happy v-day lovers.

My first boyfriend was named Jackson. We “dated” when I was three. We attended the same local swimming pool and I broke up with him when he squirted my friends with his water gun. I’ve always wondered if maybe I peaked too early. It would be insufficient to say that I wasn’t interested in anyone for the many years that followed because that certainly isn’t true. I recall a bad boy named Nathan in my earliest of elementary years who wore a little kid’s black leather jacket. He would pitch such a fit that he would get sent to the principal’s office more often than he was in class. He would refuse to leave his seat and therefore would be simply scooted down the hall, still glued to his chair. What a badass.

Then there was a boy named Josh. Around the pink linoleum tiles of my cafeteria, there I was- a crushing little third grader. He would do anything to get into trouble. We used to have silent lunches every now and again, when the up and ups thought we were all getting too excited for the next candy-related holiday. When silent lunch went down, the lights were turned off; we were to sit in alphabetical order with one seat in between ourselves and whoever was beside us. Somehow, Josh was assigned to sit right in front of me. The punishment was hated. Suddenly, a few minutes into it, Josh became our fearless leader as he silently plowed down two sandwiches, packed with so much egg salad between the two white slices of bread that it crammed down his throat even faster – the eggs acting as a slick lubricant, mashed with their mayonnaise and mustard fluff. He ate it so fast that in one swift second, he was ralphing.

He puked everywhere. There was total outrage, the cries of disgust, the horrifying realization that the egg salad looked exactly the same sitting on the black table, spilling over onto the pink linoleum as it had when he was eating it– it was mass hysteria. The lights were instantly flicked back on; my classmates were jumping out of their seats, swiping up their lunch materials. Josh was whisked away, in my mind he was handcuffed, but that totally didn’t happen. I hopped up too, but I stood in awe of the boy who ended silent lunch.

In elementary school, I had short, chin-length hair and bangs. My freckles were my calling card and I thought I was so funny, but I talked too much. I got marks for talking too much. I got ice-cream taken away for talking too much. You see, I would buy my lunch as usual and always pick up a tiny plastic container of strawberry ice-cream and a little wooden spoon. By the time lunch was over, I had talked too much and all I was interested in eating and all I had time for was my ice-cream. I had the best kindergarten teacher anyone could ask for. Although her teacher’s aide– I still believe – had it in for me. She caught onto me tossing out my green beans, corn niblets, and empty ice-cream carton and told my mom.

I found out the next day, as my little, slightly pudgy arms reached out for a strawberry ice-cream cup that I had been forbidden to eat ice-cream for the rest of the month. It was taken away.

I should have risen up. I should have returned to school the next day with a huge carton of strawberry ice-cream. I should have melted it down and put it in a water gun and squirted her. I should have refused to leave my seat as I sat eating it. I should have eaten so much that I puked sweet strawberry cream.

But I didn’t.

It’s a funny thing to reflect on being a little kid. I can relate to who I was then more than I can relate to who I have been recently. I hope my lot in life is to return to who I was before I took the ice-cream punishment. Back when I was transfixed by bad boys and wanted to do something stupid, yet totally daring.

A Letter to Me from Little KB:

Things could be worse. It is important to remember, Katie Beth, that things could always be worse. You could have no legs, you could have no heart, you could have no love, and you could have no start. You’re on the very brink of life. You want to see everything. You want to write something, anything, for anyone, any time. You want to pick who you love.

But what is holding you back? Nothing should, not at this point. Your brain is amazing. Your thoughts are great. The way you know you can love someone else has only been tapped into, just barely drizzled.

Sure there are people who will bring you down, people who will confuse you, betray you, and make you feel like you aren’t magnificent. Who cares?

You need to squirt people with water guns. You need to pitch a fit and refuse to leave your seat. You need to puke egg salad. You need to eat strawberry ice-cream.

Love always,

Little KB (hypothetically, of course)

I started this blog with a Valentine’s Day post. I’ve been through many things since I typed those words, but I believe the same things. I believe that love is two lesbians sharing a diet Mountain Dew in a Philosophy class. I believe that those two girls had to overcome a shit-ton of stupidity to get where they are now. I hope they’re doing well.

For a day solely dedicated to people we love, I am going to spend it with myself. I am going to quietly reflect on how much has happened since I started my little blog two years ago. I’m going to think about who I’ve always wanted to be. I’m going to remember who I was when I was little. And I’m going to listen to my heart. You should, too.

Oh, and by the way. Bon Iver won some Grammy-time. Called it.

Happy V-Day Lovers

Yours, mine, & ours,

katie beth

inspiration & doll parts.

POLLY BECKER
is pretty neat.

One of my Christmas gifts this year came from my mother who bought me a bag full of books on writing. Included in that bag was a copy of the Inspiration Issue of Poets & Writers literary magazine. The article about Polly Becker's artwork was written by Kevin Larimer.

She doesn't need much more than her sketchbook, old photos, and doll parts to create little bits of artwork. She takes the old photos and places them at the head to make a sort of throwback macabre paper doll which eerily captures both whimsy and thoughtfulness. She is Polly Becker and she is pretty neat.

It's the sort of artwork that goes with any type of music. I can enjoy it just the same while listening to anything. It's classical, it's girly pop, it's grungy, it's hip. I believe I have discovered my own personal holy grail of eye candy. And it tastes like pink strawberry peppermints.

Furthermore, if you get a chance to click through the assemblages of Polly Becker, I suggest listening to a shuffle of your tunes, which wouldn't work if you only own the same types of music, but I do believe it brings out the different bits and pieces - shows their personalities.

Polly Becker's clients include:

Absolut

The Atlantic Monthly

The New Yorker

Farrar Strauss & Giroux

GQ

MCA Records

Newsweek

The New York Times Magazine
Reader’s Digest

Rolling Stone
Sony/CBS Records

Time

2X4

Visual Dialog

If someone handed me a Barbie doll right now, I know I would still play with it for a bit. I know I would still urge to fashion dresses out of Kleenexes and ribbons. Polly Becker's work is like a grown-up Barbie doll and I love it.

yours,

katie beth

2012.

Some people complain about this time of year in the land that is Facebook, but I find it very motivational. People are constantly posting things about no one can change things, but YOU - And YOU HAVE THE POTENTIAL - The potential for greatness. It is, after all, a brand new shiny-sparkle year.

Well, I like it.

You might have noticed that the blog has received a few cosmetic updates which I might still change - it is a work in progress, but the point is a certain level of change that has needed to be implemented in my life for quite some time. I’m not talking about blog layouts here, people. Mostly this is a post to set the tone for a new year, it is a great time to make commitments within ourselves that ensure we stick to our guns of the things we truly want out of life.

I can turn into a real slug and feel sorry for myself about sad things that have happened to me, opportunities I believe I missed out on because of myself and because of people around me, but. But. It stops here, because it has to.

I have ideas and plans within me that deserve the chance to stretch their legs and breathe a little. I very much intend on doing them.

I would now like to cite my horoscope from my horoscope app on my phone:

Taurus

Thursday, January 05, 2012

You may feel that a certain dream you’ve nurtured for this new year is too far-fetched or lofty to come true. But all you will really need, Taurus, is a little bit of luck to make it happen. And even if you aren’t feeling very lucky right now, you need to realize that you do have the power to make your own luck. Make a point, this year, of taking every opportunity that comes your way, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant. The force will be with you if you seriously pursue your desire, and you maximize every resource and, most importantly, you keep believing.

Somebody cue Journey, because I just took it there.

I am tired of my same routines and ins-and-outs. We all need some excitement poured into our morning OJ’s. Well, I don’t know if we all need that, but I sure do. And I intend on getting it.

Have a prosperous 2012.

I will keep you posted on mine.

yours,
katie beth

i'd buy myself flowers.

If I end up alone, I’d buy myself flowers
And make them look like suns and glasses of wine
The little things would hold this great big power
But at the end of the day, they’d surely die.

So I’d dry them all up and hang each flower around
I’d separate the bouquet and keep each one alone
They’d make not a whisper, they’d make not a sound
It’s not their fault, it’s surely my own

That I’d make these flowers strangers
When once they were bounded by the lip of their mother vase
What a stupid little bout of danger
What a surely sorry water case.

Certainly you’d see, if ever my window you walked by,
The vase sitting empty, waiting for the next group of buds to pay their rent
You’d laugh, no, you’d cry
When you knew in an instant, that everyday flowers you surely would have sent


To the girl who couldn’t.




yours,
katie beth

things i want to tell you.

