Don't call back.

I am drinking coffee at 2 p.m.  I should be leaving now but I can't quite make it happen. There are only two weeks of school left, but they seem insurmountable. None of the places I call "home" are home. I'm a migratory bird and winter is biting.

He hung up the phone first last night, and I got that sudden hollow feeling again. It's been gone for so long. Somehow, it's still as familiar as the whistle your dog returns to.

I'm going to grow my hair longer than it's ever been. I'll become Samson in rainbow hues. I need strength to back up this cornered feeling: this fierceness arisen.

The words don't bubble like they used to. The thoughts are short and shadowed. Because they're ugly, I don't express them. I dress silence in smiles.

Two weeks.

(I'm not sure how to end this. Except that the coffee doesn't help the sadness. Things have been hard recently. I don't want to lie about it. But things will get better. I know it. I wait for it.)

to-do list for November

• get another piercing
• eat a doughnut
• wear cool jackets
• take care

poem for a clouded Tuesday

Unable to sleep, or pray, I stand
by the window looking out
at moonstruck trees a December storm
has bowed with ice.

Maple and mountain ash bend
under its glassy weight,
their cracked branches falling upon
the frozen snow.

The trees themselves, as in winters past,
will survive their burdening,
broken thrive. And am I less to You,
my God, than they?

—Ice Storm by Robert Hayden

a song that sounds like a text tone

My hair matches my favorite necklace. Today I got two cups of coffee for the price of the smaller one, and got to share it with a math-class friend. It's been raining since last Thursday. My feet are still wet from the walk to class at 8:30 this morning. I got a 90 on my math test, which was enough for my professor to write very good work in cramped, scratchy letters next to the score. My friends are all struggling, multilaterally, every single one. Today I thought too much about the way the world would be without me.

As I walked back across campus in the rain, I saw it pouring into the pond and churning the water to a boil. Across from that, the trees that mark the boundary were turning yellow and orange, and the smoke from the power site rose grey among them. Everything was silver. Everything gleamed.

to-do list for October

• be honest
• light candles
• fight
• come up swinging

everything is jumbled but here's this

I kill all the spiders in the house
because Lauren's too kindhearted and Emily's too scared.

My hair has gotten long again
without me taking notice.

I don't write anymore and I don't call home
maybe for reasons not so different.

(Hey, let me see your wrist! What happened?
deny deny deny)

One missed call from Lindy in Counseling.
You cancelled your appointment, please call back so we can get you in as soon as we can

He doesn't treat me the way I would like
but it feels like more than my just desserts.


The leaves are changing,
my hair color with them.


(It's fine, as long as you don't like anyone else. Do you?
deny deny deny)

A kitten kissed me softly
and I cried real tears.

His hand is on my thigh
and I let it be.

nothing but sparks

"When God had made The Man, he made him out of stuff that sung all the time and glittered all over. Then after that some angels got jealous and chopped him into millions of pieces, but still he glittered and hummed. So they beat him down to nothing but sparks but each little spark had a shine and a song. So they covered each one with mud. And the lonesomeness in the sparks made them hunt for one another, but the mud is deaf and dumb. Like all the other tumbling mud-balls, Janie had tried to show her shine."

—from Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

to-do list for September

• write home
• keep to yr own pace
• grow toward the light

dot-to-dot

The bruise on my knee is gone, has disappeared entirely save for a pinprick scab where the escalator step broke the skin. But it still hurts when I touch it. It's still tender. It isn't healed under the surface, even though any evidence of a wound is gone.

A few days ago, the doctor asked, "So why haven't you killed yourself? What's stopping you?" And I told her the truth. The memory isn't a victory, but it is a comfort.

Today I went to the library, and in the stacks, it felt like I could breathe for the first time in days. Books have always been my safest place. I was just there to get a card, and maybe look around, but I wasn't going to take anything home. I repeated this to myself during the six-block walk from my apartment. I am a master of self-delusion. On the way home, I carried the books against my side, the gold-lettered spines aligned.

(They say college is a good place to make connections. These are the ones I'm making.)

things that happen without words

Rain is drumming on the roof and the sound is a silver haze.

Lately, the phone doesn't ring for days at a time.

She asked and I lied, but later her eyes kept flicking back to my wrist.

the way you sounded when you told me you didn't know what I should do

A few days ago, at 5:30 in the morning, I listened to this song four times in a row as I sat alone in an airport, watching the sun rise through the plate glass window.  This song meant a lot to me a year ago. And now here I am, relating to it again. The light may even seem a little dimmer, a little farther, than it did then.

