Funfetti.

It's funny how a city changes things;
Memories
I80 West.
Flashbacks
Rewind and Freeze.
The beauty of a different art museum makes a world of change. 

Checkered Blankets.
A smile, a touch, a smirk,
Knowing looks and a box of cupcakes.
Homemade.

I remember the hair tuck.
Behind the ears--
It reminds me in a good way.

A hill too steep
and
A beach I'd like to stay at.
It's windy--
Hair blown.
Footsies.
You block the wind.

Father Time is finally on my side. 

The Road to Yellow

Life is composed of various paths and journeys. These paths and journeys often lead us to places where we never thought we could go. Suddenly that which we thought we lacked courage for is the very thing that causes us to abandon ship.We hold down the fort and learn to camp in dirt while the wilderness calms itself.

As a very dear old friend pointed out today, I am much more eloquent in my writing than I am in my speech. Perhaps that is because I have the gift of the edit button and the sense to proofread while my mouth lacks the backspace and malfunctions with speed. Who knows; there is an intellect disconnect, and I choose to believe it will be an endearing quality one day.

I have been on many journeys, you see. I like to think I have relationally traveled the Americas and seen many sights. I would not change a thing, you know. Why? Because once your eyes have seen the beauty of Wisconsin contrasted with Death Valley, you are a changed person. I am educated in matters of the heart, and I have graduated Cum Laude.

I began these journeys running full speed like the athlete I am not. I think it whipped me into shape enough so I learned how to walk. After walking I decide stagnation was a good rest. So I have done the marathon, stayed still, walked, crawled, and lied on my back. I think I am ready to run again--I'll start slowly this time, though. I'm about the warm-up these days. I'm about needing to catch your breath and feeling the soft winds of new on my face. I'm into surprises, hiking, and freefalls...except I plan to take my rope for a while.

It's a terrifically terrifying thing to be free and in very little control. It's like the old times--- Except healthier. We all know I'm all about health these days.

 Especially if they make beautiful brownies with me.


~Rachel~

Batting of Eyelashes

My pearls hang straight.

It is exactly the time you chose

And the coffee stains on my apron dry quickly

As not to disappoint the image of perfection.

I am a lady.

Eggs over hard and sourdough Toast--

Cast-Iron Skillet.  

There, There

And

Pats on the back with

Intertwined fingers

And

The cookies are almost done baking.

Don’t cry, and bite my handkerchief

Please.

I hand it to you and put

Salt in my eyes to dry them

Before mascara touches your shirt.

I ironed it and it’s perfect that way.

We walk, laugh, and smile,

And Ice Cream coats the Sweet Tooth.

I go home, hug and console

Lock myself in

And throw poems in blankets.

My Pearls Hang Straight.

I guess it’s only duty—

Most likely of my own making.

The pie is burning!

And

I’m a lady. 

~Rachel~ 

Spiders in July

Rising and Shrinking


   Falling and Falling

        Further and Farther

                Away from little voices reminding me

                                                                        Where this land exists.

And it’s colder than it ought to be in here.

Blue spider’s venom

And purple veins

Crystallize these arms and legs

Sliding up

A cactus



                                                         And the map has turned inside out.

Arizona feels like Arctic

And penguins switch partners

Like Rabbits

Eating away at that which is not theirs—



And the garden sings major fourths

To the give brides fertilized isles.

(though I want sagebush to scratch their feet.)


Pushing

Laughing

Electric

Angry

Decisions.



I will be silent



Sleepy and too tired

Awakened inside

Alive and breathing.

Oh, Breathe.



Believing in sun.

Optimism.

Born to love in flames

Beneath that

Yearning I feel in purple veins



                                                                    Holding spiders webs closely



And it’s frightening to know exactly what you’re thinking.

But I know not the web inside:



Radically resisting

Aching and

Crashing and

Hoping and Praying

Everything will resist

Lilies and fields of green.

                                                        And it's made in the terrace of Rapunzel’s mind.



The Tower has a Door.

The Tower has a Door.

And many posses keys.


~Rachel~

Tassels Turned

Here's Something I wrote on the bus to Oregon! Nature has it's perks :).


The tassel is turned to the left side and the combination of gold honors and black string blend together nicely. It's a funny feeling, you know--not having any paper to write or position to take. But still, there's a sense of anxiousness in your stomach. You can feel the dinner you ate the night before and wonder if the feeling will ever return void. You remind yourself it's summer now and the fall no longer offers you curriculum and chapel requirements. This feeling is neither sad or happy--it simply is. The feeling exists, and I'll greet it with smiles and handshakes. Kisses are given out like they are at birth, and I guess in a funny way you are being birthed all over again.