Dearest Reader,

I don’t feel as if I have been totally honest with you. And it makes me feel a little low. At the start of my blog, I promised to offer the truth, and I always have, but I just want to type out all of this. I want it to be here, it’s a huge part of my life now. So the following is a real account of what I’ve been up to and what I’ve felt and what you’ve missed. It’s a long one, for sure. A really long one. But I can’t leave anything out. It’s all too important.

::

I like to keep to myself. I like talking to people, but mostly I keep to myself. So one night, back in last fall, I ventured into a little friendly chat room that I found by googling “free chat rooms” on, obviously, google. And so it popped up, this chat room that had some title about young adults. Or something. Anyway, I don’t know if you know how chat rooms work, so let me give you a tutorial by using a sample conversation:

Bonnie89: Hey
Clyde87: hello there
Bonnie89:how are you

And so on and so forth. If there’s anything I’ve learned from watching oodles and boodles of romantic timepiece films, it’s that there is something very special that happens in letters. I love the idea of knowing someone that way, I always thought gees, how stupidly romantic would it be if the whole world reverted back to letters and sweet things. And I didn’t need the whole world to do it, I just wanted someone who wanted it that way, too.

Well, here’s the thing: there is such a person. And I met this person in that friendly little chat room and we talked. The next night, we talked again. And again. And again. And again. And I found myself looking so forward to this person who I only knew through his letters and words and little typed sayings. I saved the conversations because I felt so wholeheartedly that something just sweetly and quietly profound was happening. And I was right.

Regardless of how you see the phrase “We met online,” it doesn’t really matter much to me. I mean, in this life and in these bodies we have, let’s be honest, there’s not a whole lot of opportunity to meet someone in a way that keeps you from sweeping into their looks or judging your potential date-book by his or her cover.

But a tricky thing about meeting someone this way is that, eventually, we wanted to literally meet. And so we did. And it wasn’t easy, especially on my end, trying to get people to hear me out, to believe in something that was pretty avant garde to them. But they did it. Or at least they put on brave faces and tried it. And for that, I am proud of them. I hope their intentions were what I believed. The night before my online friend came to my house, I went to Kroger and bought each of my parents a bouquet of flowers. And in their cards I just said, thank you for being supportive and for being there for me to meet this person that I had built so much with already.

The person I’m talking about does not live close to me. He lives about ten to twelve hours away from my front door. But he drove right to it.

On that particular day, my brother and I had morning classes and, en route to them, I know we passed the person I was going to meet later that afternoon. I saw him in his red Blazer, with the window down, and sunglasses on. What a neat thing, huh? To see someone willing to go that far to meet me. Just think about that for a second.

So I went to school that day. I had an exam, even, which I totally aced. And I walked around campus in my orange backpack, pulling the bottom adjust-y part up and down over and over and just quietly pacing my mind and not feeling nervous in the slightest, just excited. I was ready to meet this person I had talked to nearly every single night and almost every single day for months.

By about twelve, my class was over and my brother and I got home around 2:00 and I was officially on spring break. I think I vacuumed and then I took a shower. It had been pretty warm out, but there was a little bit of a cold front coming in, so I dressed in a light pink tank top, my beloved jeggings, and my favorite grey cardigan. I knew it was finally time. So I called up my long-traveled person and told him to come to my house at about 6:30.

He was right on time.

I had been sitting in the den in my house and in those last five minutes that spanned from 6:25 to 6:30, I got really nervous. It was as if I had saved any nervous energy I might have had and crammed it all into those five minutes. My mom had music playing in the kitchen, it was my Colbie Caillait cd, or however you spell her name, and I thought holy crap, I cannot listen to music right now. So as I stood to go into the kitchen to turn it off, I vaguely saw a red blazer outside and a person walking towards the front door.

And I froze.

And the time it took for me to reach to the doorknob and turn it, it felt like a forever. So I walked outside and he was at the front door, not the door to the den, which was where I was. So I had to walk over to him, and as I turned the corner, I saw him. And he looked like he did in pictures, but still so different. The first thing I thought was just how warm he looked. Like this sweet person full of the warmest things to say and the kindest energy.

We hugged.

He had four little yellow daisies in his back pocket and he reached around and got them and placed my hair behind my ear and then put one of the daisies behind it as well. He had on a great dark green flannel shirt, which added to the warmth that he had. He put a daisy behind his ear, too. He said the other one was for my mom and the fourth one was for our new little puppy to have, to chew on even, if she wanted. My house is near a little park, and we both had already discussed being fans of taking walks. So we took one, hand in hand.

Coincidentally, about maybe three days before he came, my brother announced that he, too had a person and he would be flying to go see her. Well, to be honest, that really didn’t help my situation. But my parents kept on and were good about allowing their kids the freedom to just try these things we were in.

So back to the walk. During it, we saw my brother with our new puppy, taking her on a walk and talking on his phone. I must have been nervous and let go of my guy’s hand when I saw my brother. Which was a little goofy of me. But they introduced themselves, shook hands, and then my brother kept walking his way, and we kept walking ours. We went back to holding hands as soon as we started walking again.

The walk was quiet, but there wasn’t any pressure to fill the space with words. I was just listening to him breathe and trying to memorize what it felt like to finally, finally be close.

Pretty soon we came to a little wooden bench and sat down. The park we were in is right across from the high school I went to, which tripped my bench mate out a little, to see where I went to school. To be in my town. The whole thing was the very definition of trippy.

I remember I kept sliding my black flats off and on, just at the heel. And saying something about how I was sure my feet had shrunk since purchasing them years ago. My warm friend laughed at my little attempts to say funny things. He did one of those breath out of the nose laughs, just a little huff of a laugh. Which I, of course, liked. I liked everything about him. I really liked his nose and I really liked his hands. I had painted my nails the same color I have on them right now, it’s called midnight plum. I can close my eyes and see exactly what my hand looked like in his.

He had told me his friends said he smelled like gingersnaps, and I said, “You really do smell like gingersnaps.” He really did smell like gingersnaps.

We sat there for I don’t even know how long and just talked. He told me about how now it was like we start over, but we knew exactly where we were headed. The whole point of meeting was to see if we really liked each other as much as we did just talking through the computer, through text, sometimes through the phone. We just wanted to see if we liked each other enough to keep it going. And we liked each other. Plain and simple, we liked each other. And we liked each other a lot.

I accidentally had left my phone on the counter in the kitchen, I must have sat it there when I got up to turn off the seventh cycle of “Bubbly.” My parents had tried to call and, of course, didn’t get an answer but my brother told them we were in the park. About that time, my dad pulls up in his car. I sort of think it was a showy thing, kind of like in country songs when dads talk about cleaning their guns? It was kind of like that, he pulled up fast and sharp, as if to say, hey. Watch yourself. Or something, I dunno. I’m not a dad.

Anyway, so me and this person I had these feelings for, that I had never felt for anyone, we walked up to the car. By this time, it was dark out. My dad just calmly rolled down the window and said dinner is about ready. Kind of an extreme way of saying it, sure, but kind of funny in retrospect.

So we walked back home. I made sure we took the long route, I wasn’t trying to waste anytime by not being around this guy. I wanted to be right beside him. When we finally got to the driveway of my house, he was feeling anxious and nervous about walking in and meeting my parents. I told him to not even worry a bit about it. I had all the faith in the world that my parents were going to love this guy. We took a second to check out the back of his Blazer which he had fashioned with mustard colored blankets and a camping stove, for quick tea. He had told me about it in conversation before, and we had nicknamed it “Bunk-in-the-Trunk.” Really, an amazing idea. He popped in an Altoid and then we walked to the door. He took a minute and we looked at each other, and then I opened the door and we went in.

Formalities were exchanged, I knew he’d be a little gentleman about it, and he was. He was one the whole time he visited. I know I haven’t had loads of experience with dating guys at all, but I don’t think it takes any experience to know that an old-fashioned person, who cares about the importance of meeting parents, who cares about making each little second feel special, who cares about shaking hands, I know that doesn’t come along everyday. But here I was, with one of the few and I was in my house, with my parents, dinner on the stove, and I had one.

I can’t even remember what anyone said once we sat beside each other on the couch and my parents sat down in chairs in the room, to talk to him. I have no idea what was said, actually. I was too busy just looking at him, looking at the way his mouth shaped words, watching his eyebrows, looking at the different angles of his nose, noticing his eyes looked sleepy from his long drive, looking at his hands, watching his gestures, hearing him. I was studying him.