And I know you are a cynic but I think I can convince you, yeah, cause broken people can get better if they really want to. Or at least that's what I have to tell myself if I am hoping to survive.

green water, black water

There was a lake, I was in it. The water was bottle-green and so calm, smooth as bedsheets. I swam out until I was alone. The sunlight glinted off the surface in white spangles as far as I could see, and I stopped to tread water and drink in the glory. My feet kicked the ice-coldness five feet down. I shifted to my back and stared up at the sky. It was bottomless. My eyes couldn't focus on it.
 I  thought about a boy, and I thought about the overwhelming beauty all around me. I wondered if this is the broken heart that all the songs talk about.

Later, after the sun set that night, I set out into the darkness and swam again. The moon was huge and close and almost full. I swam in its reflection, fragmented in the black water. I swam out far enough to see the fireworks going off over another cove. The water held me up. It was silk; I was alone. I watched the glittery lights of docks shatter on the other shore. I was at peace, for the moment.

But before that, back in the sunlight, I was staying afloat as best I could. When my thoughts got too heavy, I rolled over. The water was a kiss. I turned around and swam for home.

definitions

want n. 1. The condition or quality of lacking something usual or necessary. 3. Something desired: a person of few wants. 4. A defect of character, a fault.
          —"want." The American Heritage High School Dictionary. 4th ed. 2004. Print.

beauty n. 1. The quality that gives pleasure to the mind or senses and is associated with such properties as harmony of form or color, excellence of artistry, truthfulness, and originality. 2. One that is beautiful.
         — "beauty." The American Heritage High School Dictionary. 

space n. 6. Sufficient freedom from external pressure for oneself and one's needs.
         —"space." The American Heritage High School Dictionary.
1. distance extending without limit in all directions; that which is thought of as a boundless, continuous expanse extending in all directions or in three dimensions, within which all material things  are contained.
         — "space." Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary Unabridged. 2nd ed. 1983. Print.

to-do list for July

• stay away from mirrors
• freckle
• eat orange popsicles
• take it one day at a time

soft things

                thick, short grass

                                                      cats
          cafe au lait
                                       
                                 quiet, late-night phone call voices
 
the smell of baking bread
 
                                                              silvery-blue
                  knitted hats
                       
                                                       moonlight through the window

                                       shade trees
        dandelions
                                             Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata

                    hand-holding
     
           

pain in three flavors

1. He called Friday night, very late, and by the time the call ended I had chewed my lip raw and tangy.
2. Blood on the hand towels.
3. In her dark car, we talked about a boy, and she rubbed at her earlobes, just like I do.

12 pm and my dusty telephone rings

While I was gone, I was music-free for two weeks. And often when I'd wake up, this song would be running through my head, even though I hadn't heard it in a year. Maybe that says something. I don't know.

11 AM – Incubus

running away

      "Anne's awfully sensitive," said Rhoda. "And she's bad about—well, facing things. If anything's upset her, she'd just rather not talk about it—although that isn't any good really—at least I don't think so. Things are there just the same, whether you talk about them or not. It's only running away from them to pretend they don't exist. I'd rather have it all out however painful it would be."
      "Ah," said Mrs. Oliver quietly, "but you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isn't."
      Rhoda flushed.
      "Anne's a darling."
      Mrs. Oliver smiled.
      She said: "I didn't say she wasn't. I only said she hadn't got your particular brand of courage."

From Cards on the Table by Agatha Christie, pg. 122

a short note I can't send you

Come over and hang out with me. I need a shoulder to rest my head on. We can make cinnamon toast and listen to sad punk music.

(Everything's hard recently. I can't even tell you about it. It will get better, won't it? Soon?)

(I miss you. Please miss me back.)

to-do list for June

• swim in running water
• pray harder than ever
• don't run away

things I can't shake

I hope it rains tomorrow.

People keep asking me "what's next?" and I tell them I don't know, because all I really want is a chance to stop and look around.

Last Wednesday a baby laid her head on my chest and cried quiet, slow tears. I traced my fingers up and down her spine, and rocked, back and forth, trying to soothe her with the rhythm of my breathing. She felt so fragile resting in the curve of my elbow.

Last Saturday my best friend called and we talked for a while. He mentioned that he had read an article recently in which the authors advised new husbands to tell their wives every day that they are capable, beautiful, and loved. "Every day! Isn't that ridiculous?" he said. "That's baloney."

On Sunday, a boy I had a past with wrote me to say happy birthday. We started talking a little. He still remembers exactly what I told him the last time we met. That was always his way: he noticed things I never meant for him to notice, and remembered everything.

On Monday I had two pieces published in a magazine, and it gave me a kick I'd forgotten. It inspired an echo in the back of my mind. It's the same question I can't get away from: what's next? What's next?
(Think very hard. Reevaluate.)

