Tuesday, March 31, 2009

bitchier bedside

Oh god, I am in such a terrible mood. I am not sure where this sudden repulsion for life materialized from. I got plenty of sleep last night. I had a very full and exciting weekend. I even ate breakfast this morning, Fruity Pebbles to be specific, which is such a joyous and colorful cereal that a bowl of it really should make me feel better about being a human. Nonetheless, every time the telephone rings I am inclined to chuck it across the room, preferably shattering it into a million tiny plastic unrepairable pieces. Yes, that would be satisfactory. Every pop-up on this broken-down computer releases a torrent of dangerously murderous thoughts. My clothing is uncomfortable. My skin is uncomfortable. The voices and laughter of the ladies in the office sound something akin to nails on a chalkboard. All music I attempt to play is annoying and gives me a headache. My coffee tastes burnt. My hair is making my neck itch. My contacts are attempting to suffocate my eyes. As a female I am prone to blame my irrational emotions on my menstrual cycle but if I were completely honest with myself, I am probably just crazy.

Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious April walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds' irregular babel
And the leaves' litter.

By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover's gestures unbalance the air,
His gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower.
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.

How she longed for winter then!--
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock, each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.

-Sylvia Plath "Spinster"

Sunday, March 29, 2009

miami ultra

friday 5am wake up, Steve Holt!, 90 mph photo booth, richard simmons, penthouse clear, i'm in miami bitch, "are there drugs in this?", free all-access backstage passes, two long epic days, eight different stages, oh hey fergie, phoneless all weekend, 100,000+ people, black eyed peas, the ting tings, shiny toy guns, two full memory cards, too many energy drinks, free VIP bar, DJ tiesto, miami transport, two dollar fun, promptness fail, stolen parking, mango daquiris, wedding crashing, timbaland, deadmau5, LMFAO, Miss Jane, unfortunate drunk dialing, crashing on floors, Robert is Here foodstand, theological bickering, precious lovely friends, jamie, sean & brian, sunday 8pm finally home = Awesome

You looking kinda cute.
Ultra Music Festival 2009

Thursday, March 26, 2009


marriage scares the shit out of me.

Monday, March 23, 2009

beast of this field

Fully armed with weapons--
the destructive tools of craft.
A perversely cunning tongue,
cupped by sultry lying lips.

That Jezebelite temptress.
She is not intimidated.
By you, no longer enslaved.
For she is prepared to Own.

Enigmatically silent words,
will resonate inside of you.
Her red blood runneth cold
or boil tempest-- perhaps both.

The poison of ruthless vipers
is ever bitter to the lips,
but so supple in your hands.
Swept up in the torrent.

Between your thumb and palm,
you had her once-- or could have.
But alas you will no more!
Rosy Siren, hence untouchable.

Her convincing shield of coldness,
Flirtatiousness aloof
Slowly vanity destroyeth.
Entangled by it, you will Fall.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

take it easy

The year is 1994 and I am eight years old. My daddy and I are on the way to Uncle Rob's so I can play with Katie and Cameron. It is a stifling 90 degrees; typical summertime in Salt Lake. He unzips the faded tan top of the red Jeep Wrangler, and stuffs it in the backseat. With his tanned muscular arms, he lifts me up into the front seat, reaching across my lap to buckle me in. He smells like wood chips, pine needles and sweat. “Daddy, can we listen to that one song, pleaseeeee?” I ask. He knows the one, and pushes it into the deck, turning the volume knob all the way up at the same time the engine rumbles to life. She sits alone by a lamppost, trying to find a thought that's escaped her mind. She says Dad's the one I love the most... He backs out of the steep driveway, and I rest my arm on the window, letting my fingers dangle and the wind wrap and tickle across my palm. Darting out onto Highway 15, huge gusts of wind blow in through the absent roof, swooshing my brown hair upward, the individual strands each doing their own unique dance, cooling me from the suffocating Utah heat.

The year is 1999 and I am thirteen years old. A group of us pile into the white GMC van, settling in for our journey home from summer camp. The bus is hot, so we crack open the windows as we merge onto the highway. I lean into Adam’s chest, letting him wrap his skinny dark arms around my stomach. He lets out a contented sigh, the sound of a boy who is exactly where he wants to be. I sigh in exasperation, close my eyes and pretend to drift asleep. His arm is heavy across my chest, causing the sweat to drip down my stomach and soak into the top of my khaki shorts. I want to shrug it off but I don’t. I too am tired. Besides, I need to keep up this stupid charade. I strain to hear Josh talking in the seat behind me, whispering quietly to Tiffany. I hate her. FIF is blasting from the van’s weak speakers, and the wind keeps mussing up my hair. Dear Father, I need you, Your strength my heart to mend. I want to fly higher, Every new day again... Despite my efforts, I cannot hear Josh’s words over the music. I give up and settle into Adams chest. This will become a trend in my life. It is not what I really want, but it will do. For now.

