of dark green velvet with the lace collar, that she had admired so when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I hadn’t wanted to do it. But last week she came to my window, like she does every other witching hour, and said that she was going to leave me. She said that I was getting older, too old for her, and that she needed to go. To find the small sparks of another child’s imagination, and unearth them, like seeds.

“But what if I just don’t let it,” I said. “What if I just shut my mind off to everything, so that nothing gets out, and nothing gets in. We can just stay in the apartment, I can get my food delivered from the organic co-op. We can have slumber parties that last for days, or weeks, and I’ll sell all of my things that aren’t books on eBay so that we can pay the rent. I’ll write books about all the places that don’t exist. And I’ll write books about you!”
Claude had smiled, had swung her legs over the window sill, and had shaken her head so that her black tresses pooled around her like tendrils of smoke.
“It doesn’t work like that, sugar” she said, “It wouldn’t be fair. I arrived to nurture your own spark; it was the brightest, and the strongest that I had ever seen. And we sure did have some wild fun, didn’t we sugar? But now all of it is failing. The colours of your magic are fading, the outside grey is seeping into your mind. Maybe I wasn’t around enough. I’m sorry. I really am. But you’re growing up. And when you grow up, things start to become impossible. That’s no way for someone like me to live, and I’ll be damned before I get myself trapped like a relic in a realm of impossibilities.”

Her voice was thick with pity, and with sadness, and when she said those words, the G-word and the U-word that I have always hated, and have heard often, I felt the heat behind my eyes, the one that made everything seem all red and blurry. Early onset rage, Claude used to call it. “You already are damned,” I said to her.

And I suppose I could try to tell myself that I hadn’t meant to do it, that it had all been accidental, like the time I had accidentally petrified the neighbour’s cat because it scratched my hand. But in my heart I know it’s not true. Honestly, I am happy that Claude didn’t leave. The thought that she will never be able leave me again fills me with a comfort that I have never known. I don’t even mind that she can’t talk; it means I’ll get more work done. All she has to do is occupy that empty space beside me, the one at my writing desk. And if she really wants to speak, can speak through me.

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