Today is Tuesday. I am twenty years old. I have three holes punched into each ear, and small silver scars on the second knuckle of each hand. Am I fragile? Am I beautiful? I want to be beautiful.

Maybe it will rain tomorrow.

to-do list for May

• think very hard
• reevaluate
• eat raspberries
• take stock of the milestones

a forgotten happiness

I had forgotten this song existed until Youtube recommended it for me, but this is the JAM.

Two Princes — Spin Doctors

nine things

• cherry blossoms
• daffodil fields
• frosty roofs
• milkshakes for lunch
• full moon
• Jimmy Fallon
• borrowed CDs from nice boys
• waiting
• waiting
• waiting

another sad story

11 pm, and I'm trying to decide if it's worth it to eat dinner at this point.

I have too many thoughts for my brain. They're overflowing out my ears.

I need a deep breath.
I need a good friend.

Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.

I was driving home in the dark, with the window open and the air whipping a chill through the cab of my car. As the red light turned to green and I made my left-hand turn onto the highway, that song came on the radio: the one that feels like falling, and getting back up again. The song for letting go.

I don't miss him when he's gone. It's when he's back that I'm a fool again.

It's 11:30. I'm hungry. Time for dinner.

indigo

Last night, as I was in that warm, dozy, dreamy state of half-sleep, my phone buzzed from across the room. It filled the room with a blue glow, but I rolled over and ignored it. A few minutes later, it buzzed again, and this time I stumbled out of bed to see who was inspired to talk to me at twelve thirty in the morning.

It was my best friend. I read the messages, I smiled, and I laid back down in bed. A moment later, I got up to read them again. It felt like he was close for the first time in a long, long time.



(Things have been so odd lately. I talk too much and I still can't manage to say what I mean. Some days I want to drift off forever and never see anyone again. I think I'm a different person than I was at the start of the year, and I'm not sure I like her much at all.)

I went out for coffee last week with a guy who told me he that he "didn't find the Grand Canyon that impressive". Maybe it's shallow, but after that comment, I didn't find him that impressive.


(I'm trying. I'm trying so hard. This semester has been putting me through the wringer, chipping away at the base of my very newly-constructed sense of self-worth. And I'm perpetually coming up short.)

(I didn't mean for this to get so down. But that's all I've got in me, at the moment. Forgive me?)

(Love.)

to-do list for April

• climb a mountain
• sit on a roof
• grow a little taller

poem for yesterday

You are so beautiful and I am a fool
to be in love with you
is a theme that keeps coming up
in songs and poems.
There seems to be no room for variation.
I have never heard anyone sing
I am so beautiful
and you are a fool to be in love with me,
even though this notion has surely
crossed the minds of women and men alike.
You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool
is another one you don't hear.
Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful.
That one you will never hear, guaranteed.

For no particular reason this afternoon
I am listening to Johnny Hartman
whose dark voice can curl around
the concepts of love, beauty, and foolishness
like no one else's can.
It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette
someone left burning on a baby grand piano
around three o'clock in the morning;
smoke that billows up into the bright lights
while out there in the darkness
some of the beautiful fools have gathered
around little tables to listen,
some with their eyes closed,
others leaning forward into the music
as if it were holding them up,
or twirling the loose ice in a glass,
slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream.

Yes, there is all this foolish beauty,
borne beyond midnight,
that has no desire to go home,
especially now when everyone in the room
is watching the large man with the tenor sax
that hangs from his neck like a golden fish.
He moves forward to the edge of the stage
and hands the instrument down to me
and nods that I should play.
So I put the mouthpiece to my lips
and blow into it with all my living breath.
We are all so foolish,
my long bebop solo begins by saying,
so damn foolish
we have become beautiful without even knowing it.

— Nightclub by Billy Collins

Quick. Tense. Stupid.

I'm falling into all those old, bad habits again, the ones that make me feel sad and scared. Or maybe they come back because I'm sad and scared already.

I feel like a shipwreck.

I feel like I'm floating five inches off the ground.

I feel like a shout in the mist.

sick Sunday

Today I took a nap at 11 AM. I've been playing Simon and Garfunkel not too loud. Reading a book I loved in childhood. It started snowing this evening; I'm okay with it. There's a full moon tonight, although the clouds are too dense to let it through. I'm going to make a nest in my bed, and then I'll watch sad movies, then funny movies, and drink lots of tea with honey. Hopefully I'll wake up tomorrow with a neck less sore and a throat less scratchy.

above the ground, pt. 2

Somehow it happened and I was flying east again, losing hours, days, watching the mountains fade away under me. Pike's Peak shimmered in the distance. It was tiny, the only interruption on the horizon. I thought about the last time I stood under that mountain. It had seemed so huge. I thought about the relativity of size, and of distance, and of time. Everything seems bigger from up in the air, even as it diminishes.