At some point, we all ate dinner. At then at another point, it was the end of the night. I walked out with him, back to his Blazer which was parked on the street. We got in and sat for a bit. He turned the car on, since that cold front was lowering body temps. I asked him about the different things in his car. He had a hawk feather slipped in somehow to the roof. He told me his dad gave it to him, and I then I remembered that, in the couch time that I studied him, he and my dad discussed hawks. So that was a neat little coincidence. We held hands again. We sat some more. We said little things to each other, some funny, some sweet.

I knew he was really sleepy, so it got to be time for him to go to his hotel bed and rest. He came around and opened my door and helped me out. The wind was whipping around and I was pretty cold, especially after being in the warm car just moments before. So we hugged. And we hugged. At some point, I decided to kiss this person, this great, dreamy person. It was just a sweet little moment. We smiled at each other and I tucked my head into his chest and told him I didn’t want him to go. And how special and neat it was when he just looked at me and said, “tomorrow.”

I nodded.

I wrapped my sweater up around me and walked back up the driveway and into the house. I don’t think I even fully realized how happy I was. I was so happy, everything had worked out so sweetly. We had met. We liked each other. We were right about knowing we would like each other. And it was done. Now we had crossed that off the list, and everything else was going to be just fine.

Remember how I told you my brother sprung on us that he was leaving to go be with someone, via plane? Well, that happened. So that next morning, I woke up and went with him and my mom to the airport to see him off on his first plane trip. My mom cried, I cried. We just cried in general.

Then I came back home and took a shower. I had to keep reminding myself that yes, my person was still here. He was literally here. That day we went to the state park in my town. I packed a blanket, on his suggestion, and he had everything else. He also told me to bring my shuffle. Every time I got in his car, he would open the door for me and then come around and get in the driver’s seat. Then he would take my hand and hold it and kiss the back of it. And we would hold hands while he drove.

So we headed out to the park and on the way, we stopped at a Walgreen’s. He went in and bought a big bottle of water to make tea and he also bought a Cadbury’s fruit and nut chocolate bar. He told me “Daughters” by my John Clayton Mayer had been playing in the store.

Of course, with me announcing directions to where we were headed, I got us a little off the path. But then we turned back around and were headed in the right direction. We got to the park and, being from a place full of wonderful parks himself, my hand holding guy was pleased about where we were. We parked in front of the big playground, and The Bunk-in-the-Trunk was facing the lake. We grabbed the blanket I brought, he grabbed his bag and we headed up the hill to where there were benches and some people grilling.

We laid out the blanket and sat down. He had little speakers for our shuffles, except mine wouldn’t work for some reason. So we listened to his instead, which was fixed on Bon Iver, which I had given him through one of our many online conversations. And Bon Iver, if you’ve ever read this blog before, you’d know I love that music better than anything. So we just laid there, listening to it, talking a little. The music was completely perfect for the perfect little moment. Again, it was a little cold out and I kept trying to get closer, to get some of his body heat, but he was propped up on his elbow, and just looking at me. I remember he told me how elegant I looked to him.

One of the things that worried both of us the most, before we met, we would talk about being worried what if we didn’t like the way each other looked? He told me I was crazy for ever even worrying that. I thought he was crazy, too. I really liked his face. I thought he looked just exactly as he should.

Once again, I was memorizing the scene. Which is why now, six or so months later, I can give you almost any detail. The sky was really blue that day and I was looking at the birds up above us, I wondered if they were doing the same thing, only in their version, and looking back at us. It was about that time that he told me he knew he loved me.

No one had ever told me that before, not in a romantic way, and I didn’t even know what to do besides nod and feel it. I felt loved. I felt adored. I felt perfect.

I just kept saying over and over in my head, “He loves me. I can’t believe he loves me.”

After a bit of just laying there and looking up, he asked me if I was cold and I said yes. So we folded our blanket back up and headed back to the Blazer. He got out his camping stove and started the tea while I went to use the bathroom up at the playground. When I came back, he went to the bathroom. My mom called while he was gone and talked for a second. Then he was back and he got in the bunk and then I did, too. We sat there and drank his English breakfast tea and he broke off little pieces of the chocolate and we ate them. It was a good combo.

We talked about things. Mostly we sat and enjoyed each other’s company and looked out at the lake. We continued listening to music, by this time the alphabet of artists playing on his shuffle had slipped into Bob Marley.

I had on a black shirt that was sort of a hoodie shirt, but it had a lower cut. My collarbone was showing and some of my shoulders, too. He asked me if I knew I had a heart shaped mark on my left shoulder. I had never noticed it was a heart until he said it. I just thought it was a dot.

We had a few little sweet kisses in between talking and tea-ing. At some point, two of my high school gym teachers walked by and I think they knew who I was, we sort of said hello through eyes. Kinda. They had a pizza to eat with some kids. After a bit, we headed home.

He ate dinner at my house again, this time just with my parents and me, since my brother had left for his own trip. We ordered pizza, probably on cue from my gym teachers carrying it about the park earlier that day, and he and I went to pick it up at the mall. When we walked out of my front door to get in the car, he hugged me from behind, like a scoop hug. And it made my shoulders shrug up and my chin go to my left shoulder as I smiled really big.

Once again, we got in his car, and he took my hand and kissed the back of it. We drove and that song was playing where they say “You didn’t have to do what you did, what you did, but you did. And I thank you…” and he sang along and kissed my hand again at the end of the line. Honestly, I have never felt that totally comfortable in someone else’s presence. I just grinned and held his hand. Sometimes when I would squeeze it a little, he would shift the steering wheel real quick.

We took the pizza home and ate it, casually on the couch, while he talked once again to my parents. He and my dad talked about music equipment and gushed over whatever kind of keyboards Chris had brought with him. I am just now mentioning his name, because I just now asked him, via text, in real time, if it was okay to use it. He of course said yes.

After we ate, Chris followed me into the kitchen in search of a little milk. I got the milk out of the fridge and poured him some and he drank it.

So after dinner and talking, Chris and I headed out in search of ice cream. We went to Kroger, where I had just been a few nights ago buying flowers, and we went to the ice cream aisle. We both agreed on lemon sorbet and he grabbed a carton of it. Then we headed to picnic supplies and bought fancy plastic spoons, the clear crystal looking kind.

We had talked about watching Sex and the City 2, since Chris was a big fan of the show and hadn’t seen the second movie yet. After we checked out at the self-check line, we saw a display of DVD’s and one of them was SATC2. However, it was stupidly overpriced and we let that dream go.

We got to the hotel where he was staying and pulled into one of the parking places. He turned off the car and looked at me and said, “Would you like to come in?” and I nodded and smiled and said yes.

He was staying on the second floor of the hotel, so we took the steps up to where his room was. Once we got to the door, he slipped in his key and let me walk in first. He came in behind me and walked over to each lamp and turned them on. I reveled in looking around and seeing his things. I saw his shirts hanging up, I saw his body wash and mouth wash over on the sink. I saw his keyboard. And then I saw his laptop.

It was just sitting there. The little box, all lit up, and it was the way we met. I think meeting someone in that way can seem so cold, but when it’s two warm people, it’s the furthest thing from it. It’s fate at work. Fate on a laptop. I’m being completely serious.

So I sat down on his bed and had my knees pulled up. Chris had gone into the bathroom and changed into a cutoff t-shirt and his sweatpants. Then, he sat down, too and opened the lemon sorbet and turned on the TV in front of the bed. We zeroed in on an old movie. Something kind of Cuban-looking. This one lady in the movie was kind of a ho. But really who’s to say, we had just started watching. We ate out of the little carton, each with our own spoon. It was light and good after the pizza we had for dinner.

After we were done eating the ice cream, Chris got us each some water to drink. He used the same two mugs he brought for us to have tea. Mine was a white mug that looked like the Guggenheim. So then we were just together there. I was thinking about how he had told me he loved me. I knew we had only been in each other’s physical presence for two days, but I believed it. I never felt like him saying that was rushed or not really examined. He loved who I was, at my core. He knew me. And he loved what he knew.

We laid there beside each other. I was admiring his cutoff skills, and he said, you know it didn’t come like this. I made it this way. Later on, I asked him if he knew he had a singing chili pepper on his shirt. It was something from a festival of some sort, I think. Anyway, he said yes.

It was getting late, I didn’t want to leave, naturally. Who doesn’t want to hang out with a new best friend? But Chris said we should go, he didn’t want my parents to worry. He wanted to be respectful. So he drove me home. We sat out in his car for what I believe was close to an hour. Who knows how much gas was just wasted on sitting, although, it certainly wasn’t wasted to us. Finally, I knew it was time for me to head in the house, somewhere around maybe 1:30 or 2:00 am.