The year is 2003 and I am seventeen years old. After backing the car into the sandy beach Josh stops his dad's Cherokee and pops the hatchback. He clambers in, moving his guitar over to the side and arranging pillows and blankets across the floor. He pulls a white rose from his guitar case and hands it to me shyly. With shaking hands I take it nervously, smiling genuinely. He helps me into the back and we turn to face the indescribable beauty of the sunset. Josh strums a quiet background to my thoughts, my favorite song. I fear this love reaction, just like you said I would. A rose could never lie, about the love it brings... He picks through the love song, and then rests the guitar against the seat, reaching for my hand and lacing his fingers through mine. Brilliant hues of pink and orange paint across the sky, and the sound of the lapping waves is soothing. Leaning into the pillows, Josh's arm draped around my shoulders, I close my eyes and breathe in the perfect innocence of the moment. I cannot think of anywhere else I would rather be in the entire world, than here with him. Right now.

The year is 2005 and I am nineteen years old. I push Carlos out of my way, and run through the front door slamming it behind me. I sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time as the tears streaming down my face blur my vision of the Lake Claire parking lot. I unlock my car and jump in, flipping through my CD case to find the one thing that will feed my fury. In Love and Death screams through the speakers and I crank it up, rolling down the windows. If we cut out the bad well then we'd have nothing left, like I cut up your angels, yeah you stabbed me to death...I want him to hear, to feel the sincerity of my wrath. Sure enough as I peal out of the parking lot, leaving behind long black skid marks on the asphalt, I glance up to the third floor and I see his face fill the window, shadowed by the darkness. We'd had another fight and perhaps this one was the last. Furious words were shouted, each one dripping with more disdain and hopelessness, verbal grenades reverberating off the whitewashed dormitory walls. Our relationship had always been volatile, marked that way from the beginning. I scream along with the band as I merged into traffic on I-4. I don’t have anywhere to go, but I need to drive. Fast. Protected by the iron and steel body of the Oldsmobile my music screeches out of the speakers. Deafening. The outside world whips by the window and I ignore it all, forgetting everything. For now.

The year is 2007 and I am twenty-one years old. “You’re driving” I say as I toss Andrew the keys. He opens the door for me, and I curl into a ball in the passenger seat, wrapping my arms around my legs trying to warm my body. I brush the sand off my feet. He walks around to the driver’s side and turns the heat on extra high, angling all the air vents towards me. We had just spent the cold December night at the beach, wrapped in blankets, singing and dancing in the moonlight. A wonderfully spontaneous evening under the stars. I lean across the seat and kiss him hard, running my fingers through his blonde hair. He is so beautiful. He smiles that perfect grin. With his blue eyes twinkling he picks up my iPod and after scanning through the artists he finally comes to rest on Marvin Gaye. He holds my hand and sings to me in his soulful pitch-perfect voice. We’re all sensitive people with so much to give. Understand me sugar, since we got to be, let’s live... I laugh, kissing him on the neck, momentarily distracting his attention from the road. I lean back in the seat and rest my feet on the dash. It won’t last. Saccharine smooth-talking never does, the shallowness shows eventually. But he’s gorgeous and charming and he makes me feel pretty. It won’t last. But for now, it will do.

The year is 2009 and I am twenty-two years old. I wake up slowly, pack my things, grab my car keys and hit the road. I drive too fast, but I am skillful and confident; whipping around the slow-moving trucks and hopelessly lost tourists. It is a balmy 85 degrees and all four of my windows are rolled down. I pull out onto 1-4 and the wind catches my hair, twisting it into a messy red knot that I will assuredly regret later. But right now I don’t care. The Eagles are blasting through the speakers, forever my comfort music, as I leave Orlando behind in a bitter trail of dust. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. Lighten up while you still can, don't even try to understand. Just find a place to make your stand, and take it easy... I am stressed, and tired, and lonely. But tomorrow will worry about itself. Right now I want nothing more than this exquisite tango of rubber and pavement. For the next two hours I will relinquish my fears and insecurities. I will forget their faces and I will find my community in these lyrics. I will wink at my fellow patients of the road, relax in the therapy of the drive, and sing unabashedly at the top of my lungs.

home sweet home

I feel like I am running away.
From what, I am not sure.

