my name's taylor

pssh.

2009-03-23T11:07:00.000-04:00

its the day you get in the shower with your bra on.
profane mumbles, and wrinkled nose.
peeling the unsavory article from its place.
malice.
this is me.
and Im drawn to what makes you different.
because maybe you're braver than I am.
distinct and palpable.
satisfying.

andiknowimnotthatbrave.
.

I am medusa.

2009-02-20T22:24:00.001-05:00

the wind makes my eyes water.
sharp and strong.
dark eyes, I close them as I walk.
stumbling. smiling.
strands of brown surrounding.
engulfing.
I am medusa.
across campus I trudge.
my bangs grown greasy by noon,
blown back from my face,
Im betrayed by my greatest security blanket.
the sunlight outside deceives me.
this is no day for comfortable walks,
tucking tangled strands inside my shirt.
itchy.
no day for strolling.
I burrow within.
trudging, stumbling.

moms and dogs.

2009-02-15T22:40:00.006-05:00

Ive been surprisingly unphased,
numb until I taste the salt of tears tip toeing down my cheeks.
confused I wipe wet eyelashes.
and its not when Im lying in bed or in the shower like usual.
its not like when Im broken, face contorted, consumed.
like a protective filter, my brains not telling me my emotions.
unburdened and ignorant, until my body subtly lets go,
my shirt collar left damp,
nose pink, eyebrows raised.
an unwarranted shower of tears.
an unwarranted liberation of something that was nothing.
this foreigner within me. my body is a traitor,
or a big sack of sedatives.
at least Im ignorant,
alone when I tasted the salt of tears,
confused, fingers wiping wet eyelashes.

texas, and bedrooms.

2009-02-08T14:19:00.001-05:00

I found my childhood in the attic,
a bandanna around my face,
hot breath against my cheeks.
where dark spiders and dust mites invaded
the space small hands, attention use to.
each deformed doll, and spongy
cardboard box deteriorating beneath
my fingers, unleashing dust and tears but no emotion.
disgusted and allergic.
until Im slowly remembering the texture of a
blanket, the fading illustrations of this book,
and they hold me in a trance.
texas, and bedrooms,
simple mornings and young mothers.
good days I remember forgetting,
when I had to separate the old and new.
when I had to cope.
but Im remembering them today.
Im remembering who I was.

incomprehensible

2009-02-05T12:18:00.004-05:00

and when I walk in the door every little face searches mine. dark hair and deep eyes, each girl-like profile. and theres confident voices covering quiet ones, broken english and slurs. and soon theres a five year old boy with greasy hair and long eyelashes against my chest, in my lap, excitedly clasping a spongebob book in our faces. listening closely to my voice, each syllable, "sk-wid-wer-d". so our sentences are choppy, his fervent echo on every word, the storyline incomprehensible, but its never sounded this beautiful. and he laughs at the pictures, counts the characters, the number of words. he looks at me for affirmation and I hope he can't see how excited I am. surely he'd think Im crazy, or maybe he does see it, maybe thats why he burrows so close, keeps turning the pages, keeps searching my face. and the chaos is everywhere. thirty little faces, thirty little people searching and open. and sabee is in the third grade. shy and unassuming. her eyes fall when they meet mine, but two minutes later she's on her knees beside me, waiting patiently, only a brush against my arm. a worn and floppy jungle book in hand. she follows my finger, word to word, line to line, she doesn't need me to read them first, and her eyes grow as the page turns. so many words. but shes smart. like a rare gift, she tunes out the chaos surrounding us. her head against my arm, she sounds out unfamiliar words like "mowgli," "shere khan," "man-cub," her face confused as the sounds come out and she laughs. and suddenly two more voices are reading along with hers. girls, of similar age huddled around me, huddled around her, an off key chorus of storytellers. competing and correcting. and by the end of the night, we're cleaning up books, and broken crayons, hanna montana book bags and batman pencil cases. and sabee isn't shy any longer, dancing around the room, laughing when her eyes meet mine. and I wish I could come here everyday.

you would too.

2009-01-31T23:19:00.006-05:00

I find myself laid out in patches of sunlight
in hallways and bedrooms, like a fat cat,
like I did when I was little.
these days as we sift through everything we never knew we had.
boxes stacked where furniture belongs.
and mia's sprawled out beside me and we're zoned out,
well lit and warm, watching dust dance in the air,
the sounds of cars passing. soaking up home.
and my mom's stopped expecting my help packing,
perceiving my apprehension.
discerning my subtle hints of disapproval:
sifting through all the boxes she's packed;
decorating the boxes with elaborate sharpie designs;
literally unpacking boxes.
and she leaves me to my wandering.
because its one thing to move to a new house,
and another to box your life into storage.
and so I do odd things theses days-
taking pictures of doorknobs and the trees in my yard,
laying in carpeted hallways with my dog.
I listen to songs I know all the words to.
wear the clothes I wore yesterday.
and for now, I wake up in the same bed,
in the same patch of sunlight as all those mornings before.
I didn't leave for school, so home is leaving me.

