the autumn girl

Untitled.

2012-01-27T23:58:00.000-08:00

You,

what are you smiling about?

it couldn’t possibly be me.

I am held in your gaze

(I wish it was your arms)

How can you: light hair,

dark eyes and me: the

opposite, have anything

in common? I wish.

Wishing is like walking

and it only gets me so

far, so far it has gotten

me to nowhere and back

again, back to where I

started, and where I started

is still lacking, funny how

you’re still missing.

Missing like a picture frame,

empty.

Missing like a thousand words

missing from a book,

Missing from here and now

with you and I

Missing,

Instead you are on a separate

page in a different story

with another lover,

Instead you are with

her.

People-watching

2012-01-09T22:25:00.001-08:00

She’s walking

through

rivers

to get to someplace,

unimaginable. But

I know better than

to think it’s

better than here.

She’s watching

the water droplets

cling to surfaces with

great intention,

I see her across the

street with her rubber

boots and her poncho

and she’s checking her

watch and she’s waiting

for someone and each

time they never show.

I like to imagine who she waits for.

Maybe it’s a guy. No, more

likely it is a relative, her aunt,

her cousin, coming to take her

far away from here and this

and taking her to there,

where ever that is.

Every time I see a sigh

I see a flicker of something,

maybe it’s disappointment,

or regret, maybe it’s relief

and she shivers in the cold

and she gives up, turns

around and heads

towards

home.

Journey

2012-01-03T19:46:00.000-08:00

One day i will travel to

all the far off places

in the world and

maybe i will hide

in all the distant

corners of the earth and

no one will find me cause

no one can find me

except

for the stars and the moon

which follow me where ever i go,

from far away to

right back home.

lost

2011-12-23T21:30:00.001-08:00

Lost

The room is so

very full.

Full of possibility

And personality

But I stand at

the front and I

can feel the

eyes on me, small.

I feel small.

My words are

empty.

Not like theirs.

Jealousy is

never...

never mind.

I’d love to pry

open those minds

and read them

like files.

Maybe they can hear

my teeth chattering.

Maybe they are

lost.

A little like me.

Maybe?

Fame

2011-12-13T20:11:00.001-08:00

Many saw her

As a symbol

Rather than the

Incredibly talented

Lady that she was,

Yes she was beautiful,

No she didn’t know it.

Maybe the problems

Of her childhood were

Never resolved but

Really who can blame

One for hating the fame

Even thought it seems grand.

The Long List of Things I Have Lost

2011-12-08T20:13:00.001-08:00

Whenever I think of my sister

I think of that god damn fight

we had when I swore at her,

and it was the first time I had

ever done that, ever said a

curse word to someone, let

alone to my big sister.

The look on her face alone,

it was enough to twist the

organs in my body into ribbons

“Shut the fuck up.”

My mind took a picture,

SNAP.

and the image has stayed,

relentless in my mind.

I told her I was sorry but

I knew it didn’t matter what

I said, she would forgive me.

She always forgave me.

Three years later and she

is still as gone as always,

only now the pain is a dull,

weak throbbing at the base

of my neck instead of sharp

pins and needles, and her

laughter is distant, if only it

were just a little bit closer,

and she is still as gone as

always, only now I have

a memory, I’m holding it

tightly against my heart,

holding it tightly in my

hands in case it slips right

through my fingers, holding

it tightly in case I lose it

just like I lost her.

I don’t want the memory

to be just another thing on the

Long List of Things I Have Lost.

Homesick

2011-12-07T19:57:00.001-08:00

I miss the place of

rye bread and saunas

the place of cross-

country skiing,

Joulupukki and

rice pudding at

Christmastime,

home of a thousand

lakes, birch trees proud

by their sides, and

what about the

people? with sisu

and independence

their silence conveys

more than the meaning-

less words of those

who talk simply to

hear their own voice

This is the place of

creators: marimekko

and pulla and love,

Deep inside of me I

feel a pull towards the

place whose heritage

runs in my veins. It is

true, maybe I have

never been there, but

Finland is the place

I long for the most, the

one place I miss as if

it were my home.

The Wedding Story

2011-12-06T10:16:00.001-08:00

I hate weddings.

