“Whoa. I just had total déjà vu.” We all recognize it when it’s happening. How is that? What is it? Happens so fast, a fleeting sensation, awareness, connection to… What? A dreamworld? A past life? Another dimension? A glitch in the videogame of life. What is déjà vu to you? What does it mean? Is this real life? Xoxox
Tag Archives: kindred collective
He. His. Him. Guy.
Is this what they think when I’m walking by?
She. Her. Her’s. Chick.
Is that what they think, can they tell I have a dick?
Hey Bro! How it hangin’ guy?
I hope they don’t know I tuck it up inside!
Hey slut! What’s up bitch?
The way women talk to me makes me itch.
What’s up homo? Who’s this dude,
with the fagot face, and the bitch attitude?!
Excuse me please, as I don’t mean to be rude,
but don’t call me by a gender I don’t wish to exude!
What should I call you, sick fucking runt,
which end do you eat on, a cock or a cunt?!
Whatever I eat, my gender won’t say,
but as for what you can call me, you can start with “they”.
I think that I am all grown up and blooming. I think that I am fledged fully, and ready to take womanhood head on. But even now I’m still growing up and out; I can feel my bones lengthen and the skin follow, stretching along to cover them up, to stop them from breaking through at the finger-tips. And if there is more space now, expanded and filled with more blood and more fat and more muscle, why do I feel things falling away? Why is it that I feel like I’m feeling less, even though there is more of me?
I was a teen ten years ago, thin skinned and thoughts thick with uncertainty, with desire to make noise and to remain unseen, invisible. And the joy was so easy to touch, and so easily taken away, sucked out like a vacuum and held from me until I found the conduit that might take me back; the book, the song, the laughter of a friend, the voice of a crush.
Now, everything is soft, and warm, things are good, and comfortable, and I love it, but where’s that vibrant kind of joy that used to be so easy to touch?
I looked for it this past Saturday night, in the places I knew I had seen it before. I looked for it through the smoke, in the bright, pulsing lights, in the low hum of the loud bass. I looked for it, and I got worried because I was straining my atoms but I just couldn’t feel it. I think maybe it was because I hadn’t had enough to drink, and that I needed to open up my hands, (clenched) and my pores (closed) and let the music surge in and fill these new, heavy spaces and lighten them. I shook my body to try and stir something up, but it was all just a soft buzz, stirred and settled and pressing down on my receptors like a thick layer of cloud.
On the Sunday, hungover and sensitive to touch, I lay in my hammock, beneath the oleandar tree; everything was stretched out beneath the sun, and I was writing. I was writing and I knew I was onto something good, because I could feel the familiar surge, the adrenaline that comes with the fast motion blooming of ink on paper, the insect click click click of my fingers on the keyboard. I could see the words, written on the waves of the corrugated tin shed wall, and I was so filled by what I had made with my mind and my hands that I could barely sit still; the hammock rocked as if it were tethered to the masts of a ship, charging through the seething sea.
I felt the joy moving in me, blooming like roses in time-lapse motion.
Is this it? Have I grown into a simpler bliss? I’ve always been skeptical of those people, the ones who fill my Facebook feed with demonstrations of their simple happiness, and that if only we all ate paelio and took more baths and stopped watching reality televsion, then happiness would come so easily, but. What if that’s the place that I’ve grown into? The life of growing my own vegetables and drinking tea instead of vodka sugar and writing, writing, writing. These are the things I want to sink into.
I stretched my bare foot out to touch the the tip of the Aloe I had planted the morning before. The leaves are still thin, a young green not yet ready to practice healing. I remember looking not for joy, but for healing as a teenage girl; I was feeding on the world, devouring the gifts of books, of music, breaking things and running through the suburban darkness like a wild thing, uprooted.
But now, now I am making. I am building something of my own, I am creating a world! I am the one who is planting the flowers, and making the magic. I am still a girl, still growing, not up but into life. I am rooted, but I realise now, that I am not a flower, delicate and easily trampled. I am a girl,who is a garden.
Hey guys! I have chosen this weeks theme to be: Space! You can tackle this one any way you like; outerspace, space as place, as distance, as unit of measurement! Just pick an idea out of thin air and let your imagination go crazy!
You can even write about the tv show Spaced if you like! I really, really loved that show.
After watching a documentary on the devastating industry of Fraking for natural gas I’ve been thinking a lot about water.
Water that my generation takes for granted. Water that my country wastes beyond measure. Water that floods our cities now that the weather is so unpredictable. Water that we buy in bottles because we don’t trust our city’s filtration systems.
Water that makes up who we are.
Water that keeps our cells alive.
It is late at night on the day I am supposed to post the new theme. I had played with a few themes over the last week, and decided on this one this morning. The word reminder is not good enough at describing exactly what made me think of this theme, but it will do. And I suppose it will keep options open, which is always a good thing.
I feel like there must be a German word for what I am thinking of. Something specific, with at least twenty letters in it.
The reminders I was thinking of were of the more fleeting kind. The kinds that cause a spark or twinge. Here are some examples…
- When, as you are dreaming, you realize that you have the most brilliant idea possible and concentrate on soaking up every last detail, but then when you wake up you can almost hear it spilling out of your ears as you scramble to find the pen that rolled under the bed after you knocked it off the nightstand in your sleep. You are devastated. And then, either three hours or three weeks later, someone says a word on the radio and you at least have pieces of the dream back. And okay, maybe now that you’re thinking about it while awake, it’s not as brilliant an idea.
- When the opening note of a song can make you travel through time to one very specific and probably uneventful day that you wouldn’t have had cause to remember otherwise.
- When maybe you’ve had too much to drink, or were too tired to go out but you went out anyway, and weeks later you find pictures on your phone of events you thought you had dreamt. And suddenly you remember the next thing that happened, and the next, and you either grimace or sigh.
- When you write a note to yourself and lose it, then find it later and realize that even that is not enough to make you remember why you did that. Why did I write “Smart Alec” in the middle of a page in my notebook?
- When a scent brings you back to a specific time in your life, or when it reiterates that the life you are living is reality, and not just a plan you have thought of for months.
- When you see someone write something down on a piece of paper and realize they have the same handwriting as your first boyfriend, and anyway where did that mix tape run off to?
- When I was little I was a very eager student, who always wanted to get a word in with the teacher, whether it was a question, a related story, or an answer to a question. Naturally my teachers wanted to give everyone a chance, so I would wait to be called, sometimes feigning patience. How humiliating it was to finally be called upon and completely forget what I was going to say. My mind’s eye would strain, and I could picture a window that was open, like in the school attic in The Neverending Story, with curtains blowing in the wind, suddenly shut. Suddenly quiet. Suddenly the thought was locked outside and I was fogging up the glass as I breathed. In retrospect I would pray for one of these reminders that I’m talking about.
I cannot wait to see what this theme produces. I could probably write a series of books on this. Also, if anyone either knows the right word for this (in English or otherwise), or would like to make one up, please share!