I wake up exhausted

2009-01-27T22:30:00.008-05:00

and it isn't because I wouldn't go to sleep last night.
not because I didn't try.
unlike so many nights before, sitting idly awake,
intentionally inducing insomnia.
a luxury lost.
no, this night, without benadryl's convincing whispers,
only the persistent chatter of three irresistible refills
of sweet tea seeping through my system, I lie placidly awake.
as pillows, my comforting friends,
rebel in a series of awkward neck contortions.
and Im left examining shadows and street lights,
the pictures on my wall. photos of a
young mother, passed pets and ages. caleb's letter.
squeezing eyes shut as familiar lyrics run through headphones,
into my ears, and between the threads of my thoughts.
each voice narrating my worries and irritations;
my should'ves and to-do's.
each song the soundtrack to my wandering.
as the faces from my day, fictional and intimate,
play out in my mind like a badly directed play.
an underfunded film.
and I wake up exhausted.

numb

2009-01-12T23:48:00.013-05:00

some people are like the little puddle of water that collects
on the tops of shampoo bottles.
cool surprises against hot skin.
sharp breaths and slippery bottles.
and maybe youre angry, but maybe you didn't
know how good change could feel.
just enough to leave you wanting and suddenly aware.
aware how miserably hot you've become,
that you've quietly stopped feeling.
until that cool puddle of water splashes across your chest.
and suddenly you want more.

and Im feeling overwhelmingly unoriginal

2009-01-04T23:23:00.015-05:00

as i wash the dishes because my mom told me to.
fingers, in an unfamiliar state, dry and pruned,
reeking of bleach when I finish.
but I have ambition to be the greatest dish washer of all.
todays the day. the limit of my ambitions.
and people frown as I describe my eleven oclock classes.
my undecided major.
what will the real word think of you taylor?
in plain tennis shoes, keds, the androgynous choice of children everywhere, I stand wide-eyed, blinking, grasping for a defense.
good intentions. thats what I have. good intentions.
take that. yeah.
how humbling is perspective.
what kind of conversation killer would the truth be-
'is person who fights against the objectification of
women a career option?'
feels a little heavy.
'aaaand youre a business major..cool.'

im a failed beaver

2008-12-18T02:31:00.007-05:00

and Im stuck somewhere between fulfilled and acutely aware of my deficiencies. happy alone, until suddenly desperate to be close. so silly, and so foreign. if nothing else, life has taught me self reliance, and nothing is more horrifying than teetering off balance.
thats what letting people in does.
sufficient and cool, until suddenly I want to sob and laugh at the same time, because so often crying is like sighing.
tears built up behind a dam of denial, until finally falling, and I am the happily failed beaver, my lap wet with tears, hair stuck to my face.
only god could make crying feel so good.
and I will never be able tell you how I feel when you ask me.
Ill stutter, so consumed in how youll receive my words, that they'll never make it past my lips. stuck somewhere between my heart and yours. believing nothing could be worse than rejection. so we'll watch as I let go, without protest, full of composure.
and you won't know the capacity I have to care.
instead Ill hold my words behind my eyes and beneath my apprehension, until days when I am the failed beaver. days when all the things I could have said fall down my face and onto my jeans.
because sometimes its ok to feel sad. if nothing less, disappointment is tangible. its proof you let someone in close enough to affect you, and that you care.
at least its feeling.

defending the genius

2008-12-11T03:14:00.002-05:00

I won't spend these days studying. Ill lie on my bed, with socked feet and listen to cars drive over the wet pavement of market st. Ill sit through bad television, anticipating the rape cases and murders stabler and benson of law & order svu will solve, secretly, but not so secretly wishing I were olivia benson. Ill reheat leftovers to keep from leaving camp, and gaze at the twinkle lights I stuck up with masking tape we borrowed from across the hall. (the ones I asked if we could buy. that jacob drove us to get, running, what turned out to be, an extremely expensive stop sign, saying bad words as blue lights circulated in the mirrors. when he tells me how expensive my request has become, that its stupid to call them twinkle lights, and Im once again found insufficient in defending the genius of you've got mail.)
Ill smile when I venture bra-less to the bathroom in the middle of the night, to find someone in the shower, the bathroom exploding with the sweet smells of shampoo, the familiar voices of lil wayne and ludacris echoing from cheap water-proof speakers.
Ill make you mixes I won't ever be brave enough to burn
and I might spend this night awake for no reason,
because sometimes thats what I do.
some days are just too comfortable to loose.
and tonight its only the twinkle lights keeping me company.

to hear them

2008-11-30T01:14:00.029-05:00

as beautiful as a photograph, the sounds of memories can be greater.
voices and murmurs. the imperfections.
to hide a tape recorder in my pocket, up my sleeve,
within reach for a mistimed story.
when tori's words slip into bursts of slurs and aspirations.
julianna's voice heightening to squeals.
listen to my past, a capsule of my present.
my father's quiet verbal abuse of the woman in spandex at baggage claim. lindsey's impersonations of her drugged up mother every day of high school. christin's over pronounced t's. caleb's quiet questions, the rarity of his laughter for thirsty ears.
to hold your whispers, your nonchalant words,
for a day when I need them.
car ride chatter, organic and fragile. the creaks of my house.
kendra's cooking. lindsay's fibs. laine's laughter. jacob's sarcasm. davey's cricket. my own apprehension.
like a snapshot of my youth, the sounds of each day shape what you and I see in me. and I want to lock them up in my mind, like a journal, an album, to keep hold on them. hold on hope that one day someone cares enough to appreciate and dote on them like I can.
a tape recorder to hide in my pocket, up my sleeve.
the breath between her speech, the lisp between his lips.