When I got to my room, I remember not wanting to be away from Chris. So, for probably the first time in my life, I didn’t wash my face. I didn’t want to wash him off. I didn’t take off my shirt from that day either, I slept in it. I just brushed my teeth and tried to keep everything else in tact.

The next day we went to eat sushi with one of my friends. She had just been at an interview at a cupcake place up the street, so she met us there. When I got in his car, we had another little kiss and I told him thanks for coming to meet me.

We got to the place downtown and had our sushi with my friend. I don’t use chopsticks to eat sushi. I can’t do it. And Chris didn’t mind at all.

Later, we went to the cupcake place and Chris bought the two of us a red velvet cupcake each, to have later. My friend went home and said nice to meet you, Chris said it back.

After that, we went to Hobby Lobby. Chris had brought his paints from home and had planned for us to make each other little paintings of just whatever we wanted. So we walked back to the section with canvases and bought two of the tiniest, cutest canvases you’ve ever seen.

We drove back to his hotel room, which by this point felt like a little nest where we could just hang out and see each other and be ourselves. I had on a dress with tights and a pink sweater and boots, so I took my boots off and sat up on the bed as Chris brought over all his paints and dumped them on the bed and told me to go for it. He laid out on his side and studied his little canvas, and I did the same, as if we were about to create the most prestigious paintings of all time. And to each other, we were.

Chris started his by sketching something out. I started mine by brushing a light green wash all over the canvas.

After a bit, Chris got up to have a smoke. I got up to go use the bathroom. While I was in there, I saw his green bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. I held a corner of it and smelled it. It smelled really good. When I got out, I washed my hands at the sink. I walked over to Chris who was smoking out of the open door, the rain pouring outside the awning, and he said “Your dress.” And I said “What?” And he said “Your dress is up.”

Well, I told you I had on tights, and my dress had got caught in the top of my tights, in the back. So that was funny.

I said “Ohhh,” and we laughed a little as I fixed it and then I headed back to sit down.

This is one of the moments I really memorized well. Chris in the doorframe, leaning up against it, smoking a cigarette. Still looking warm, still looking sweet. I just lingered there, looking.

Then we both were back sitting on the bed, and working on our art projects.

Eventually, I heard Chris just barely laughing to himself about his. He said it was really cute. I was still trying to get mine to do something, after I layered on some blue. Pretty soon I started using the acrylic paints like oil paints, kind of similar to how I like to paint my barrels for Fun Fest. Mine ended up being a little scene with pink and red flowers on a hill. His ended up being a little man with a tiny cabin hat. He was right, it was really cute.

The whole time we painted, we were listening to the radio on Chris’ laptop. During the program, one of my favorite singers since I was a little girl came on, Alison Krauss. The show had some funny moments, we both laughed at the little funny jokes and kept painting all the while.

Time really does fly by when you’re having the best time, and it was time for dinner again. My parents were cooking for us. My dad was going to grill steaks and my mom had just texted me and asked whether or not Chris would want a regular potato or a sweet potato.

I’m not sure how we ended up standing and hugging, but we did. I guess we had gotten up to leave to go eat dinner. But we stood and hugged for so long. And we both started to cry. Part of my cry was because I knew the trip was getting close to ending, and he would go back to being twelve hours away, instead of a few minutes. So I cried for that. And I cried because I knew what I was feeling. I was genuinely falling in love. I was scared of it, I was happy for it, I didn’t know the feeling until right then.

And I also kept trying to remember what song was playing on the radio from Chris’ laptop still. I had it my head that someday it might be our song, or something cute like that. All I can remember is that was something about Blue Bells. I was hugging Chris so tight and crying. I don’t usually do things like that. But there I was, just doing what I felt. At one point, I sort of tickled the small of his back, when I heard him crying. He laughed a little and said he was ticklish there. Finally I looked up at him and my mascara had smudged onto his shirt and left a little black mark. He said he didn’t mind. He smiled and wiped my eyes off. He said come on, let’s go eat.

Chris had offered to bring his keyboard and play it outside while my dad grilled, but it was raining and Chris and I pretty much forgot he had meant to bring it with him anyway. Instead, he played our piano for my parents. I had told him about some of the artwork I did in school, so he said he’d like to see it. While he played different songs that I already knew, because he had sent me recordings of them, I went and grabbed my big watercolor pad and my big drawing pad from high school and two little books I had made from marbled paper and one had a logo I made of my initials.

I watched my parents’ expressions while Chris played and sang. My dad looked pretty impressed, my mom did, too. I know I was impressed. I would have been if he had just played twinkle, twinkle little star. After he played, he sat down beside me and we flipped through all my art. He told me he liked it and that he thought it was really good. He mentioned using something I had done as neat album art someday. I was happy he liked it.
We didn’t eat dinner until later that night. So we didn’t finish until later that night. I really was starting to feel the pull of his last day coming up and I wanted to go somewhere with him. I had talked to my grandmother on the phone earlier that day and she had said to me, “All I know is, you really should try and spend as much time with him as possible.” She thought he sounded really great.

My grandparents would have met him, but they both had colds at the time.

So we left. At this point, it might have been about eleven o’clock or so. We drove to a gas station and Chris went in to pay for the gas. I could see him through the window of the store. I just sat there and watched him brush his hair back with his hand. And I watched him look around at the other people in line. I watched him nod at the clerk as he gave him his change. All I could think was that he was mine. I was so glad he was mine.

That night, things didn’t go as well as they had been going. Chris and I were in the hotel room. It got to be around three in the morning and my phone was on silent, I never heard it ring. My parents were really upset. They were very worried. They couldn’t get a hold of me or Chris and they thought something bad had happened, even though it didn’t.

It’s hard for me to tell you these things, dear reader. The whole thing was so hard. My dad came to pick me up, he was mad. But at the door, as I was putting my jacket on, Chris asked if he should come with me, I said no. I told him everything would be fine. We hugged and kissed. He asked me if I was sure it was going to be okay. I said yes. I genuinely thought it was. Then he said “I love you,” and I didn’t have to analyze it, I didn’t edit it, it just came out. I said, “I love you, too.” And I meant it.

I walked out the door. And down the steps. And into the car with my dad. It was pouring out. He didn’t want to talk to me. He was so angry with me. All he said was that anything could have happened to me. I got home, I was angry at the way things had happened. I was really angry. My mom was sitting, still really worried.

Chris had texted me to see if I got home alright. I told him I did. Once again, I said everything would be fine.

Things weren’t fine. I have to be honest, I told you I would be honest, I believe things got completely blown out of proportion. Yes, I understand worried parents. I understand that they did not know where I was. I got that. But I thought I deserved a second chance. I was told to tell Chris to just go on home. I didn’t believe they meant it. Chris paid for another night. He was so worried. I didn’t know what to tell him. Everything had been so sweet, so perfect, and there it was, ending with this loud bang and crash. It was just awful.

The whole ending felt completely unnecessary. I know the people around me thought it was in my own best interest. Hell, maybe on some points it was. I knew it was going to be hard to say goodbye to him. But I had it in me to keep it going. So I did. I made the decision for myself.

So about two weeks went by and I went back to Chris. I found him and talked to him. I had broken up with him, but I hadn’t meant it. I was just doing what I thought I should. I was wrong about it. So we worked through it. We talked about every little thing, just like always. We analyzed the scenario, and decided it was what we wanted, to keep it going, to stay together. We believed we could get through it because we were best friends who loved one another.

Time went on and our bond was still sweet and strong. We were talking everyday and every night, just like always. We played scrabble on Facebook every Thursday night. We were back to exchanging The Book, which was a little beautiful thing that Chris came up with. We have The Book which is where we drew things and wrote things on the empty pages and sent it back and forth between us. Chris sent it back to me for my birthday, along with a book about different hikes in his home state.

So sure, time went on, but it started to become clear that long distance can’t just be about the distance and sweet things in the mail. There has to be time to really be together. So we were talking about a summer trip. Once again, it was my end that held us back. Everyday got to be so hard, such an impossible feeling of struggle. I realized that my job couldn’t allow me to go away, not for as long as we had talked about. And my parents were not at all keen on the idea of me going away on a trip. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to talk to.

I wanted to talk to someone who already knew the whole situation. Chris had given me his mom’s number. I was scared to call for a little while. I was afraid. I suppose because everything else was so difficult, I was afraid this would be, too. But it wasn’t. I talked to her for almost an hour. We talked about the trip, she said she would love to meet me. I felt confident again that we could get through this. I felt so sure my parents were going to say okay, go for it. Go see about it. Go find out.

