“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!
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.
Stuff it down
Dress it up
Hang it on a wall
It’s not real
It’s not alive
Can’t feel a thing
It’s not real
But look how life-like
Struck so sudden
Like a truck
He came out of nowhere
Like a door
All the way home
Raccoon splattered a few hours after we said hello
Earlier in the night
I was okay
I was all right
Smash like a truck
I saw your pelt
But your innards were left so far behind
Mad girl taking snaps of a dead raccoon
Howl and heave
Along a dead road
I cried for you raccoon
You and me
Inside innards out
Forgot to look the other way
Street sweepers will come back for you another day
Who will come for me?
And just when you think there’s no way you’re coming back from this one
They puff you right up
Prop you in a fancy pose
Stitch your smiling face back on
Glass eyes stuck
Look how life-like
Look how real she looks
But not really
What she was
Black stain on the pavement
Hymen spilled on his childhood mattress
Thumbnail torn in the hinge of her trailer door
Bobby pin rusting at the bottom of their backyard pool
Twisted in the memory
Hardened by the stuffing
Fur still soft
But not alive
Making me want to cry
Empty painted eyes
So many dead things hanging on these walls
I will never be the way I was
Taxidermy can’t fix this
My insides out
Still on the road
“Underneath the skin there’s a human/buried deep within there’s a human.”