but goodness

2008-11-23T22:46:00.007-05:00

sunday nights leave me wanting. weekends at home only remind me of my waiting.
waiting for change.
waiting maybe for someone Im too afraid to walk up to and say, 'I like you.' stupid waiting.
no more weekends at home.
but goodness its cozy...
nope, no more weekends at home.

maybe this should be left confidential

2008-11-22T21:09:00.012-05:00

one time last year my mom wasn't home by her usual ten. I don't think we had talked all day and by the time it was midnight I had let my mind wander. it was cold outside, but I opened the front door, turned on the porch lights, and sat on the steps. I didn't put on a jacket or shoes, but I wasn't cold, even surrounded by cloudy breath. mia lay on the other side of the glass watching me, and I cried. seventeen and like a five year old girl left at daycare, I cried. I watched the lights change at the corner, illuminating the trees, green to yellow, red. five minutes later she rolled into the driveway, and I don't remember why she was late or if I was mad, but I remember those cold minutes waiting. feeling helpless, and so silly, but it was so real, an unfamiliar wave of childhood (or estrogen). I knew it was stupid, but every now and then when its really cold I feel like Im five years old, grasping for security, unable to feel my freezing fingers. I don't know why I remembered that today.

today, waking up at home, where I found myself still.
I could hear my mom raking leaves, mia's collar faintly jingling, and I didn't move. I remember a similar morning lying in the floor of our apartment in texas, wrapped in sunlight and laziness, running my toes along the cushions of our floral couch, the sounds of my mother's movements.
fourteen years ago, a morning like today's, and I was so safe.

she would make

2008-11-18T20:43:00.013-05:00

my house is a palette of unmatched patterns and unfinished thoughts.
inside her doors you will find no woman wooing at her floors, her molding. she lacks order and routine.
but like a close friend, we are intimate.
she flaunts no crown molding, crisp lines, perfections. no expectations for my life. no ultimatums.
she would make a good friend.
and Ive grown tired of seasonal friendships; tired of latching onto something I could lose. slow to let people in, how can you know when its lasting.
people can be so wonderful. so beautiful.
but maybe Id rather miss out entirely than know whats missing. maybe Id rather let go than worry.
or maybe when I let them in I shouldn't expect so much. maybe I should be honored just to be near something so great. they are the mansion, the finely furnished brownstone.
but my house is a palette of unmatched patterns and unfinished thoughts.
and she would make a good friend,
shes everything I could ask for.
there is no hesitation in her acceptance.
she doesn't mind that my bangs don't always know which way to fall. that today, they fell left and gave me an artificial cowlick.
or the fact that I desperately wish I had an afro.
no, bring on the insecurities and flaws. no ultimatums,
I can hold tightly to the friend like my house.
its like humans to put ourselves out there again. we don't always learn from our scars.

misinterpreted, red and yellow.

2008-11-07T10:20:00.002-05:00

maybe it hurts to have your leaves turn golden and red.
maybe as we 'ooh and ah' the oak and maple suffer.
I shuffle moccasins through little crunchy skeletons, wishing I had my camera, knowing I wouldn't use it if I did.
thinking how many women are trees.
quietly suffering. accepting their duty to beauty.
misinterpreted, red and yellow.
will you find me a degree in saving trees from suffering?
saving them from objectification. rape. themselves.
because the undecided major has grown disheartening.
I need to be needed.
is there something wrong that no profession sounds more appealing than that of a social worker? is there something wrong that even the trees upset me?
yes, women are trees. overlooked, misinterpreted. sought for beauty.
we don't like to know trees have feelings. their weakness is uncomfortable.
'be pretty for me,' we say.
can you find me a degree to stop the trees from turning?
because today, Im only a girl in moccasins, carrying around a polaroid of a dog who died, doodling clouds over my notes, unknowingly making funny noises with my mouth, until I catch a passer's gaze, and squeeze my lips shut.
misinterpreted, red and yellow.

all I can think are bad words.