But they never did.

I know what you’re thinking, if you really believed in this, you should have just gone. You should have just done it for yourself. And I know. I believe that, too. I regret not going. I regret it on pretty much a daily, almost hourly basis.

Because now, we aren’t together anymore. I broke up with Chris in early June. I felt like I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t have my first love be somewhere else. Which was silly, because, it’s too late now. My first love was far away. I know now that it was also just the breaking down by everything around me. Every way I went, roadblock. Problem. Another no. Literally every day. I lost my fight for it. I’m so worried about regretting it.

And I hurt someone. Hurting someone who did nothing wrong is a really stupid thing. It makes you feel awful. It makes you feel even more awful when they’re still nothing but understanding and helpful and supportive. You feel like a big villain who crushed something that did not deserve it. I felt like I broke his heart, and I felt like I was breaking my own heart.

But here I am. That’s the whole thing, for the most part. I don’t know what to do some days. I do know I have a lovely and sweet little dog named Daphne who makes me feel better, even when she steals my shark slippers. She is currently running through the house with a new rawhide and hitting every door frame on her way out. Sometimes I just sit with her and talk to her, when no one’s around.

And I know I have Chris as someone I can talk to. I know he's there for me, despite everything.

But like I said, here I am. With all of this to carry. All of this to think about every day.

It’s funny to see it all typed out. It makes me cry. I guess it isn’t really funny, but here it is. It’s all here. It ended because of excuses. I don’t know if it will come back around. I would be so happy if it did.

One of my favorite movies is Sleepless in Seattle and I feel a lot of my own situation in that movie. It was on TV last night and I thought, gees. What else. But I feel the bizarre chance of it all, the magic of it all, the cosmic notions that someone, somewhere, somehow, is making this happen. That even the craziest of chances can be the most important. And as much as I love the magic and chance of it all, I know we all have to take what we want, we have to go get it. It’s scary as hell sometimes.

Also, speaking of media, when I was babysitting Daphne the other night, I turned on that Asian version of Dora on Nick Jr, and then the show got weird. Nothing was on. I flipped up a few more channels and found my past friend of Disney. I decided to watch a show called "Good Luck, Charlie," I think. Anyhow, in the episode, the older son's girlfriend has to move to New York because of her dad's job. So she doesn't know how to tell the guy, so she records it on a boombox and tells him, in a letter she left, to press play. And she goes through the whole thing. Anyway, the boyfriend ends up leaving and going to New York to live with her and her family. His dad goes after him and finds him playing guitar in a subway. So the boy tells him that he loves the girl. He can't be without her. And he says, if you love something set it free. If it doesn't come back, if you can't get it back, it wasn't meant to be. But if it does, it's yours forever.

So. I know that might sound kinda silly, but it meant something to me. And to hear it right then, it really meant something.

Chris and I have talked on the phone twice now since I ended it. The first time, all I could really do was sit and cry. Cue sad faces. The next time, I still pretty much sat and cried. What I’m afraid of the most is something that gets talked about in that little movie I just mentioned, the never knowing part. That scares me so bad, it keeps me up at night. If you couldn’t tell by all I just told you, in which case you’re an idiot, but either way, he’s a great guy. I’m afraid he’s going to get gone. And don’t you dare go looking for him, dear reader. Even though we aren’t together, I dunno. I still feel like we’re connected.

Sometimes I get real sad and just look at pictures on Facebook of him. I miss everything. Everyday. And sometimes, I don’t know how I’m going to get over it. I don’t really want to get over it. I'm afraid of that moment we get over it, and then he gets gone forever.

Look, I know it was three days. I know it was months of online talking. I also know what I felt, what I still feel. I know I’m a big girl who knows what she knows. And I know I have a big life ahead of me. I know people see that in me, even if it’s hard to see it myself sometimes. The first time I talked to Chris after we broke up, he told me something that made me cry. He said he knew I was great, but as far as my dad goes, he said, “he thinks you’re absolutely golden.” So, even though I get pissed off as hell at my own situation, I know I have it in me to be strong. To get through this. I know people see it.

I’m really glad I typed all of this out. It hurt. But I needed you to hear it. I needed everyone, anyone to be able to read it. I would never want to hide something so sweet and important to my life. And something that has left such a mark. I have a lot of love inside of me, I know that. So sure, I didn’t like being far away from the person I wanted to be with, but I’ve got it in me to bring it back, when it’s time, if it’s time. No one can stop me. We have to get what we want. But first, we have to do things for ourselves.

I’m about to start my last year of school. I had to have a background check to be able to get further on the path of becoming a teacher, I’m scared about missing all of these important dates of turning things in, getting stuff done. I have a big ass load of classes to take, pardon my language, but I really do. I have to start studying German again. I have realized things about people around me that I did not ever think I would have to. It’s easy as hell to get burned out, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel. And it can’t be a person or anything other than myself, just being happy. And whatever that includes, then that’s what’ll include. We’ve got our own little roads and I believe, one hundred and ten percent, that these things happen for a reason. I believe each person enters our life for a reason. Sometimes we get back to them, sometimes we don’t. Either way, they’re there.

Sometimes I reflect on missed opportunities, in a romantic sense, and I have some regrets. I even saw some specific people in the last two weeks who I believe were put back into my path to remind me of what I missed out on the last time I didn’t go for something. Whether or not that’s the case, I don’t care. I believe it is. That’s all that matters.

I hope if you’re feeling hopeless like I have been the past bit, I hope you’ll do something and not just bottle it up, like I’ve gotten into the nasty little habit of. I dunno what it is. Talk to a friend, cry to someone, type twelve pages of memories that made you cry your eyes out and then make everyone read it. Somethin.

Sometimes I’m pretty sure I’m having a quarter-life crisis, in the words of my JCM. Or at least two dimes and a penny of one. But I’m trying. I’m trying to figure out what I want. Then comes the going out and getting it. Even if it’s just a little thing. Starting a little project. Literally, just something. We can’t sit around being scared and sad.

I have to do lots of things for myself. I have all the time in the world, but at the same time, life is so stupidly short. If you think about it too much, you’ll near on hyperventilation. Which is never good, but a reality check, nonetheless. I believe there’s always going to be stupid roadblocks and I believe that bad things happen to good people. But nothing is ever just bad. I mean, if that’s the case, don’t tell me. Because that’s sad as hell. Again, language I know. But I’m all fired up. You know I like to take it to that level from time to time.

I want to write. I want to sit down with a big stack of student essays and a giant pack of red pens. I said red. The blood of a thousand writing dreams. And I want to come up with creative ways to help all students feel included and to feel important. Not feeling important sucks. It sucks, people.

I want to go out and see things. I have a big list. I want to take time out for myself, to really make sure I’ve got the right direction. I want to challenge myself. I want to make myself uncomfortable. I want to test my own boundaries and push them.

It’s high time we get mad and we do somethin.

My first tiny baby step was writing this. I have put it all out here for you. I didn’t edit it. I just said it. So if words are missing, I can’t care about it. I just had to let it flow. And if you’ve made it to the end of this post, good lord.

Like I said, if this person ends up being my person in the long-run, how special would that be. But I can’t base my life on the word “if.” I know there’s a big plan, I feel it, I know it. But a good friend told me I can’t sit around and wait for the magic to come to me. Sometimes you have to go balls to the wall.

If absolutely nothing else, my first experience with loving someone was perfect to me and for me. Because the love part was never anything less than it should have been. It was perfect. It suited me, it suited us. We might not be in love anymore, because of timing, because of distance, because of dumb interference, whatever. But we still love each other. You don’t just stop loving a best friend because stuff happens. And so now I have this amazing friend because of it. And I also have The Book, and pictures we've sent to each other, and songs we've sent to each other, and saved conversations, and over 4,000 text messages, and the painting he did, and my little friendship ring, and a bottle of sandalwood oil that he gave me, that smells just like him, and I have his voice to listen to. And it's so hard. It’s hard to be only friends. It’s hard when he says he’s just going to hang out with someone, it hurts like hell. But it’s going to be okay. I’m going to make sure it is.


Yours in doing,
katie beth

i didn't win.

It's been a good little while since I entered the sixth round in NPR's Three Minute Fiction contest. The idea was that the story must fit into a three minute time frame, must include a joke, and must include someone crying. Here's what: I didn't win. It's taken me this long to get over it. Anyway, here's what I wrote. Join me in pouting.


Girl in the Turned-Down Bed.