Palm Harbor till Saturday.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

because I love you...

...and few things bring me greater joy than this video.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

the lovely broken

*The world is broken, and it broke me. These words have resonated in my mind for the past few weeks. The world is broken. It broke me. I AM broken. My heart has been broken a few too many times, my faith is constantly being tested, my resolve is steadily weakened. I am jaded, bitter, cyncial and skeptical. I have been trampled on and walked over. I exist in these mundane day-to-day moments because I have to, because there is no visible escape and I genuinely have no choice. The sun still rises bringing the dawn, whether or not I want it to. The minutes tick by, some more slowly than others, and I cannot speed or still this time. I am not depressed, I am unmotivated. I have nothing driving me to waken, to dress, to move. And in this mundane existence I find myself broken. I am left to the malicious devices of my thoughts or the unpredictability of fickle emotions.

However, this nature of brokenness has allowed me to see the shattered pieces of the world. I have shed the distractions of self-preservation; the unpredictability of my own reality has cleared my normally clouded vision. I find myself less irritated with people, better able to love them in their current state. Their pain hurts me. Their joy brings me joy. My opinions of others are no longer shrouded in a false-superiority. Because I am my own brand of mess, I can see their mess for the complex beauty that it is; unique constellations of attributes and flaws. When my circumstances are stable I only see people as wallowing in their own filth and misery and sin, so I lash out in frustration and judgment. Now, I understand brokenness because I am visibly so. I clearly see this broken world, because I am broken too. So my dear friends, in all your broken glory, you are perfect to God and you are perfect to me. And I will love you, just as you are.

“Let's not just talk about love; let's practice real love. This is the only way we'll know we're living truly, living in God's reality.” –1 John 3:18 (The Message)

*kate lynch brilliance cred.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

stifling atmosphere

“For my part, I am going to boast about nothing but the Cross of our Master, Jesus Christ. Because of that Cross, I have been crucified in relation to the world, set free from the stifling atmosphere of pleasing others and fitting into the little patterns that they dictate. Quite frankly, I don't want to be bothered anymore by these disputes. I have far more important things to do, like the serious living of this faith.”
-Galations 6: 11-17 (Message)

I wish I could breathe only this.

shout out

This is my best friend.
She writes really good shit.
She also makes super cute babies.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

do your magic

"We cannot attain to a vision, we must live in the inspiration of it until it accomplishes itself. We get so practical that we forget the vision. At the beginning we saw it but did not wait for it; we rushed off into practical work, and when the vision was fulfilled, we did not see it."
-Oswald Chambers
I am so practical that I forget the vision. For those of you fluent in Myers-Briggs-ish you can immediately get a sense of what I am talking about when I tell you that I am an ISTJ (Introverted Sensing with Extraverted Thinking). As the “duty fulfiller” I tend to have a strong internal sense of responsibility. I am organized and methodical in my approach to life situations. Basically, I am boring and predictable, but I will get the job done! Just kidding. Sort of.

Please, let me explain.

I never impulse-buy or make plans beyond my means. I am obnoxiously frugal. I am good with my money, and I tend to freak out if my bank account dips below a certain amount. Really, I lose my shit. I do not undertake tasks that I think I might possibly fail at, which is why I did not write for years. I did not think anyone would care to hear what I had to say. I chose a career path based on its assumed “security.” (Ah, what crap that turned out to be... thanks, economic recession. Perfect timing, really.) I hate to take risks when it comes to relationships because there is the possibility of rejection, which I equate to failure. That why I tend to return to the old familiarities of those relationships already established. A dog to it's vomit. At least it's familiar vomit. I could go on and on. Lately, God has been beating me over the head with the same concept. Basically he says…
“Megan, stop being so damn practical all the time, and just live in the gifts I have given you. WAIT. Just live in my inspiration. ASK for my inspiration. WAIT and ASK. Wait and ask. Wait and ask. Wait and ask...”
(I am pretty certain that He says it like that in heaven, sighing in exasperation and rolling His eyes at me. God, I really hope so.)

Sounds simple right? Humph. Well, no. Waiting and asking are the two hardest things in the world for me to do. I have never been a procrastinator. I was that jerk in high school that was done with the book report two days after it was assigned, just because I would rather get it out of the way than have the impending doom of the deadline hanging over my head. When I moved into my new apartment in Winter Park, not only did I move all my shit over there in one day... I had the entire place DECORATED before I went to bed that night. I don’t wait. I hate to wait. Waiting makes me a crazy-stressed-insomniatic-bitch. So okay, God. You want me to wait. Cute. I’m already in a bad mood.