2008-11-03T20:06:00.010-05:00

my dog died today.
not Mia.
not my Mia asleep in her chair at my house on tower rd.
my Bacall.
my childhood best friend.
my emotional wellbeing from the age six.
she is the reason there is a Mia asleep in her chair at my
house on tower rd.
the reason I will always own a golden retriever.
golden retrievers that will never compare to my Bacall.
not even my Mia.
she wasn't there.
she hasn't held me.
I haven't loved her like my Bacall;
not yet.
my Bacall who died today.
all I can hear are my father's words, 'thats a dirty joke, if I'd have known it would hurt this much, I wouldn't have loved her so much.'
his perfect words.
agreed.

rhythym in their speech

2008-11-03T10:17:00.011-05:00

I was sitting down in the big silver bird. listening to women chatter,
rhythm in their speech:
early mornings.
New York City.
eating 'bret-fus'
with grown sons.
two women, tired, in navy jump suits, working suits, like mechanics, one with short blonde hair, sharp against her caramel skin. beautiful caramel skin. Susan, she says. she wears an endless smirk as her eyes follow an apathetic flight attendant.
they speak easy and honest. hair cuts, long hours, bad uniforms.
I wish I could be included in their world, but instead I am embarrassed when two eyes catch me listening.
little feet against my seat. little noises behind my head. babies squeal.
inserting headphones.
turning up seventeen, black cat, discotraxx. eye lids grown heavy.
lulled by electronic waves of children's voices, and women's wisdom, their beauty too great to be tainted by hard labor and ugly jump suits.
engulfed in the dark sky, I revel in their presence and watch tiny lights shift below.
I don't want to land.
I know I will never see them again.

codependency.

2008-10-28T11:00:00.006-04:00

dear girl in my linguistics class with the Canada tattoo I
admire on your ankle,
why did you let that big glass door fall into me? two paces behind you, I know you knew I was there. am I not edgy enough for your approval?
I know we laughed at our professor together, that time when she proudly showed us a real photo of her vocal chords that looked like a very different part of the anatomy, and only made it worse by calling them folds, and I know in our immaturity we both scanned the faces of our classroom, searching for someone, anyone, to share in our perverse perception, someone to sympathize, and I know you were happy to catch my eyes.
what deceptive vocal chords.
did that mean nothing?
did you mean to let the door fall on me? does this have to do with my lack of brightly colored tights and trendy cigarettes? is my presence too reserved?
I'm sure I could make you laugh. thats all I really need.
or perhaps, you didn't even notice me behind you, and like always, I am allowing sensitivity to govern my perceptions,
and my perceptions to govern my self worth.
codependency.
I don't mean to judge you, I liked you when I saw you.
but thats my disposition, to assume good in strangers.
you're Canadian, who wouldn't?
I choose to believe Canadians don't make jerks who drop doors on hypersensitive just-short-of-trendy girls like me. theres safety in the stereotype.
after all, I don't know your name in a class of twenty.
Sara, maybe.

today, monster trucks

2008-10-26T14:55:00.015-04:00

monster trucks on television.
children's voices too close to my window.
golden dog's ears raised,
little blonde afros shifting at the sound of each boy's shrill voice,
feminine in their youth.

little boys;
little boys who will grow up to be big boys.
big boys that big girls will be expected to fawn over;
expected to marry.
big boys who won't be expected to relinquish.

but society, I don't need you to shape me.
I won't listen as you whisper, 'give it up.'

I know I will only marry the boy of a strong mother;
only he can know.
a boy whos seen his sister cry and cried for her,
a boy who knows that nothing is more attractive than humility.
I will marry the boy who sees me and stays;
the boy who knows.

but for today, there are monster trucks on television
and little boy voices outside, feminine in their youth.
maybe someday my little neighbor boys will grow up to be
big boys who know.

waking up

2008-10-22T21:17:00.003-04:00

I'm waking up without fully functioning hands.
running clumsy fingers through my hair.
eating a spoon of nutella.
reading White Oleander.
listening to Billie Holiday.
drinking orange juice.
fluffing pillows.
showering slowly.
wearing my familiar ensemble.
clipping fingernails.
clip, clip. search for clipping. clip, clip.
waking up without fully functioning fingers.

wasted thoughts

2008-10-13T13:10:00.021-04:00

I do not have a bike yet.
I walk the distance between Spring Garden and Market across campus, and I have grown to look forward to its ease.
I choose to ignore the cracks in the sidewalk as they pass beneath my feet. But occasionally I cringe as my left foot steps over one.
I pass two girls from my hall as we pass over shady sidewalk and they smile at me. I like them,
but I can see they misinterpret my apprehension.
Perhaps as arrogance, perhaps as strange.
I re-situate in my oversized cardigan.
I think I see a friend from high school walking ahead of me and I am surprised by the weight of my disappointment when the stranger turns his face. You are not my friend.
You are not my guaranteed hug.
I push my slipping sunshades against my face.
I see my badly written notes on the back of my hand: 'prueba miercoles' and 'toothpaste'.
I like my handwriting and I wonder if anyone will ever get it tattooed on their wrist or forearm.
Its an unwarranted and uncomfortable thought, but it comes.
I rub my forehead and my fingers get caught in a tangle of my bangs.
How does four inches of hair tangle?
My right foot steps over a crack in the sidewalk. Thats okay.
In the cold, I will be more inclined to pursue my need for a bike.
Today, in the crisp but sunny weather of October, I will play my games with the sidewalk and waste my intelligence.