At a Presbyterian Church, on a sunny church Sunday morning, the kind that warms like the sweetest cinnamon, a tiny baby was baptized. Her white linen dress felt softly taunt to the touch as she was moved from father to pastor and back to mother. A member of something much bigger than herself, I calmly wondered why in the world such a thing was done at such a young age. There’s no way this tiny baby could understand the magnitude of that lukewarm water as it silently dripped down the back of her soft little neck. Hell, I didn’t even understand it. Suddenly, I realized we were all snapping our heads back up from the prayer and I didn’t question it anymore. That afternoon, the little girl was placed in her new pink satin crib and slept lazily in a turned-down bed as her family ate finger-foods down below her in the living room.

Some twenty-three years later, that same little girl put on a white dress and swished-swished down the aisle at a Presbyterian Church to her love. She told me later that she felt her feet in heeled-shoes glide as if she was being sweetly waltzed by something so beautiful, something so filling. At the reception that night, I was the one who gently shut the car door closed and stood in the road, watching them drive off until all I saw was a tiny black speck against the orange glow of the street lamps. And then they were gone. Someone tapped me back to reality and jokingly said, “Hey, it’s not your job to worry about her anymore. Come have a drink.” I thought later that night how magical of a moment it will be when the morning sun finds the two together, now married as a mister and a misses. I thought about how proud the mister will be when he looks over and sees that girl in a turned-down bed.

Seven years, three days, and one week later, the conversations that lofted about the high arches and pews of an afternoon at a Presbyterian Church were full of remembrance. The walls of the sanctuary were now tinged with gloom as the line of people stretched out into the foyer and the soft scent of floral arrangements breathed about the room They were all there to see a girl in a turned-down bed. She laid there, soft hands resting on a white sundress, with pink satin all around her. The only thing people could seem to muster was that at least, at least, at least, she left behind a precious baby daughter of her own that looked exactly like her mother. The only thing I could seem to muster was to cry.

“How incredible are the lives we humans lead,” I thought it to myself as I placed my granddaughter to sleep in her little pink crib and thought about my own daughter somewhere sleeping beneath the grass in a turned-down bed.

So that's what I wrote and that's what ultimately lost. It's okay, though. I still really like NPR, no grudges will be held.

Thanks to C. Charles Bley for telling me about this really neat contest and thanks to anyone who took the time to read.

http://www.uzicafe.com/2011/03/my-submission-to-nprs-three-minute.html

http://www.npr.org/series/105660765/three-minute-fiction

Yours,

katie beth

i still have a blog.

Does anyone even read this blog anymore? I often wonder it, question it, and then decide it doesn't really matter. But also, to be fair, I haven’t written anything on here in like, I dunno forever. Anyway, though, I have a question for you, if you write stuff like I do: Do you ever write something and whoever the subject was, it seems like then those words belong to that person? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. And it’s certainly how I felt about lots of the past posts on here. Somehow, I felt old posts were written with the intent of impressing someone who I didn’t need to impress.

I’ve lately discovered that I don’t have to do that all the time. Sometimes, that’s pretty consuming. We spend a lot of time searching for people to appreciate who we are. There’s nothing wrong with that, either. It’s kind of nice, I suppose.

But sometimes people come along who just like each other, just as they are. No matter what, that’s one of the nicest things around.

On that topic, I wrote a few things that have been replaying in my head for awhile now, from some recent stuff that I’ll spare you the details of. And, I felt almost funny putting them on here, because these belong to a different person than before. Up until now, I still felt like the poems I shared with you before made my blog belong to someone else. And somehow, that’s true of me, too. These certainly belong to me just as much as the person I write them for, and I’m different, too.

I just read that back and it made like, four percent sense. So, sorry for that.

But anyway.

It’s nice to write things again.

::

Lately, certain colors have filled me up.
Flashing orange of talk
Blinking green of talk
Flashing blue of talk

All things decided upon by inventors of things we use to communicate.

I wonder if they ever thought about that? I guess they did. I wonder if they thought about people connecting through the colors they picked.

Do you think they did?
I kind of don’t.

::
Infatuation
Infactuation
Infalluation

Call it anything
Call it yours
Call it mine
Call it ours.

::

Sometimes the world hates closing its eyes
Sometimes it fears what it’ll see when it does that.

It’s scared of its saltoceans coming up and drowning the knots of the wood on a dock
It’s scared of its land having too many feet walking on new concrete and nowhere for the trees
It’s scared of its sun blistering the squishy skinned shoulder-freckles of a little red-haired girl
It’s scared of its moon.
Sometimes the world’s people hate closing their eyes
Sometimes they fear what they’ll see when they do that.

They’re scared of their children growing up and they forget that doesn’t mean they won’t still be around
They’re scared of their parents not trusting them to take and beautifully use what they’ve taught them
They’re scared of the present and what future could come from it and how it will change everything
They’re scared of the past.

Sometimes you hate closing your eyes
Sometimes you fear what you’ll see when you do that.

You’re scared of keeping your love around
You’re scared of letting your love go
You’re scared of your brain telling you the logic of keeping away from her
You’re scared of your heart.
Sometimes I hate closing my eyes
Sometimes I fear what I’ll see when I do that.

I’m scared of my mind flashing through the snapshots I took, a silhouette of him in a rainy doorway
I’m scared of my ears listening to the notes and melodies that were given to me
I’m scared of losing you
I’m scared of a lot.

But did you know that Time isn’t scared of anything?
It might sound silly, but Time has no rush
It has nowhere else to be, but where it’s at.
Time isn’t scared of everyone trusting it.

Time isn’t scared of anything.

::

I think it might be nice to have a little candle around to burn ---

One that smells like tea-d spearmint and peppery tobacco
One that smells like kneading cardamom into playdoh
One that smells like cabins and chocolate
One that smells like tiny wooden ABC tiles
One that smells like ochre blankets
One that smells like barely rain dusted grass
One that smells like little yellow daisies
One that smells like pretending acrylic paint is oil paint
One that smells like lemony icy stuff
One that smells like watching an old movie in a hotel room
One that smells like old books resting in leather chairs
One that smells like the thick tube wall of a lighthouse
One that smells like being happy.

::

I like the electrical sounds you make
With the scratching of things that go round and round
And the beats of drums peppering underneath.
Then I like to think about you making them and picking each one out with a left and right ear and then a thumb keeping rhythm on a steering wheel.

I like the way the sounds opposite who you are
Their mechanical taps like aluminum foil around the last piece of a warm spice cake.
And if they are the foil and you are the cake,
Then I’m the one wrapping it up.

Putting it away for later, but slowly closing and slowly opening the fridge over and over to see whether or not the light stays on.

I like the font Perpetua
If you add an L to it, do you know what it means?
It means continuing or lasting forever.

::

That’s all for now. Thanks for reading.

One more thought: bad things happen to good people, but they don’t forever. I’m sure of it.

Yours again,
katie beth

from probe to purpose.

Good friends of the blog: how’s it going? I’m not going to act like we haven’t spoken in months. I’m not going to catch you up on stuff. Instead, I am going to post something I meant to post a little while back. I rediscovered it the other day, swapped around a few words, remembered some stuff I wanted to forget, changed a few endings, got a little nostalgic, got a little mad, got a little sad and posted it.

I hope all has been going well for you and I hope you know that I have missed you and your awesome way of reading the blog.

I hope you like reading it, I mean, I know the other stuff that I write is probably more fun, but I don’t want you thinking that I’ve only got one dimension. So, I keep-on keeping-on. Here’s some more seemingly futile writings from me, katie beth byerley. Now read on and get pleasantly enlightened, confused, whatever. And know that I’ve missed you.

Anyhow, here goes:

::

probe.

Oh, verses with iambic pentameter…
Oh, poems with images of things…

But the things are images.
And, if that’s the case, the images are things.

And what if that one really did mean “wheelbarrow?”

Really, I think we’re just beating-a-dead-horse.
Those people might have, in fact, said what they meant and meant what they said.

To the similes,
To the metaphors,
To the imagery:

I bid you a line of brightly-colored ink & little plastic tabs stuck-all-at-the-edges-of-my-pages…

And I offer up the 3-D boxes I draw over-and-over-and-over, just to get away for a second…

And I’ll hand you my sanity in replace of your veracity.

[maybe they didn’t want us to know what they really meant]

Well, I no longer want to bear your delegation.
I’ll just pass it, and the ink, and the tabs, and the boxes, and the sanity onto the next, the next, the next, and the next.

And I’ll tell them, “good luck,” but I won’t mean it.

