February 24
Close my eyes. Music. Mine. After five weeks. 35 days. Is that all? Through waves and forest and bleeding hearts. Fourteen months. Of being away. But, in all effect, I am very much the same. Feeling, everything. Needing a release. I made a play list for the upcoming airports, planes, and trains. It's pretty much 'go juice.' Sad, emotional - but go juice. Because leaving, arriving...it's never not been sad. "Happy Sad." That's what I'd tell Dana and she'd know exactly what I mean. I try to make other people into a Dana. The letter I'll write to Patrick, as I imagine it now, I'm writing it to a Dana. I guess everyone holds 'used to be' components of her. Because that's how I strive to be. The Kelsey I was with her. Open, complete, sharing everything. The ones I wrap around me. I want them to see this version. Some will always squint. Others will stub and erase. Make me feel like my words and movements are written in pencil and not a slower to fade ink.
Places. Eyes closed. Anna's kitchen. Tash's kitchen. Five Rhythms Dance Hall. Tasmanian shades of eucalyptus green. Orange Kieszonka. Mt. Ruapehu changing in view. Touches. Patrick's finger on my back in that cellar dweller club. Ya Ya's hug lifting me off the ground. Sleeping on her shoulder. Tash's cheek kisses. John and Libby holding me in their firm grasp. Sitting on Paul's bed. The giggling. Leaning playfully, lightly, into his delicate body. Ida, in my arms, not to be released, not by me, not that night. Patrick's head, Patrick's hands, Patrick's stomach. I fell in some kind of love. With a person who will never give me the essential things I need. But knowledge doesn't make the missing and hurting less than it is.
Hugs. Friends. Stories. Swims. Bike Rides. Hikes. Clouds. How do I measure it? How do I convey so many days to the people that'll be passing through and around me? Wait! Hand to chest - just stay there. Can you feel? Stop rushing. Dad, stop talking. Lets just sit here. Can you feel this? No. I know. Because I'm a feeler. Who still wishes she could trace the waves and gullies of it. But then they are only lines. It's hot in this hostel lounge room. Filled with flies. And tomorrow I'll be in Auckland, the air, LA, and on the train for all that cosmopolitan in between to San Diego. With Gram. Needing and trying to be brave. And there I'll be. Needing and trying to be brave. Saving the roller coaster of feeling for Rachel. Heather. My new 84 cent journal and OJ's matted and dandruff filled orange fur. But he'll hear it. In between purrs and roll overs.
And damn it. I fell in love. I shouldn't curse it. Even though, right now, it only pinches. Only burns. Because Tash isn't here. I can't climb in bed with her. Lay there. Talking. Not talking. Be is not knitting next to me on the couch. She's not showing me the different masses of her calves. And Libby's in another town. With Anna and Pip. I'm not with them. Not yoga-ing, dancing, crying, laughing. And Ya Ya's there, reading. I've been exhausted and irritable all day. Not how I'd like to be on my last full day. But it is. Because I'm sad. And needing. And when she's not singing songs behind me. Not making weird noises because "ITS........pretty good I guess." When she's not listening to these very words I'm writing. Well, I'll feel it then. Too. Because I keep falling in love with the people making up my life. For 35 days. 14 months. Even six nights. Because I'm wearing his jeans tonight. And I threw away the last cigarette filter. It kept escaping that scraps of paper filled plastic bag anyway. Because, then, I thought, I should be letting go of this. But, now, I could be tempted to dig it out. To put it in these pants' pocket. That's where its supposed to be. His memory. My memories. Bleating, temporary. All those glimpses of turquoise sea. Tinkerbell's silver belly. Steep Wellington streets. And duck tails. And foggy mountain tops.
I don't think I try desperately to hold on to any of you, the people or the views. Because. Because. I'm still open to today, to tomorrow, to everything fluctuating and happening around me. But I'm still holding you. That's what you get with me. Your memory, it stays. In a building with rooms built for each of you. Containing that big or tiny piece that I ate of you. I want Patrick to hold me. I want Ya Ya to share with and listen to. I want Tash to bum massage. I want Be around. Me. All the time. I want Libby's creative dancing. And baking with Anna in her kitchen. And Pip with coffee or tea. And Julia peeing her pants next to me. And Bindy. Dylan. Dianne. Annette. John. I have to stop. My southern hemisphere list goes on and on. And Paul, you are still here, in between everything.