after all

2008-10-06T13:02:00.010-04:00

No one is cooking fish sticks on College Avenue.
Or Gray Drive.
Or the girls hall on the 3rd floor of Philip Hawkins.
But an overwhelming stench is following me today.
It isn't from my sweat, I checked.
It isn't from my newly washed cardigan
or from my shampooed hair.
I look to your faces, those who pass me in my day.
No one will confirm the stench is real or make it go away.
You look so happy and concerned with your lives; your mothers and your bladders, the popcorn kernel stuck inside your gums from an awkward date Friday night. or was it Saturday? Either way, they didn't get your jokes. It could never work...
You don't notice the overwhelming stench that harasses me.
Maybe it isn't real. Or maybe, just like me, it follows you, and you don't want to accept that it might be real.
After all, no one is cooking fish sticks on College Avenue.

in plaid and denim

2008-10-04T11:32:00.003-04:00

Hello cold.
Today I want to cover myself in plaid and denim.
I eat soup and crunchy toast.
After I shower I linger in the warm bathroom.
I slide between cool sheets, in a ball, and wait for my limbs to warm the layers of cotton. By morning, they will be like warm layers of skin I struggle to pry from.
Hello cool weather.
Ive missed you.

today, everyday

2008-09-30T23:43:00.002-04:00

Some seasons we just need a one person.
Its blatantly obvious when we do.
Missing a one who will invade our space without asking today, everyday. A one we don't have to talk to; one person to understand who we are, to be interested.
When we're little we call them a best friend.
When we mature, we don't label them as much; we don't want to take the power from them. We admire the ease in which we exist but we don't dare dissect why.
Seasons.
No one can prevent change but we can acknowledge when it happens. We can hate it. We can accept it.
We can hurt.
People need each other in different ways.
We're supposed to grow, even if it means away.
We reach out and reach in. We wait for a one person to find us again.
I think thats why people scramble to get married; its the reason women fear being alone.
We miss being needed.
In the biggest crowd, sometimes all we need is a one person to point us out and say mine.
We don't have to depend on it though; we can know who we are today, everyday.

hugs

2008-09-16T23:14:00.003-04:00

Its so nice to feel like where you are is exactly where you should be.
To know, although you're still just on the brink of what you could be, what you know you're supposed to be, at least you're finally moving towards it.
Finally.
Movement.
Scary change can stimulate so much growth.
I want more change.
Taylor doesn't like change, but right now it feels so good.
It makes her want to hug someone.
Taylor loves hugs.

these nights

2008-09-11T21:45:00.001-04:00

That stupid little green light still methodically blinks on the little white tv I got for Christmas in 2001.
Seven years.
That's a long time.
It reflects off the mirror hanging on our door from its perch atop one of the wardrobes in our dorm room; that means I see it twice. I hate that light. I can't help watching it though as I lay in my bed.
Lindsay tells me I wouldn't see it if I closed my eyes. Makes sense.
I don't think it serves any purpose; that stupid light.
When I was twelve I used to try and time opening my eyes for the couple seconds it wasn't lit. I got pretty good. After a good ten blinks though, my timing would lag and I'd catch a glimpse of green. In frustration I'd turn away and squeeze my eyes shut.
I find myself playing the same game these nights.
Lindsay tells me I should tape a piece of dark paper over it if I won't close my eyes.
I don't though.
I think subconsciously I don't want to lose the little green light. As much as I hate it, that little blinking light has been tormenting me since 2001.
Seven years.
That's a long time.
At least its consistent. A little bit of stability in a new life of change.

2008-08-25T22:08:00.002-04:00

This is what I miss about home tonight.

beneath pillows.

2008-08-17T18:24:00.010-04:00

Its so weird to be asked to choose what part of your daily life will remain daily. Within my bedroom, I don't see a whole lot of things I need. I see a surprising amount of things I don't even really like anymore; remnants of old importance that have lost their luster. Decorative bulk.
Baggage don't follow me.
Laying in bed a few nights ago I couldn't stop running through my possessions in my head, and through the realms of unworn clothes and dusty books I suddenly thought of a two foot long stuffed dog.
Hunter; my childhood comfort.
He was a last minute purchase from Walmart twelve years ago, before the first of many emotional trips between parents. He was a purchase with a purpose; a job. My mom made me promise he could ride on every plane ride between North Carolina and Texas. He did. My only company as an unaccompanied minor.
I had just turned six; around the age you realize just because you speak English, doesn't mean you are English. You're just a white American. And that it isn't okay to call the common colored band-aid, "skin colored." Its not everybody's.
What odd manifestations.
I don't think of Hunter often. He's bulky and for years has served as little more than additional support jammed between my headboard and mattress beneath a plethora of pillows.
I reached for him then though and was indescribably happy to feel his matted coat, grabbing him by a now stiff limb hanging by patches of make-do thread from joints worn limber, I pulled him into my chest.
In the darkness I felt his long limp felt-lined ears for the blue thread, that in my sewing ambitions as a ten year old I had begun to sew my name into, but in a loss of interest and thread, reads only “taylo”.
The subtleties of his condition say a lot about his keeper.
Its surreal to leave home. I don’t know what to do with things like Hunter. Where does he go? The downgrade from queen to twin hardly pulls in his favor.
Maybe my mom could use a little more pillow support.
Maybe I’m not ready to give it up.
Sometimes when you're expected to be an adult the most, you find yourself holding onto comforts of the past.