Sometimes I fall asleep in the back row with my legs awkwardly tucked beneath me and my head on a stranger’s shoulder. But the ones that make me cry are the worst. It always starts small, just a little sniffle, maybe a tear or two. It ends worse.

I have a fear of weddings. I don’t even really know why. Maybe there is a name for that. Elophobia. Derivative of the word elope. No just kidding I just made that up.

Every time I get anywhere close to marriage I will find any number of reasons to ditch the guy. He’s too tall, he’s too short, he’s too young, he’s too old, I don’t like his shampoo. But I do like HIM and that’s what’s supposed to count. It always ends with me breaking his heart and leaving the key under the mat for him to collect his belongings from my place while I’m out.

I hope it doesn’t always end like that.

---

She says she hates weddings.

I proposed to her after 2 years of dating. 2 of the best years of my life. We were out to dinner and afterwards we walked along the river and took turns pointing out our favourite places in the city. After awhile we got tired of our little game and instead just walked along silently, arms held limply by our sides, hearts thudding in our chests. Chances are mine was louder. I stopped walking and it took her a minute or two to notice and when she did she spun around then cocked her head to one side like a puppy. The right corner of her mouth turned upwards in a crooked smile and she said to me in that voice of hers “why’d you stop, watcha doing?” And I said I’m fixing my shoelaces they came untied. So I knelt down, making a big display of it, and fiddled for a moment with my shoelace, then when she wasn’t looking I pulled the box out of my pocket. She looked back at me and smiled until she noticed what was in my hands and stopped. “Will you marry me?” I said. She said nothing. That was when I noticed she was crying and I didn’t know what to do. “Why are you crying?” She said nothing. She turned and walked the other way, away from the river, away from the box with the ring, and away from me.

That night I cried. I called my mum and asked “what’s the matter with me?” She said “you are perfect to me”. But that’s not good enough.

One day she will wake up and realize what she lost.

---

He was good. He was too good. One day I will wake up and realize what I lost.

Buttermilk

2011-11-27T23:41:00.001-08:00

I walk to school in a

haze of buttermilk

clouds

that

tumble

gently

and drift from place

to place

to place.

Wind tugs gently

at my heartstrings,

Pulling me on and

nudging me lightly,

from behind.

The treads of my

Toms wear down

slowly, well better

my shoes than

the soles of my feet,

or worse still,

the soul of my body.

What will happen to

me when eventually

my soul is worn down

to nothing but dust?

Who will care for me

then?

Procratination

2011-11-14T20:16:00.001-08:00

Can I have a little second to think? Thanks. Sometimes it’s good to think.

Today I thought about getting my hair cut, and applying for jobs, and setting up my RRSPs. Maybe I didn’t do anything about it but it’s almost kind of the same thing, right?

Tomorrow I would like to go to the internet cafe down the street and sit in there with some hot tea or coffee and my laptop and deal with some of the things I’ve been thinking about so much. Namely applying for jobs, since I can’t exactly get my haircut in a coffee shop and I can’t set up my RRSPs until I’ve gotten a job. Which, by the way, is going to happen soon.

Yesterday I went to school and found out my morning class was cancelled so I spent 4 hours in the library waiting for my next class to start. I checked my email, I checked my Facebook, I checked my other email, I checked my blog, I checked my other blog, I check my friends blogs, I checked my Moodle, then finally I went on Youtube and watched a few music videos for the songs that had been stuck in my head all morning.

I looked out the window and watched some girl picking her nose or maybe she just had some dry skin there, who knows. It was kind of gross.

I looked around the room and spotted a guy from my english class. I felt kind of creepy so I stopped looking around.

I looked at my feet since my boots are cute and I spent a lot of money on them so I might as well enjoy them while the weather’s cold, and looking at them is better than doing other things.

I went on Facebook, I checked my email again.

I thought about going to Montreal. I looked up the cost of flights. Too expensive. I thought about how badly I need a job. I thought about my RRSPs. I thought about how I need a haircut.

I looked up the cost of the train to Montreal. That’s better. Too bad the trip takes 4 days. Maybe next year. Besides, it’s cold in Montreal at this time of year.

I looked up flights to Finland. Maybe one day I will move there.

I checked my email, I went on Facebook.

I packed up my backpack and went to class. Maybe next break I will do some homework.

Gosh, thinking is so much work.