::

S&H well-wishers:

I hold onto certain friendships and I hold on tight,

But it’s not because I like you, because I don’t,
And it’s not because we have anything in common, we never really did,
And it’s not because we’ll ever see each other again, because we won’t,
And it’s not because I think you’re funny, cause you’re not,
And it’s not because you think I’m funny, you probably find me to be completely different from anything you like and know --

[in which case, I thank you]

And it’s not because we haven’t ever fought, although, we never did,
And it’s not because I really miss you, because I don’t,
And it’s not because I wonder how you’re doing, because I really don’t care,
And it’s not because I’m proud of you for joining some False-Greek-Sisterhood, because you have to feel included, and you have to feel accepted with happy smiles and plastic cups as your little veil,
And it’s not because we’re waiting to follow-through with all those plans we made:

No, I certainly don’t hold on for any of those reasons.
I’m holding on for the nostalgia,

Because we used to be friends.
We used to be and I don’t want to get mixed up in your ridiculousness because I’m afraid,
But I’m not afraid of your lifestyle and I sure as hell don’t envy you with your silly-parties-stupid-ideas-false-believings-head-in-your-ass-ways-of-thinking,

No, I just hold on because I don’t want to taint my memories of who I used to be,
Because I was always some version of who I am now, only getting better.
I guess I thought by now, you would have caught up, and I guess I thought you’d be a lot smarter. But, turns out, you’re still an idiot.

But I’m not going to let go. Because I need my memories, and I’m afraid that if I saw you tomorrow, we’d mess-them-all-up, and we’d go through the motions of a conversation and all-the-while, we’d be saying nothing. And that’s all we’d be able to remember.
I guess it’s pretty selfish of me.

::

I am, in every respect, loyally dedicated to the pursuit of a pragmatically pensive euphoria.

…maybe it was just a nice thought?
But I really thought it.

I mean, I really did.

But I don’t feel silly,
Or ridiculous,
Or like I was living-a-falsity.

No, I just wish it was more than just a nice thought,
More than just some idea.

I guess I’ll see you around. Never mind about what I just said.

::

to the histories of the arts and the arts of the histories:

How we try-and-try-and-try to understand what you meant.
And how we analyze, oh, how we analyze:
your gods, your loves, your lives, your needs, your wants, your jobs, your homes, your children, your truths, your colors, your dress, your minds, your thoughts, your passions, your ardors, your desires…

But we can’t know. At least, not really.

And I wonder what you would think of us, Arts and Artists of the Past.
I wonder what you would think if the time was reversed
And my present was your past, and you were living now and unearthing all that my world had done:

I wonder what you’d say if you unearthed our “Art.”
And you saw our Madame Tussaud’s bizarre and eerie completions of waxed-out-washed-up celebrities, and you pulled them up out of the ground, and their glittery eyes were dulled and their fingers were broken, and their wax had somehow made it through the years and didn’t melt, although, I wish it would have.

And you tried to figure out why we had done it. And you scratched your heads.
Maybe you’d think we worshipped them as our gods and goddesses.
Perhaps some of us did, but just know that most of us didn’t.

Most of us were just as confused as you all were.
And maybe, as your hands sculpted the marble dips and curves into your gods and goddesses,
You felt like a jerk for questioning it all.

But you kept-on. I think that’s what I admire most about you, Arts and Artists of the Past.

::

You will, most likely, spend another second, minute, hour, day, week, month, year…

Doing nothing. Nothing but worrying about yourself,
And your purple glitter for your eyelids,
And your hot pink polish for your hands,

And you’ll worry about where to go drink-and-dance,
And you’ll complain that your boy has broken-your-heart,

But there wasn’t one to break.
Well, there is one, but it already belongs to you and you alone.

It’s not that everyone loves you, it’s just that you only love yourself.
And I’m tired of having to hear about it.

I don’t care.

::

I sat outside a dollar-budget store
in the parking lot.
And the car parked beside me had a woman, her children, and her cigarette
in the parking lot.

And she sucked on the smoke, and she drew it out and blew it back up into the universe.
And her son sat beside her in the front, fumbling with his seat-belt, trying to keep safe.
And her teen-angst daughter sat in the back, sinking her teeth into a candy bar.

The mother had on so much make-up, and her lavender-dewed eyelids looked bright and washed out against the fake orange of her skin.
Like the dressing on a corpse, she was trying to look alive.

And as she pulled out of the parking lot and splashed through the rainbow puddle of an oil spill, she looked right at me and I can’t understand why she hesitated.

I guess it was because I was looking at her, and her children, and her cigarette.
And I saw right through it all. I saw her
in some parking lot.

::

Do you have anything else that you’d like to say?
I wondered it to myself as the girl beside me kept her notebook closed and her pen down.
She was not taking notes and she was doing it as a tiny-baby protest against the teacher in front of us:

The girl sat there, arms folded, breath huffing every-so-often-to-get-her-point-across,
And I knew it was because that Philosophy teacher told us she was nonreligious, ironically enough.
And the girl wasn’t.
And she argued,
And she argued loud,
Over-and-over-and-over,

Of course, she was trying to convince herself and no one else in that room.

And I felt sorry for her.
Because she was missing the point:

If you wear gloves for-forever, you start to forget what your hands looked like.

::

It was pretty magical-enchanted-just-in-time,
The way I met the metaphysical realm of it all

The wonderful-beautiful-possible-here-for-you
World of the Hyperlinks

Leads me to discover things who are still waiting to be discovered.

::

Truth, you sit there in the traveling cart of the Circus,
And we can pay-our-tokens-eat-our-peanuts
And watch…

But we aren’t to touch,
The bars keep you inside,
But we can see just-enough.

Just-enough to keep us coming back-and-back-and-back
And paying-more-tokens, for we can’t think of anything better for which to spend them,
And we do it all
Just to watch some show.

::

Did you both forget?
Did you forget that it was me who brought you together?

You must have.
Surely, that’s the reason,

Because I have forgotten the both of you,
At least for the moment.

And I’ll enjoy every second of that moment,
Because I hate to taint my brains with your memories of Skies Calling and Quitting in the Hills’ Laughing.

::

I hate learning new things about you,
Because I keep waiting to learn something that will make me stop wanting to learn,
But it hasn’t happened.

And it scares me because I know I’d go-back-on-the-things-I-believe,
If it meant I could keep on learning about you and who you were, are, and will be.

I hate reading what you have to say.
Because I keep waiting to read something that will make me hate you,
And what a joke that is.
Nothing could make that happen.

And I hate hearing what comes out of your mouth.
It rattles me, but in the best-sort-of-way.

I know I don’t know you, but I feel like I do.
I feel like it’s the shadows,
The forms,
The things I’ve seen in a past life,
And I just keep on getting reminded.

When I said I hated learning,
I lied.
When I said I hated reading,
I lied again.
And when I said I hated hearing what comes out of your mouth,
I guess I lied a third time.

And I hate lying.
So I’m going to keep-on learning and I’m going to keep-on reading and I’m going to keep-on hearing, at least I hope,
Because the forms won’t fail me,

But then they did.

I hope you like her very much and I hope I never have to hear about any of it.

::

I hope you know that you are things:

You are not defined by-that-one-time
You are not defined by-that-school-you’re-at
You are not defined by-that-shirt-on-your-back
You are not defined by-that-one-story
You are not defined by-that-job-you-have
And you are certainly not defined by-that-job-you-had.

No, no.
You are defined by the seeking of the definition.

And you might get it tomorrow, but you might never get it at all, but
Just know that it’s within. You just have to go seeking it.

Cause that’s really all we do,
We search for something to awake our souls,

But we forget that it starts within ourselves;
And not books.

We are given these bodies,
And this is where we will live
And this is where we will die.

It’s comforting, really. At least we know we have that one constant.

Death is not what we fear,
We fear Death without a purpose.

See to it that you have Purpose,
And I’ll be right there with you,
Searching and seeking for the same.

::

I know you’re busy.
But I don’t know if you’re too busy.
I mean, you make time for things you really want to do,
And it’s okay that my mail isn’t on that list.

It doesn’t hurt my feelings.
Well, maybe a little,
But it really hurts my feelings to know that
You’re too busy doing things,
Trying to make it look like you’re doing something important.
We both know you’re not.

I had hoped for more out of you.

You look real dumb in that one picture.

::

Well, I think that was worth coming back for. I mean, these have been saved on my laptop for a little while, and I thought that I wasn’t going to post them, but then I thought, “yes I am.” And so, I did, after a few swipes and swaps. I hope it wasn’t time wasted.

That was kind of a long little post. Ah, who cares. I didn’t tell you that you had to read it, anyhow.