Je Ne Te Connais Pas

2008-07-30T12:48:00.006-04:00

I bought a French pop song off itunes.
It was in a car commercial.
French.
Not only did I fail to grasp the Spanish language after five years of classes, and not only am I from the south where the dialect can run thick; Im from Texas.
Im doomed.
And really I dont want to know what the song is about.
I love English.
I am the ignorant American.
When did this happen?
In all fairness it probably wasn't my fault; Im that girl who's family decided to strip the "french" from french-fries and call them freedom-fries.
So in all right I should probably be prohibited from owning this song. I feel no right. I am dissent.
I feel like in one smooth swoop I disappointed both my anti-Dixie Chicks family with their faded W '04 bumper stickers and the musical genius of the French.
The hypocrisy.

And its anyones guess what the song is about? Mazdas maybe?

we humans

2008-07-09T00:49:00.010-04:00

Why does life go through such drastic seasons?
Seasons.
I guess thats the answer.
Everything seems to go through a series of highs and lows. Floods and droughts. Recession and surplus.
Would life be so mundane if God spread the blessings out? Would a guaranteed constant state of contentment instead make us numb to joy? Does he like to let you get a little bored; a little sad, so you can see the beauty of his gifts?
I dont like it.
I dont like it when he blesses me all at once.
What about those sad months I spent in the last stretches of winter? I could have used some happy then too.
Maybe its my perception.
Summer really is a good season.
God likes to put people in my life during the summer. Its a trend.
So now I face the frustrating conflict of emotions.
I spend all year craving my family. Maybe its the minute size of my household that leaves me thirsty for their attention. I spend my time around them absorbing. Time is so rare. So while, thank you God for the 20 some days I get to spend in two of our country's most beloved states, with some of the most beloved people in my life, but Id have picked a different time.
Maybe those slow days in February. I could have used a hug from Amy. A rude joke from Davey.
I feel like a nagging kid. Yes thank you, but you didnt do it right. I guess thats like us.
We humans.
Now that Im finding peace in my life at home; now that Im with people who have the time to invest in me here, now you give me a vacation.
Gees.
Its my insecurities. My fear of abandonment.
I know my family will love me, but will my friends lose interest?
Are some relationships too immature to test? Are some too tired to spread out? Will I still be funny in month?
Maybe God wants me to have peace. Maybe he's asking me to assume a cool disposition to the relationships in my life; the cool disposition I exude in other areas of my life. I like to think its my personality; the classic Type B.
So thank you God.
Thank you for over blessing me in July.
He used winter and spring to weed out the people draining me. He filled me back up. He realized how much I needed them.
He doesnt deserve my criticism.

Its too happy. Tomorrow Ill be ashamed.

2008-07-05T12:51:00.006-04:00

Some days we notice little things.

I love rear window wipers. Love them. When you look in the rear view mirror and see that one lone blade working so hard to wipe those 12 inches it can reach. Its so expressive; so excited about wiping.

I love the first two minutes of sitcoms before commercials; the highlight of the entire half hour for me. The fact they often have no correlation to the storyline of the episode.

Its that one difference between the verses of your favorite song. That change in key you accidentally begin adding to every verse in the song. And then it finally comes, you get so excited and it passes so quickly.
You realize how consumed you were with it; that you missed enjoying the rest of the song.
So you listen to it again.

Its those last times you wear your favorite pair jeans before the butt gives out. That dreaded rip of death. Why didn't you buy two pairs? You wallow in hindsight.
But you look good today. You feel at home in them.
You choose to believe they love you too today.

I loved driving home tonight in the rain because no one could see me sing.
I loved hiding from the doorbell only to realize it was the mail-woman bearing a package.
I loved texting my best friend all day when it would have been so much easier to call her.
I love how bright my bedroom is in the morning.
I love how irritatingly happy Mia is at the sight of a tennis ball.

Today was one of those days for me.
A day when I was uncharacteristically optimistic.
Truly out of character.
I already feel a little indigestion.

hiding is happy

2008-06-19T23:17:00.000-04:00

At first I felt like I was skipping school. Sitting here at home, I felt the familiar guilt for not feeling guilty about skipping out on my responsibility.
Then I realized, maybe this is one of the one times I shouldn't. These days are some of the last I will ever have to genuinely bum; to hard core do nothing. These idle moments, when I have the ability to wake up and beyond that give nothing of myself.
Its an unattractive thought. Its an unhealthy mindset, but all my good judgment and all my plans of productivity can't match the peace I feel in these lazy days.
I'm home alone.
I leave itunes up all day; engrossed in music.
I sit the lazy chair dead center in front of the television, my toes just reaching the buttons to navigate among our twenty-some channels. I conclude daytime tv is rough aside from Ellen.
Mia lounges on the cool tile of the hallway. I pass her on my hourly trips to the kitchen for further snacking supplies. Her tail wags.
I ruin spoon after spoon with hearty scoops of Nutella, and glass after glass with Arizona green tea.
And when I venture upstairs into my room and bathroom, the mess is stunning. One might describe it as debilitating, however on this lazy day I don't care. This mess is mine. I rearrange the clothes on my bathroom floor with my feet, and in all the repulsive glory of dirty laundry and tampon wrappers I can't stop a smile.
I have been blind-sighted with this love for what is solely mine. I understand life in a dorm will not afford me such selfish luxuries as my own filth.
I won't have the ability to hide it. I won't have a mom to eventually help me tackle it.
So in these last days of hiding from life's responsibility, I will revel in my irrational thinking.
I won't wear a shirt as I lounge about the house.
I'll come up with the first and middle names of my future children; two girls and a boy I decide.
I'll spend hours on flickr.com; searching things like "polaroids" or "Feist concert".
I'll listen to all four Tegan & Sara albums, and to Mia's horror I'll sing every word.
This is the calm before a huge storm;
Change.