The Waiting Game

2011-11-14T19:03:00.001-08:00

Circular, circular with little black numbers.

I remember a time, way back in grade 4 and I guess I would have been 9 and we had buddies. Grade 4 meant being an intermediate which felt like such a big jump from primary even though it was really only a year. Kind of like how in grade 11 me and my friend spent a good half hour talking obnoxiously and loudly about how 17 was such a big jump from 16, and how 16 didn’t feel all that old. I remember our social studies teacher was laughing, maybe because she thought we were so young or maybe because it made her feel really old. Either way, I guess it was kind of ridiculous. Now I’m 18 and it doesn’t feel all that old but 17 to 18 always seemed like such a big jump. I guess that’s just how it goes.

But anyways, in grade 4 when I was new at being an intermediate, and we got to be the big buddies instead of the little buddies, I made a few mistakes. To start with, we were supposed to teach our little buddies how to tell time. Each pair was given a little paper clock with plastic hands. I tried to explain to my little buddy how the clock worked, but I didn’t understand it myself. I went and asked my teacher and she made me feel stupid so I went back to my seat. I kept hearing the other kid’s voices drift across the room saying “half past four” and “quarter to” and “quarter after one”. Quarter to what? I wanted to cry I felt so dumb. I fumbled my way through some confusing explanation and my little buddy looked up at me, even more confused than I felt. We sat there looking from the stupid little clock to each other and finally I sighed and gave up. When I got home I think I might have cried, I don’t remember.

Well now I can tell time. But that doesn’t seem to make a difference because people are always late anyways. Or maybe my watch is broken again. It’s vintage with a kitten on it and I only just put a battery in it a few days ago. When I was bored I used to sit there and spin the dial round and round or I would set it to the right time only to have to change it one minute later anyways, since it didn’t work. But now I’m sure it works, except here I am and there is still no sign of him.

He said he works late but maybe he was lying. He also told me he loves cats but I heard from my friend Beth that he is very specifically a dog person, has a cat allergy, and even tried to trick his sister’s cat into going outside when he knew perfectly well that there was a family of coyotes in the nearby ravine. So sure, he “works late”. And I’m supposed to believe that’s the reason he hasn’t shown.

***

It’s been 20 minutes. Maybe he got stuck in traffic.

***

It’s been half an hour. It’s now quarter past. Yes, I do know what that means.

***

I saw a car go by a couple of minutes ago that looked awfully familiar. I think it might have been Beth’s except I saw a guy driving it so that wouldn’t really make sense.

***

It’s half past. I am giving up and going home. Why did I bother getting my watch fixed?

***

He called me later that night and apologized. I told him he was stupid and I may have said a couple of bad words too. He apologized again and hung up.

***

I called him the next day and apologized for swearing at him. He said it’s okay because he deserved it. We set up a date for that night.

***

That night I stood him up. He called me 6 times, each time with a different tactic. I thought to myself, if you really cared you would have shown the first time round.

I took the battery out of my watch and went to sleep.

Safety

2011-11-07T11:46:00.001-08:00

The morning sun wakes

up, I do too, a diagonal

slant covers me in a

sheet of gold light, I

lay beneath thin cotton

sheets with warmth

beating down through

the glass and I feel so

safe wrapped in blankets.

I slump down the stairs,

wooden stairs and dream

of the first sip of coffee

and I feel safe with the

steam from the kettle

warming my skin.

I walk to work, it’s cold

outside and I long to be

anywhere but here but the

leaves from the trees are

changing colour and it

makes me feel safe to

be right where I am.

After work I long for a

warm meal and a warmer

bath still to soak my

weary body and once I’m

there I feel so safe amidst

the bubbles, like no one

could possibly find me here.

I hear the rattle of his key in

the lock and I remember his

words and I remember his

voice and once again I am

wishing for something else.

I put on my pajamas, the soft

flannel feels nice against my

smooth skin, I feel safe.

In the kitchen he is eating and

he gets up when he sees me

and he reaches out his arms to

pull me close to him and I

flinch and pull away,

with him

I don’t feel safe at all.

We are all the same.

2011-10-23T20:30:00.000-07:00

Let’s get lost

The city looks so inviting

The radio is loud enough

to cover our pounding hearts

Let’s get lost in a moment

or a million moments

Tires are spinning and

The city welcomes us.