Did you like it? You know I hope you did, cause I really care about your feelings. Really. They’re super-important to me and all that I am.

Welcome back to the blog.
I missed you like the deserts miss the rains. Yes. I just said that.

Yours with one of those knowing nods-and-a-smirk to a person that you haven’t seen in a while,
katie beth

daytrippin' on daytrotter.

What is up, dudes and dudettes? I have something really important to tell you about: DAYTROTTER.COM.

I have been meaning to bring daytrotter.com to the blog. I don’t know why I would have ever forgotten. I think it’s probably because I fill up so much of my day with Daytrotter, that, on some mental level, I thought I had already done it. Really.

And so, that’s what we’re gonna talk today. DAYTROTTER.COM
Do it.

Anyhow, I know that you and me both are always searching for great music. And if you gots the poison, I gots the remedy. Okay, so Jason Mraz isn’t a featured artist on Daytrotter, but that’s okay. We already know him.

At any rate, let me give you a quick tutorial on DT.

So, the whole premise is that sort of thing that you toss and turn over at night in your bed because you didn’t think of it first. How cool do these people have to be that they decided to use The Horseshack in Rock Island, Illinois as a place where righteous bands come to record songs that you and me can download FO FREE [for the most part] and listen to whenever we feel like it? I’ll tell you how cool you’d have to be: you would have to be so cool that there is no word available for which to describe you. Ergo, the good people over at Team Daytrotter are just so ______.

Also, here’s what Daytrotter.com has to say about their studio. And I quote:

“About the studio: The Horseshack, Rock Island, Illinois:

Daytrotter Sessions are engineered by Mike Gentry, Patrick Stolley, Brad Kopplin, Brett Allen or Nick Krill.

The Daytrotter recordings are made with minimal mic’ing, through discrete preamps and with some limiting to the mixing console, where they are printed to 1/4” analog tape running at 15 inches per second (usually BASF 468). The analog master is later transferred to a computer and converted to MP3.

There is no set formula or pattern to the recordings, no specific mic setup, etc. They are all live, no overdubs, straight to tape. What you hear is what happened in the room that day.”

Isn’t that just the coolest thing ever? Really. Let’s be honest with each other. That’s the coolest thing ever.

Anyway, the thing is, you create a quick little account [so you can comment and what not] and then you download. It is as simple as that. A new folder is created, you drop those sweet files into your itunes library, and you can thank me later. Plus, while you’re waiting [and it’s not a long wait] for those songs to download, there is always a wonderful write-up about the tunes you’re about to bump. PLUS AGAIN those drawings of the bands are, quite possibly, the coolest things I have ever seen. Genuinely.

Also. There’s an app for that.

So, being a true fan of DT, I thought I’d tell you about my top 7 sessions that you too! can download FO FREE. Has that settled in yet? I said FO FREE. Check it.

7. Sara Watkins
Alright, kids. As good people of the musical realms, we know about that great trio we used to call Nickel Creek. And, we all remember our good friend from that trio, Miss Sara Watkins. Guess what?! She is totally doing a solo stint. And, it’s quite lovely.

6. Josh Ritter
Okay- quick: what five letters spell apocalypse? WWIII. I think that explains it.

5. Fleet Foxes
Really, all I should have to say is Fleet Foxes. That alone should be enough for you to go ahead and download it. And that’s all I’m gonna say.

4. The Temper Trap
We love some Sweet Disposition here at the blog. Ergo, it gets even better live. Especially that first song. Whoa nelly.

3. The National
OMG. I heart The National more than life itself. I don’t care how good of a mood you’re in. I don’t care if the sky is vomiting rainbows. I don’t care if you have an unlimited supply of tootsie roll pops. The National will ALWAYS bring you down to a sense of complete and total dejected lament. And it’s kind of the greatest thing ever. Ugh. I love.

2. Local Natives
OKAY. There are a few sessions available for download by the Local Natives. What I need you to make sure that you do is download “Wide Eyes” and “Airplanes.” AND, if you’re a good reader of the blog, you know that “Airplanes” is most definitely one of those sweet songs available for your click, over on the right.

1. Bon Iver
HOLY SMOKES NUMBER ONE SESSION! Okay, guys. Now, I feel that the real point of recording something live for your fans is giving them something different. It’s no different than a live show. Don’t play me your record- I’ve got that at the house. Well, Bon Iver has done it again. I am sure that every time I hear the songs of my beloved Bon Iver, that there is no way I could ever love them any more than I do in that moment. Alas, I am always surprised. This session is like money in the bank. It is so beyond any tangible realm of greatness. I am being completely serious. Also, I am now positive that I am supposed to marry Justin Vernon. Once again, our love is real.


And, I read where JV did some work on Kanye West's new album. Nice. AND I read that a new Bon Iver album is no longer just a phantom dream I constantly have. It's coming, kids. And it's going to be major.

Now, for the most part, these are all bands/peeps that we have discussed before, here at the blog. And that’s the point. Nothing is more glorious than hearing a song you already love turned into something that you want to completely blast out loud like a revival in the church of righteousness.

And, there is plenty more where that came from. Daytrotter has hosted a veritable smorgasbord [I have always wanted to use that word on the blog. Nicely done] of impressive music. Let me give you a quick little rundown of SOME of their really awesome stuff:

Death Cab for Cutie
Avett Brothers
Dr. Dog
Grizzly Bear
Yeasayer
Ra Ra Riot
Metric
Okkervil River
We Were Promised Jetpacks
Woods
Noah & The Whale
Here We Go Magic
Neon Indian
Peter Wolf Crier
Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin
Islands
The Morning Benders
Nathaniel Rateliff
Horse Feathers
One EskimO
Amos Lee
Ingrid Michealson
Ben Taylor [yes, the son of James Taylor & Carly Simon]
Of Montreal [shout-out to mikey.p]
Brett Dennen
Au Revoir Simone
Justin Townes Earle
LIGHTS
Cold War Kids
Grace Potter & The Nocturnals
J. Tillman
Bear Hands
Mat Kearney
The Get Up Kids
Beach House
Colin Hay
Dawes
Vampire Weekend

AND, speaking of Vampire Weekend, you should download their session, if nothing else, for their “Welcome to Daytrotter” bit. It is kind of hilarious.

But, really. Did you read that list? I mean, that was just a few. It’s nothing short of incredible. YOU HAVE TO GO TO THE WEBSITE NOW.

Well, kids, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it all night: Daytrotter is where it’s at. And therefore, it’s where you should be, too. Also, I ordered one of their summer tees and I got some sweet shades as well. You bet they say “Daytrotter” on the side! AND they sent me some stickers and buttons. To which I say, “right on.”

Friends of the music-sphere, I bid you good listening. Also, it would be wise of you to LIKE! And give the thumbs-up, via Facebook to Daytrotter.com. It’s the best way to get your tunage on. So do it.

Also, Team Daytrotter is working on a documentary. LIKE! it on Facebook and then, build your music karma by sending your pennies and nickels their way. These things take money.

Finally, [sort of] I just saw where, if you e-mail teamdaytrotter@gmail.com with my name in the message, citing that I gave you the resources to check out some DT, then I could get a cool package of some sort. For the record, I had been working on this post long before I knew of this. Honestly. Do you know how long it took me to insert all of those damn hyperlinks? Let me just tell you that it wasn't easy. Okay, you can e-mail if you want, but then will I have to send you a package saying, "thanks" ?? Cause guess what, good reader? I totally would. Let's bring back the Pen Pal Club.

What's more, you can use that same email address to let Team Daytrotter know that you would like to help them out, via your campus life. You should really do it. I can sense that you're a responsible person.

Okay, go download.

Yours,
katie beth

WAIT. I just wanted to tell you something that, in most ways, relates to music. You know I now have a new little ipod shuffle? Well, I do. Anyhow, I’m still getting used to it, and I really think we’re getting along quite well. At any rate, there’s this new feature where, when I hold down the button on the earbuds, there’s a lady’s voice who provides me with the song and the people/person singing it. So, I am not too proud to tell you that I have one Ke$ha song. So, here’s the point, if you can even call it that:

The voiceover lady said, “Your Love is My Drug, Key Dollar Sign Ha.” Well, I thought that was quite clever of her. In some ways, it was like voiceover lady was making fun of Ke$ha. I like that about her. By saying the literal spelling of her name, voiceover lady was like, being a little bitchy. Anyhow, that was the point. And I really do kind of like that song. Also, I like your beard. See how I did that? Sorry.

PS--
There are some sweet new songs on the blog's impressive line-up to your right. You're welcome.

DAYTROTTER 4 LIFE.