profess

2008-06-08T01:22:00.000-04:00

What happens when you really hurt someone you love?
You feel selfish.
And you feel gross.
And an overbearing anxiety.
And I think it hurts the most when they don't treat you any differently. Some superhuman ability to forgive despite the pain. They look you in the eye and all you can feel is this overwhelming blanket of adoration.
You want them to hate you. You want them to hurt you so you can feel some kind of atonement, of equality for your words.
You need to cry but you hold it back because that would make it too real.
You want to defend your anger; your lashing out. But in hindsight it doesn't justify the hurt you cause.

You were angry at the past of a person, at the pain they caused the ones you love.
The women you would die for; your Amy.
But you strike below the belt and attack a part of their character that is flawless. You dont think they'll ever know. You vent. You ignore the sacrifices. You forget the safety and love. You dont want to remember. It makes it too hard to miss. So you harden and profess apathy. You dont want to feel.
You see them as two different people.
You attack the wrong one.
Who could forgive your cruelty?
Could only a parent love through acute disappointment?

overused the ingenuity

2008-05-21T23:34:00.006-04:00

What if I'm not who everyone wants me to be;
I'm not what anyone really wants.
Where is that fine line between being yours and not being a disappointment to someone; anyone.
Is this the source of rebellion?
Is it normal to be overcome by this fear that in pursuing who you really want to be, you're letting someone down.
I've become a Debbie Downer.

Sometimes I just get tired.
Its my fault; my own insecurities. I should know who I am. I should know how to say no.
I don't though.
And now I've overused the semicolon; it's lost its ingenuity.

with its trees

2008-05-06T12:38:00.004-04:00

Who knew I would love this place.
This city that served as a replacement of my childhood loveland twelve years ago.
I hated this place. I blamed this place for stealing my life.
I blamed this Greensboro.
This Greensboro with its trees.
Who knew I would love this place.

comforter

2008-05-05T00:28:00.003-04:00

Suddenly the cold is gone.
Greensboro has lost it's bite.
Its hot at night but my ceiling fan feels foreign to me. I am intimidated by its violent rotations and annoyed by the rhythmic squeaking that develops over the hours before I angrily rise to my knees on the bed to reset its position.
The act feels familiar.
It feels so good in my bed but the old comforts of winter have lost some of their..comfort.
The increasing temperature manifests flaws in my happiness. I wake up in a sweat. It makes me sad.
I mourn the weight of my comforter. My sheet feels so weak and incapable of protecting me.
Of comforting me.
I burrow in pillows.
My fan begins to squeak.

today

2008-03-30T22:17:00.003-04:00

You forgave me today.
Forgave me when I left the new gallon of milk out on the counter all day. The milk you told me to put up as you walked out the door.
You didnt gripe at me when you came home and I hadn't fed the dog. She looked hungry.
You didnt sigh this morning when I walked into your bedroom wearing my familiar ensemble.
You didnt give me that look, that undefinable look, when you noticed I hadn't fixed up my hair or done up my makeup. So unlike you.
Who were you today?
You were my friend today.
I made you laugh today.

We didnt hurt each other today.

not broken, just blank

2008-03-10T22:54:00.007-04:00

I left it blank today.
The line asking for the father's name and information on the medical form. Such impersonal and factual pieces of their person anyway.
Sometimes I write 'n/a' . Or draw a slash through the blank. Or just write 'none'. That feels a little harsh though. A little bitter. How bitter can a med form be? Sometimes I feel the need to give them a little bit more of an explanation. Then I write, 'out of state.'

It doesn't matter. Each communicates the situation.
Each leaves the little woman typing my stats into a spread sheet knowing I am the result of a broken family.
Broken?
Thats a little harsh too.
A little unnecessary.

Its always weird when you casually notice a part of your life that has always been normal and so simple, is irregular and oddly sad in the view of others. Broken in the view of others.

