Spiders and Salt

Weaving is therapeutic. 
There’s something soothing about the repetitive process, 
It’s methodical; it’s deliberate; it’s calming. 
Unspooling and unraveling 
Then interlacing and entwining. 
I can check out, 
And let my fingers take the lead
Ginger & dainty; patient 
Like spiders 
Dangling from my wrists
Wrapping and binding, 
Sewing and stitching across the loom. 
I don’t have to think. 
Just dip, and then pull 
Tuck, then pluck. 
And repeat. 

It’s lyrical, really; rhythmic, 
Like I’m playing the harp. 
Tugging away
At my own heartstrings. 

It’s meditative: 
The only thing I can relate it to 
Is when someone dies
And you clean to cope, 
Because it’s mindless
Yet gratifying
And you feel accomplished and satisfied
While on the verge of tears.

And it’s okay
Because at least you’re making progress. 














Am I really making progress?





“the patterns laid out on the bed
with dozens of colors of thread
but you’ve got the needle
I guess that’s the point of it all”










I’m sick of winter. 
And it’s barely over. 

I’m sick of being chilled to the bone
I’m sick of shoveling. 

I’m sick of the salt staining the bottoms of my jeans
And the tops of my shoes
It looks like snail’s trails
Dusted in luminescent dandruff. 
Or cocaine.



I’m not ready for February

“it does seem like everything conspires against you when your heart is raw… watching all these reunited happy couples joyously making out and trundling off together to be in love in the snow”







I want to trundle too. 

















Someone gave me a fortune cookie yesterday
For the Chinese new year,

“in love” my fortune explained, “you could shine as a brilliant star”







I could dazzle.
I want to shine. 









I wish people thought artists were sexy. 

“You painted that? Let’s bang”




But really, what’s more poetic and romantic than an artist?



A poet, I suppose. 

Whatever. 





I’ll just weave for now,
And talk to the spiders. 

“they’ve got the permanent press, 
and the homes with the stable address, 
and they’ve got excitement 
and life by the fistful
but we’ve got the meaning
I guess that’s the point of it all”

Chiseling up.

“Be like concrete,
Chisel up”


I was arranging magnets on a friend’s refrigerator a few weeks ago, and that’s the phrase I came up with. I’m not even sure what it means, but it’s been sitting there in my attic for a while now, collecting dust, and I’ve been trying and failing to assign and derive meaning from it ever since I constructed the sentence. 

Chisel up. 
Chisel up.
Chisel what?

Trim the fat?
Abort the bullshit?
Sever your loses?
Stop being so sentimental and trying to find beauty and poetry in nonsensical refrigerator magnet prose?
Perhaps. 



Regardless, it sounds proactive. 

(Remind me to take some of my own advice sometime.)



Speaking of productivity, 
I haven’t been writing 
Or painting 
Or composing 
Or worrying about my health.
Or tackling any of my new year resolutions. 

Instead
I’ve been nesting:

I’m building and weaving a large bird’s nest 
Then I’m going to make two human hearts out of plaster
& put them in it.
And it’s going to be a lovely metaphor for love
And it won’t be cathartic at all
And then I’m going to go home and cry and be bitter.




“and if I had an offer to be better, I’d decline”







There’s a fine line between expressing and obsessing.
I think I might be crossing it.
Though, 
If there’s one thing I’m really, very good at, it’s dwelling. 


Or maybe I should just


Chisel chisel chisel chisel chisel. 







Up.








I’m trying. 

I’ll get there. 

I promise. 












Is it spring yet? I’m frozen. 
And I’d like to thaw. 



















I ate birthday cake last night. 
It was chocolate and delicious. 
One of my friends was celebrating her birthday, and I almost missed her blowing out the candles:

“where’s zach?”
“he’s peeing”
“Well, I’m not blowing these motherfuckin candles out without him”








It’s nice to feel valued. 

obama knows best:

"know that
people will judge you 

on 

what 

you 

can 







build,




















not what you destroy"

on finishing last

Maybe the age-old phrase rings true, 
And nice guys really do finish last












How many instances can you point out when I was less than kind?





….







I thought so, 

Still, I don’t think I deserved this. 

beginning to breathe and beginning to hope

Until tonight, I hadn’t cried since my grandpa’s funeral. 

It feels really good. 









I can’t explain it. 
But it makes me feel human. 











I wasn’t expecting a different answer.
I knew exactly what was coming, 
I knew exactly what your response would be.
I was prepared. 

And it didn’t hurt so badly in theory. 



But finally hearing the truth—
The truth that I was more than well aware of,
The truth I so desperately wanted to finally hear
From the source
From your lips—
And having to accept it as reality 
Fucking hurts. 







But,
It’s okay. 
Because I wanted that closure,
And even though it hurts right now, 
I needed to hear the truth, 
And I will survive.








Thank you. 
Thank you, so much.
I am relieved.

Now, I can finally breathe. 










&








I’m not bitter, 
I’m not angry, 
I don’t blame you at all, 
I have no ill feelings towards you, 
I’m truly happy for you, 
I’m happy you’ve found someone 
I’m happy you’ve met your match,
I’m happy you’ve found your partner in crime,
The one you want by your side,
I’m happy you’re in love
It’s a beautiful thing 
Don’t let that go. 
Or I’ll break your legs
And snap off your head. 





But really and truly, 
I’m happy for you,
And I’m so glad to have met you, 
I’m glad our lives intersected 
That our paths crossed in that house, 
Despite the chaotic circumstances.

I will always treasure the music, love and poetry that we made
& I’m glad we did the things we did, 
I don’t regret any of it. 
Not
One
Thing. 





There is someone for me out there,
And even though it isn’t you, 
I’m glad we’re friends.