The sun doesn't set when you fly east. You outrun it. I watched the sky fade like watercolors, washing from blue to pink to gold to darker blue, all in one broad swath. The backs of the airplane wings shone, gilded.

Ahead of us was darkness. But as we flew headlong into it, the stars came out. First, below us, the scattering of yellow sparks; then, above us, the clouds thinned and the cold silver glittered through. The stars were as far away as ever, one hundred million light-years in the past. Below, whole cities spread out like tea-leaves at the bottom of the cup. To the people on the ground, we were just another glinting light, winking far off. Distance. Time. Relativity. We sailed on, sandwiched between the stars below and the stars above, and we were a star ourselves.

above the ground, pt. 1

to-do list for March

• don't get lonely
• don't get needy
• don't fall in love

Omlette

Omelette from Madeline Sharafian on Vimeo.

2.22.14

words I like

blue
                       whisper
               

           always

                    starry
                                          crush
                       
                         bulletproof
            mint

                           
                             you
                                 
       

 

a meditation on breathing, in three parts

I wish it were raining. I wish it were raining and I was driving down the highway, wipers fwip-fwipping across the windshield, with a long way still to go. I can only breathe properly in a rainstorm. And it feels like I've gone a long time without any deep breaths—a tight, cracked feeling in my chest. I need some space and time to exorcise the ghosts from my shotgun seat. I need a reason to be alone.

I can't sleep anymore. My mind spins when I lay in the dark, and I end up turning on the light and reading fifteen pages to still my breathing. In the morning, I drink coffee. It makes my hands shake and my heart flutter, and turns my handwriting spidery. 

Driving home this evening, the sinking sun shone warm and orange through the still-bare trees. It sent shadows flickering over my arms. Out the other window, the moon shone through wispy clouds, almost full. I have too much on my mind, but I watched the rose gold spread over the tops of the houses, and was at peace.

a dead-end summary

It's January 31, 2014.

I've been engulfed by a tidal wave of really difficult schoolwork. It bores, yet terrifies, me. I've had an eye twitch for three weeks.

I feel inadequate, unequal to the task, and it makes me want to hit things. Instead, I'll wear a brighter lipstick shade.

I want a flower garden tattooed over my arms and legs.

I planted seeds at the beginning of the semester, but they haven't come up yet.

Too many deadlines. I thought I had my act together, but here I am scrambling for control.

I wish I had a puppy to pet.

Last week I realized I don't miss him any more. I guess it goes both ways, now.

It's the end of January, a month gone too fast. I'm afraid I've done nothing memorable. Scholarship applications make me feel like I've never done anything memorable.

But I've practiced my bass every day of the new year, so far. So maybe that's worth something.

in the afternoon

My six year-old sister and her best friend are in our backyard, sledding together down the thin scrim of muddy snow. She has a hat with a cat on it. Her friend's has an owl. I can watch them through the kitchen window, and hear the giggling and high-spirited shouts. They start at the top of our hill, one in front and one behind, and they blaze off into the wood line together. I wonder if they'll remember this later, years from now. If they'll remember their happiness. I wonder if I will.

snow day

the green eye

The sky glows gold in a strip over the tops of the houses, weighed down by the bruise-blue clouds above. The cat is in my chair, asleep with his eyes open.
Yesterday morning, my best friend texted me a verse of poetry. From the middle of the snow-dusted woods, I sent him back a verse of my own.
[I'm adept with syntax, but can't seem to say the necessary thing.]
The silence on my end of the phone line looks like an ocean, deep and troubling and still unknown. I keep too many secrets. They hold me mute when I ought to speak up.
And now I'm laying on the floor, legs against the wall and feet reaching for the ceiling while the single green eye of the smoke alarm stares down at me in judgment.
I'm trying to be a better person (a better friend). Last spring I let things fall and some of them cracked in the drop. I'm trying to pick them up, trying to repair what I've broken.
I want my friends to know how much I love them
 but in the dark I'm afraid (too afraid) that it's something they don't want to hear.

And so I keep fighting.

scattered

It's raining outside.
I'm trying not to panic over the last of my winter break.
Trying to work out an ending to the comic I'm writing.
I planted new seeds yesterday. Marigolds.
I haven't read as many books as I wanted to. (The book I'm reading now is four days overdue.)
I'm knitting a scarf of cloudlike fluffiness.
Playlisting.
Making phone calls.
Taking photos again.
I've made a list of things I haven't tried yet. I'm planning to try them all.