Not everyone has looked at that space in the med form and contemplated which negate to use. I find that odd. And for now, I like leaving it blank.
The blank is good. Its clean and clear. He's not present yet the circumstances are fuzzy. Its mysterious; expressing nonchalance and apathy.
I like it.
Blank.

afloat

2008-03-07T16:12:00.006-05:00

What happened to the days I had the time to organize, and reorganize my bedroom? How can life drift from complete boredom and leisure to the immersing emotion of being swallowed up with an eternal list of to-dos?
I find myself spending more and more time with the people I care little about and slowly drifting farther away from those I want most to hang on to. And when time could be found, I find myself too lazy or discouraged to pursue them. All the energy Ive spent on the excess people in my life has left me little to offer the ones I love most. I am influenced by these people without my consent.
I hear myself cuss.
I hear myself begin to talk about myself; following a similar pattern to those I hate listening to.
Gross.
Stop Taylor.
Just stop.
Im 17 and exhausted. When did life get this way? Im not even grown.
Will life always be this way, or am I trapped in the conventional standards of teen expectations placed on us by society?

Sometimes it doesn't feel real. Is this MY life?
Ive come to cope by taking things day by day, pausing only briefly to glance at my future. Perhaps thats where things have grown gray and blurred in my endless struggle to stay afloat. My direction gets scewed.

Maybe life is a game of cutting and pasting our priorities.
Or maybe we should just know.

TED

2008-02-14T23:59:00.003-05:00

I bought an ipod today. I named it Ted.
It just came to me. Ive heard parents describe the sensation when they see their child for the first time. They have a standard name picked out for the unborn infant and then bam- they see the kid, and they just know.
But I really don't feel very secure about it being Ted.
I have a great uncle named Ted. Actually Theodore. Thats heavy.
I haven't settled on the idea of it being male either. It feels like it should be a she; like a ship. When in reality its sexless, which sounds awful. It sounds so incomplete.
Like a neutered dog.

a parallel

2008-01-20T18:39:00.001-05:00

This is Melinda Carol Warbritton, Im guessing around ten-eleven years old. Im also assuming the most beautiful girl in her class, but perhaps Im bias.
I love this photo. I love that no one ever cut it up. Sad in a way but also oddly comforting. Some sweet parallel between my childhood and hers; the pains of ambitious school-picture-ordering were not born with my generation.
My mom. She was a child?
Yet when I see this photo, I do see a child. She may have birthed me, but the girl in this image is younger than me. I feel an overwhelming need to protect her. Shes so young. So clean, and oddly..blond.
If I could only cloak her from the life Ive heard awaits her. Ive heard the stories.
And its frustrating.
Im angry I cant stop any of it. I want to protect her.

She thinks its funny I keep this photo by my bedside.
When she looks at it she only sees the day.
She remembers her ten year old insecurities.
Mindy forgot it was picture day in the rush of recess. And the looming wrath of an unsatisfied mother overwhelmed her when she finally remembered.
The only evidence I see are the light whispies hanging above her ears, pulling away just enough to appear oddly feminine.
But her face is calm; not anxious.
And her eyes are why I really find this photo so appealing. Its in the eyes that I see my mom.

its legit.

2007-11-30T16:03:00.000-05:00

Texas isn't home. Not really. Neither is Greensboro. Its hard to imagine any place as home. What is home? It feels natural to search for a person. I recognize thats a foolish desire. No person could ever fulfill and sustain me. I know. Still, I naturally feel the need to search for them. The unknown ideal.

I've grown up in faith. Jesus is my home, you say. Yes. I know.
You don't have to rescue me. I don't need to be.
Perhaps, greater, I don't want to be.
I never got to discover my faith. I never searched. Never needed to. It was handed to me from birth; prior to birth even. Like a gift.
Ive owned it. True. Ive experienced grace. Its mine; its legit.

But for now, Id like to wander. Not far. Just enough to feel the tightening of the bands.
I don't doubt. Thats different. Thats not me. I know what I believe, I will always know to be true. So don't be afraid when I don't want to follow you. I know what you'd do.
I know he's there.
I don't need to be rescued. Don't want to be.

I need to be lost for a while; to fall.
I need to break me.
I need to need him bad enough, that I will fall into him. Because for now, I don't want to. I don't want to give up control.

I still want to put my home in a person that Ive never met. A person who will sustain me. An ideal. A savior.

But haven't I already done that?

while Im thinking about him...

2007-11-27T00:13:00.001-05:00

Family is odd.
In no other situation would you find yourself surrounded by such individuals. In no other situation would anyone love you so blindly.
I have an awkward relationship with little kids. I don't understand them. Its fear really. The purity of their confidence and the lack of shame in their selfishness is fascinating. And odd. Its embarrassing really; to fear the rejection from a four year old so blatantly. I analyze them. Gawk at their beauty. Children are beauty. An ideal.
But when you're family- you're family. Garrett never asked any questions. He never acted afraid of me. He recognized me. He recognized the significance of family. The security.
He loved me.
He knew Id love him back.

your ability

2007-11-18T16:13:00.000-05:00

Im known as quiet. If you met me, you'd say Im quiet.
Its a dominant characteristic. When asked why, Ill tell you I have nothing to say.
Simple. Ill probably even add an, 'honestly.'

Lie. Such a lie.

I always have something to say. I just dont believe you're interested; and I cant share myself without being sure you wont reject me. I value you.
Ill search your face for reassurance. You wont understand my apprehension. That’s okay.

So for now,
Ill listen. I love your ability to express yourself so freely. I value your thoughts. They help shape mine. Which on some levels makes me a bit of a hypocrite.