Close my eyes. Music. Mine. After five weeks. 35 days. Is that all? Through waves and forest and bleeding hearts. Fourteen months. Of being away. But, in all effect, I am very much the same. Feeling, everything. Needing a release. I made a play list for the upcoming airports, planes, and trains. It's pretty much 'go juice.' Sad, emotional - but go juice. Because leaving, arriving...it's never not been sad. "Happy Sad." That's what I'd tell Dana and she'd know exactly what I mean. I try to make other people into a Dana. The letter I'll write to Patrick, as I imagine it now, I'm writing it to a Dana. I guess everyone holds 'used to be' components of her. Because that's how I strive to be. The Kelsey I was with her. Open, complete, sharing everything. The ones I wrap around me. I want them to see this version. Some will always squint. Others will stub and erase. Make me feel like my words and movements are written in pencil and not a slower to fade ink.
Places. Eyes closed. Anna's kitchen. Tash's kitchen. Five Rhythms Dance Hall. Tasmanian shades of eucalyptus green. Orange Kieszonka. Mt. Ruapehu changing in view. Touches. Patrick's finger on my back in that cellar dweller club. Ya Ya's hug lifting me off the ground. Sleeping on her shoulder. Tash's cheek kisses. John and Libby holding me in their firm grasp. Sitting on Paul's bed. The giggling. Leaning playfully, lightly, into his delicate body. Ida, in my arms, not to be released, not by me, not that night. Patrick's head, Patrick's hands, Patrick's stomach. I fell in some kind of love. With a person who will never give me the essential things I need. But knowledge doesn't make the missing and hurting less than it is.
Hugs. Friends. Stories. Swims. Bike Rides. Hikes. Clouds. How do I measure it? How do I convey so many days to the people that'll be passing through and around me? Wait! Hand to chest - just stay there. Can you feel? Stop rushing. Dad, stop talking. Lets just sit here. Can you feel this? No. I know. Because I'm a feeler. Who still wishes she could trace the waves and gullies of it. But then they are only lines. It's hot in this hostel lounge room. Filled with flies. And tomorrow I'll be in Auckland, the air, LA, and on the train for all that cosmopolitan in between to San Diego. With Gram. Needing and trying to be brave. And there I'll be. Needing and trying to be brave. Saving the roller coaster of feeling for Rachel. Heather. My new 84 cent journal and OJ's matted and dandruff filled orange fur. But he'll hear it. In between purrs and roll overs.
And damn it. I fell in love. I shouldn't curse it. Even though, right now, it only pinches. Only burns. Because Tash isn't here. I can't climb in bed with her. Lay there. Talking. Not talking. Be is not knitting next to me on the couch. She's not showing me the different masses of her calves. And Libby's in another town. With Anna and Pip. I'm not with them. Not yoga-ing, dancing, crying, laughing. And Ya Ya's there, reading. I've been exhausted and irritable all day. Not how I'd like to be on my last full day. But it is. Because I'm sad. And needing. And when she's not singing songs behind me. Not making weird noises because "ITS........pretty good I guess." When she's not listening to these very words I'm writing. Well, I'll feel it then. Too. Because I keep falling in love with the people making up my life. For 35 days. 14 months. Even six nights. Because I'm wearing his jeans tonight. And I threw away the last cigarette filter. It kept escaping that scraps of paper filled plastic bag anyway. Because, then, I thought, I should be letting go of this. But, now, I could be tempted to dig it out. To put it in these pants' pocket. That's where its supposed to be. His memory. My memories. Bleating, temporary. All those glimpses of turquoise sea. Tinkerbell's silver belly. Steep Wellington streets. And duck tails. And foggy mountain tops.
I don't think I try desperately to hold on to any of you, the people or the views. Because. Because. I'm still open to today, to tomorrow, to everything fluctuating and happening around me. But I'm still holding you. That's what you get with me. Your memory, it stays. In a building with rooms built for each of you. Containing that big or tiny piece that I ate of you. I want Patrick to hold me. I want Ya Ya to share with and listen to. I want Tash to bum massage. I want Be around. Me. All the time. I want Libby's creative dancing. And baking with Anna in her kitchen. And Pip with coffee or tea. And Julia peeing her pants next to me. And Bindy. Dylan. Dianne. Annette. John. I have to stop. My southern hemisphere list goes on and on. And Paul, you are still here, in between everything.