Now we are driving down

East Hastings, I found

myself here and I’m trying

to keep quiet, and I’m

hiding behind the glass

and the metal of my car,

And I’m scared, partly of

the homeless that are

roaming the streets, mostly

of the “normal” people who

will look without seeing.

I’m scared but I shouldn’t

be. The homeless should

feel scared, or maybe it is

the other way around?

They have nothing to lose

and I have everything

Horns honk behind me,

I though the light was

red but turns out it’s not

anymore, and the city

isn’t welcoming anymore,

and all these impatient

people with blank,

expressionless faces, I

want to say to them

“Go ahead, drive quickly,

you’ve got places to go

and people to see”, but

I know the most real people

in this city are the ones on

the sidewalks, the ones

we drive past so quickly

that the colours of their

clothes, the colours of

their bags, of their skin

all blurs and

disappears.

But reality beckons, and

all you people in your

fast cars going places

are missing something

Why did my instinct take

me here tonight? I went

for a drive to escape my

life and look where it

brought me, it brought me

to chaos, even though

all you see is pain.

Maybe you think you’re

so much better, look

around and you will realize

our pain is all the same,

our faces are all the same,

our lives are all the same,

We are all the same.

The Move

2011-10-23T20:28:00.000-07:00

Stacked like bricks

row, row, row, row

where did I put my

heart, my knowledge,

my dignity? did I pack

it up with the rest of my

house, into cardboard

boxes: brown, or beige,

with vodka or beer brands

stamped across their

backs? All the empty

boxes were picked up at

the liquor store on a dull

tuesday afternoon after

the delivery truck came in.

Well now my heart, my

knowledge, my dignity,

are simply lost, since

the movers were careless

and broke a few things

along the way, and all of

the best parts of me were

tossed in the corners into

piles of dust, in the trash can,

swept beneath the rug.

At least my body

still remains.

capilano courier!

2011-10-17T12:39:00.001-07:00

http://www.capilanocourier.com/2011/10/verbal-vancouver-word-of-street.html

2011-10-05T23:58:00.001-07:00

One day I will look around

Maybe you will understand

We’re both standing at the top

Looking down, looking down.

2011-10-05T15:13:00.000-07:00

I guess maybe I kind of thought, just a bit,

That this time would be different

You sold your soul but I don’t mind, it isn’t broken

It still works just fine.

I see you're listening to “your” music

It’s not really yours, you know

You think that you’re the only one who likes it

Don’t be pretentious.

The devil isn’t pretentious, why are you?

You are looking at me with empty eyes,

They look so sad I almost feel sorry

I almost apologized but then I remembered

Why I hated you all along.

2011-10-05T10:42:00.000-07:00

Let's run away.

I see the past, it lies flat on the horizon

It doesn't have to be this way

It doesn't have to define us

Nothing will define us but

The car we drive or the

Food we eat or the

Clothes we wear.

Let's run away and

Never look back.

2011-10-04T18:41:00.000-07:00

It is your words that I love

They look so delicate

Hanging from the trees

Like autumn leaves that

Change colour and filter

The sunlight, strain the

Sunlight like stained glass.

2011-10-02T11:05:00.003-07:00

While the world pretends

It is nothing to me or

The vision I hold within my hands,

My heart, my mind, your spirit

How can I describe?

The way it wraps its arms

Around me and squeezes tight

Today it suffocates and I feel scared

But don’t forget, it is usually just right

Yesterday it was delicate and I could

Feel you filling in the bleak empty spaces

The ones you left looking so bare, I was

Looking around feeling so lost

But here you are, you’re back

And you’re filling me up again.

2011-10-02T11:05:00.001-07:00

Here is a soul telling me how to feel

With harsh smiles and harsher words

“This is how you’re meant to be”

But I refuse to be someone like you.

Who follows the bodies moving as one.

Maybe your mouth is silently closed

And maybe your edges are softening

But I can feel the doubt emanating and

I refuse to freeze someone like you.

Who the other someones wish to be.

A heartbeat is vividly uttering words

Our feet are running and slowing us down

I see you drifting off of the page

I refuse to live with a monster like you

Who creates more fear than the truth.