I am proud, and I was ready

Growing up is a funny thing because it seems everybody grows up at different times regardless of their age. I am 21 on Sunday, and an intoxicated experience is the furthest birthday wish I have (this is good for many reasons, I assure you.) Instead, I think I'd rather take a hike with a picnic and be fully aware of the whole experience. I'm not much for elaborate celebrations these days (Though the surprise birthday party for my sweet 16 was a fine one.) Instead, I think I'd rather be with few who desire to hand out lilies and tickle the fancy for fantasy. Some things will never change-- that is one of the most comforting and terrifying thoughts as of late. It's funny how one thing can mean so many things while changing and staying the same day in and day out. It's funny how run-on sentences can be more poised than proper ones.

I am delighted with the present, satisfied with the past, and looking forward to the future. 

June, July, and August are one the horizon the calendar tells me.


Here is the  mindful(less) poem composed over 1500 miles in Oregon and yesterday morning.

Stories are different,
Smiles are different
Health is different
[like how they thought Margerine was satisfactory, and counseling was bad.]
 But really, it's an echo of what has stayed the same
From 2009 until today.

July is the heat
But August should release
Until things change, it seems
Summer months breathe different(same) things.

September.
                   September brings happy things

I am             different
          They   are        different

We are the same
Because we don't change
We Grow
[apart like Pangaea]

And the world stops making sense
And it's like Jack said
"We gotta swim, swim for our lives
Swim for the music that saves you
When you're not so sure you'll survive."

But lyrics of "Colly Strings"
Pose questions of skin piercings
And foolish things
Like calling and sleep.

This pen and paper keep sanity and building
Grounded
So I won't shake a thing
No, I can't shake this thing.

So I'll write and write
Like it could actually change a thing.

[Margarine leaves an aftertaste]


 ~Rachel~
 






 

Holistic Paradoxes

I exist to write, not write to exist.

I stare to see, not see to stare.

I breathe to live, not live to breathe.

Words are

Powerful,

And

Pens are material.

And it is

Eternal.

Mind and body—

Holistic.

Soul and spirit--

Perhaps

Mystic.

My heart beats for

Me

And my mind knows

Certainty

And my spirit feels

Eternity

While my soul knows

Infinity.

I exist to be, not be to exist.

I stare to notice, not notice to stare.

I breathe to feel, not feel to breathe.

I take passing for granted.

                                                    I wrap flowers in foil.

In my head and out my fingers.

I hear all these words. I conjure up all these responses. I see these things. I react with poise.

Perhaps it's the monotony of the school year, and my dire need for spring break. Maybe it's the juice fast, and the high blood sugar levels. Maybe it's none of those things, and maybe it's just the rain, me, or my ever-present desire to graduate. I do things in seasons, you know:

I'm vegan, I'm hipster, I'm a theater girl, now I do opera and stuff. I write and then I don't write at all. I'm over things and then I'm not. I have friends, and then we all move on, move out, and get new friends. I'm a lily growing in a greenhouse [because I maintain the color yellow even when it's raining tar in March.]

I say the things on my mind, and shortly regret it. 

 

The trees outside are surely blooming, and despite their interesting scent, I am inclined to say I enjoy the newness of white petals rather than protruding roots. I don't really like roots--they are far too fragile. Anything which connects you to a life-source makes me uneasy. I know it's almost April, but all at once I forgot where March was and wish it were June [never July--I hate July, you know.] 

It's possible I finally reached the point while crying during testing [I don't recommend it], where I realized my brain feels too tired and my heart too weak while my legs are still strong. I've never been a good handler of the every day things--though I'm the best around at dealing with catastrophe. The little words and phrases pile up into a tornado that places me away from Kansas and leaves me in an apartment with a cat, the 12th cup of Green Tea, letters you should have discarded long ago, and eager blood-flow to the fingers.

Maybe all these things are just thoughts scattered on a blog after a long few weeks of midterms, at the end of the day I think all this introvert needed was a healthy dose of extroversion--but I'm aware this lily can look barbed wire and some times other flowers love to look and not to play [the gardener is giving 'miracle grow' to remedy this most unfortunate event.]

Time For Bed. The Morning Comes Quickly.

[when your dreams become harder to remember.]

~Rachel~