What?!? I’m supposed to ask too?
Now You’re just being smug.

Okay, I know that asking for God to show his purposes and plans for your life seems like a completely reasonable and common-sense “Christian-y” thing to do. I know all the verses about asking. Zechariah 10:1, Matthew 7:7-11, Luke 11:9-13, John 14:13, John 15:7… need I go on? The common thread is obvious. “Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full” John 16:24. I get it. I know all that. But I am fiercely independent, bordering on arrogant. Reconsider the analogy about the high school book reports that I gave earlier… If that were a group project, not only would I have finished it well before the appointed due date, I probably did the whole thing myself, in an effort to avoid asking my classmates for help. I can do it better anyways. I prefer to work alone. I don’t ask for help and I don’t work well with others.

I have had a job since I was 13-years old when Winn-Dixie hired me as their “cart-girl” (keeping it classy). Not one day since then have I been unemployed. And now after slaving away at the university for four years, making excellent grades and throwing myself into my education, I have nothing to show for it. Except student loan debt and additional stress. I was passed over for a job that I was better qualified for because of nepotism. I can just barely pay my bills. Savings are gone. Nothing supresses my soul more than having to be dependent on others. Or God, for that matter. Which is stupid, and makes no sense, and I know that. I just have nothing to give anymore and I am so exhausted.

Okay, I’ve been rambling. If you're looking for a point I apologize because I'm pretty sure there isn't one. I am stuck. I don’t know where to go from here. I’m floundering about this life, fucking up just about everything in the process. I live and eat and breathe and struggle to get by, but that is the sum of my existence. If life is a highway then I am completely drunk at the wheel. So for lack of any better options and because I have exhausted all my futilely pathetic efforts to control my own life, I acquiesce.

God, I am asking. Do your magic.
You’re better at this than me.
I will just be here. Waiting.

Oh, and God? I'll try really hard not to whine so much.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

scientists and lovers

I am going to start researching the science behind love.
Why the hell not? I will write about it later.

We were all basically alone
And despite what all his studies had shown
That what's mistaken for closeness
Is just a case of mitosis
And why do some show no mercy
While others are painfully shy?
Tell me doctor, can you quantify?
He just wants to know the reason why...

Monday, March 9, 2009

she wept

She holds herself together on the short walk to the car. The dimly lit neighborhood street seems to stretch forever. Staring down at the silver heels, her rapid steps thud rhythmically on the weather-worn gravel. Choosing her steps carefully, daintily dodging the many potholes and heat cracks. Propelled forward. Left, right, left, right. The back of her throat prickles with the dull indescribable pain of a Thousand Tears suppressed. Grabbing her elbows, she folds her arms across her chest squeezing tightly to assuage the aching pulse of her heart.

Fishing the car keys out of her purse she doesn’t even look up from the shoes. The ground is blurry, liquid glass windows obstructing her view of the silvery sodden footwear. Fumbling with the keys, she unlocks the driver side door and collapses into the seat. Shoving the key into the ignition, she kicks the car to life, the engine sputtering. Music fills the car in an instant, those mournful lullabies of jilted lovers.

That was all it took, a few harmonious notes.

The sob catches in her throat. Followed by the Thousand Tears. One by one they spill over her lashes, dark mascara-stained rivulets streaming down her face, pooling at her chin and falling onto her lap. Tiny waterfalls.

She collapses her forehead into shaking hands, fingers tugging at her bangs, nails ripping the flesh of her scalp. She doesn’t even bother to wipe her cheeks. The salty rivers continue their silent journey, trickling down her forearms and soaking her sweater sleeves. Each river leaving behind unpredictable lines of grey on her porcelain skin. These tears hold meaning. Each one has a history, an exhausted acquiescence of failure. Her tears are cleansing, carrying away the blackness that shrouds her vision. Dirty symbols of human brokenness. Fear, anger, rejection, apathy, unworthiness, heartbreak, resentment, loneliness.

Each emotion of this sinful condition, concealed in it's own watery capsule, muddied by her vanity. Filthy with conceit.

"Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts." -Charles Dickens

Saturday, March 7, 2009

afternoon repose

Dripping shards of yellow light
Streaming through these open blinds
Sounds drone hum of city round
Accede to sleep, refuse to fight
Dreaming dreams. The panicked sort
Of friendships lost and love alone
Behind closed eyes I see this sign
Painful looks and time cut short

Friday, March 6, 2009

holding my breath

My community has just recently delved into the idea of “holistic ministry” as an approach to our spiritual health and well-being. I love this concept, and I was really stoked when we made this shift. However, the more I think about my excitement I realize it stems from a place of fear and selfishness. I like the idea of addressing my relationships, gifts and talents, finances, emotions, and physical life because it requires me to make tangible step-by-step changes in my life. Devoid of any real interaction and communion with God. As I sat down and flipped through the pages of our Relent & Respond journals I realized I was approaching it with the same mechanical methodical mindset that I read self-help books. I ask, what is my problem and what can I do to fix it? See. Infer. Conclude. Solve. I have not entered God into the equation at all. Oh, how I dread the Spiritual Practices week.

Sometimes I question whether I am truly even a Christian. What does that even mean? I do not question the existence of God or the basic tenants of this faith. I can argue intellectually my belief in a higher power. However, I never do anything I about it. I don't even attempt. I exist here, festering in His Grace, making a complete mess of things in the process. I struggle so deeply with a desire to control my life, so I don’t pray because the answer might not be one I want to hear. I think it is amusing how I am in the middle of writing this blog about faith (or lack thereof) and I get a phone call from a stranger, offering her services to me in helping me find a teaching job. The catch: she does not work in Florida. Faith. Do I have any at all?
Perhaps I should pray about it...
“Joy comes from seeing the complete fulfillment of the specific purpose for which I was created and born again, not from successfully doing something of my own choosing...We each need to find a niche in life, and spiritually we find it when we receive a ministry from the Lord. To do this we must have close fellowship with Jesus and must know Him as more than our personal Savior”

Oh hey Oswald Chambers, thanks for the kick in the ass.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

the awakening

When I read any significant literature I almost always have a pen in hand. I underline powerful lines, jot notes, and deliver compliments to the author (I am quite certain the Orlando public library appreciates this). As I scribble, I fester in my supreme jealousy over the powerful ease these authors have in painting glorious pictures of our (human beings) strongest emotions. Through their strategic placement of words they construct sentences that rekindle past emotions, flaring them up again like they parted. Hatred, love, lust, passion, despair, hopelessness... Anyone can describe a setting. It takes a deeply intelligent person to understand human emotions, and then a literary genius to convey them properly through written word. I envy this talent.

With that said, I just finished reading Kate Chopin's The Awakening. This novel is about an obedient wife and mother who through a series of events and relationships is "awakened" to the stifling reality of her life, both sexually and emotionally. Stuck in a loveless marriage, painfully bored at 29, she sheds the conventions of her time and begins a liberating quest for her own independence. It was released 1899 and received awful reviews at the time. While reviewers acknowledged Chopin’s masterful literary technique, they were absolutely shocked with the protagonist’s independence and sexual liberation. Women simply didn't talk like that. While exploring the pages, I found it compelling that the emotions she describes in her book, the romantic infatuations, unexpected moodiness, her boredom (bordering on depression)... these are emotions that I feel every day. Women have always been the same, whether oppressed by social conventions or fear of retribution has blocked their voice. True, we have variances in personality (just ask my friend Kate about Myers-Briggs) but literature is the most effective medium in guiding us to understand our common behaviors as humans. These words transcend.

“An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar: it was a mood.”

“She was still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an obsession, ever pressing upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled any special or particular way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity that filled her with an incomprehensible longing."

“There were days when she was happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole body seemed to be one with the sunlight, the colors, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and be alone and unmolested. There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why, when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly towards inevitable annihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.”

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

december's gravity

You got under my skin. You scratched and pulled and clawed your way through. And now I am stuck in your gravity, pinned to these thoughts and unanswered questions. My head tells me it is stupid, that there wasn't enough, that I knew better all along. My head assures me that it isn't reciprocated, it never was. My head says I grew up and forgot your name. My head says I took a deep breath and forgave you. My head is smart. My head knows better. And on the good days, my heart believes my head. So I laugh and crush and dance and flirt; spinning circles round my heart, moving too fast to notice the tug and pull. But then I hear that song, or I dream that dream, your laughter bounces off these walls, and your gravity stifles me again. You hold me without chains and nothing is taking me down. Except you, my love.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

witching hour

The lilted bloom
of spring approach.
Dark batting lashes,
flirtatious smiles.
Once music enchanted
now platonic endures.
Whistle and lyric
and laughter bound.
Efficacious rhymes
echo dancing feet.
In witching hour--
midst swirling storms.
Toothy grins from
cheek to cheek.
I dance, I dance!
Across your face
Over you and under you,
I spin and tap
and clap in time.
Treading and twirling
These violent stilts,
Aloft our parting hearts.