2011-09-30T17:06:00.001-07:00

If I could, I would pull you

So close, and make you mine,

I wish you were mine

How do I say this without

Sounding a little crazy?

I am a little crazy about you.

2011-09-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

This is the world

We move like keys

Trying to find the locks

In which our bodies belong

Our hearts, our minds

What a different story

So different than simply

Turning the doorknob

Empty hearts, minds abuzz

With mindless chatter to satiate

An endless thirst for knowledge

What a different story

So different than simply

Opening the door and

Watching all the people rush in.

The Personal is Political

2011-09-27T15:51:00.001-07:00

The other morning I woke up late, found the milk carton empty and almost tripped over the computer cord in my haste to find my “temporarily misplaced” car keys. As I searched frantically, papers flying everywhere, I noticed a small mint green rectangle of cardboard. It was an advertisement encouraging the use of public transportation as a means of cutting back on pollution, in other words the “green” option. I abandoned my search momentarily and considered. I glanced at my watch and in a sudden burst of impulsiveness grabbed my wallet, rifled through it, and pulled out a very tattered and never used U-pass.

As I headed out the door towards the bus stop (where is it again?), I was tempted to complain, but crisp autumn air brought perspective to my decision. A break from driving, a break from the relentless hours spent sitting in rush hour traffic with nothing to do but send negative energy towards the 300 other people in their cars who just HAD to choose the same time as me to commute (darn copycats). So maybe the bus wasn’t so bad? I climbed aboard and my eyes did a quick once-over, looking for a spot. Finally I found one towards the back and managed to squish in between a very peculiar man with orange rubber boots and a lady so old that I was afraid the swaying motion of the bus might be enough to kill her. She smiled at me as I sat down. I noticed that her hands were shaking and I felt a rush of sympathy towards her. I wondered what her story was. I imagined she had no family left to care for her. Orange Boots offered me a piece of gum. I shook my head, no thanks.

As I looked around, I noticed the differences in age, culture and background. I wondered what their stories were. A young girl sat towards the front with her headphones in. Music trickled out and the remnants of bad rap music could be heard. Her expression took me by surprise: a guarded look on her face, an attempt to look careless. It was discerning how old, tired and sad a young girl could look. The bus pulled up to a stop near the hospital and the girl got out. I watched as she shuffled casually over to the hospital doors, glanced back, then slipped inside. I wondered what her story was.

As I sat there quietly observing, I noticed something different and unique about each person. But they all had one thing in common. They shared a determined and indifferent attitude. Somewhat of a “fuck you” to the shitty cards they had been dealt. These people did not have the privilege of a brand new shiny car to drive from place to place. Instead they toted around bags of bottles to be recycled, or crying children wearing hand me downs, or simply the extra baggage of adversity. To say that it made me feel guilty is an understatement. It is simply a matter of opening my eyes to the stories I may have missed before. The stories of people who are only just getting by and no one notices. Or the stories of people who are not getting by at all, and no one stops to help. Who’s fault is it? One could say it is their problem and why should others get involved? But I know better.

2011-09-26T21:44:00.001-07:00

You say you love me

It's too early to tell

Too early?

Maybe "like" is a better word

A softer word

An honest word.

"A childish word"

I wish you knew me.

I wish you could see through

Four walls of white

One solid door will

Never relinquish the thoughts

That gather in my mind

Like shards of glass.

The window broke

Your heart came sailing in.

2011-09-26T21:02:00.001-07:00

Sometimes it is fun to pretend

I am walking with you

Your voice is nothing

But sharp air slicing up

The silence and licking

The leftover words that trickle

From my greedy mouth.

I like to think you can hear me

Even when my mouth is closed

And everyone around me shouts

Even I am deaf to my thoughts

But I like to think that you are

the only one who is not.

Writer's Recluse

2011-09-19T19:52:00.000-07:00

This is a blog for me to share my stories, poems, whatever. I am a 17 year old girl with a dream of becoming a published writer. For me, writing is like breathing. It is something I need, it feeds my soul and lightens the burdens of life. It is a release and a creative form of expression. I will post everything: school assignments for my creative writing class, writing from in my spare time, and everything in between. I am telling no one about this blog. If you stumble upon it, then welcome. If not, I guess this is just for me. A place to simply WRITE, with no interruptions, criticisms, or over thinking involved.

Time to start writing!