Poetry is alive in the lyrics of songs

I hate the movie Moulin Rouge. Hate it. But here I am, proving my hypocrisy. See if you can name every song used.

I was raised up believing I was somehow unique; a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see. But now, after some thinking, I’d say I’d rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery, serving something beyond me. I wish I was a slave to an age old trade, like riding around on railcars and working long days. If I had an orchard I’d work ‘til I’m sore. I am going to blow up my TV, go to the country and build myself a home. Damn that television! We might be better off making up our own shows, which might be better than TV! I wanna touch the earth. I wanna break it in my hands. I wanna grow something wild and unruly. I wanna look at the horizon and not see a building standing tall. I wanna be the only one for miles and miles except for you.

I don’t want to be your friend; I just want to be your lover. No matter how it ends, no matter how it starts. I want to sleep all night in your soul kitchen. I’d like to inject your soul with some sweet rock n roll. I am a steamroller for you, babe. I’d like nothing better than to roll all over you. I want you to tell me “Marie, it was so easy to fall in love with you. It felt almost like a home of sorts or something. Home is whenever I’m with you.”  Because you are the life I needed all along, and I would say I love you but saying it out loud is hard, so I won’t say it at all. I worry that I am an animal trapped in your hot car, I am all the days that you choose to ignore. Take a second look and you'll see there is no one like me.

Untitled (for now)

(This was inspired by a text conversation with a friend. I have interspersed some of the things shared in our conversation throughout the piece. I consider this a practice in creative writing; taking the inspired words of another person and putting them in a piece that doesn't follow the original conversation, but works beautifully. Still not sure about some of the wording, but I'm quite pleased with it so far.)

I listened to Remain in Light by The Talking Heads for the first time, at the perfect time. So many questions I’m afraid to answer of the time, late at night, a couple beers deep, synchronously during a text conversation with a friend on a similar subject. The music moves in and out; layers of melody and harmony interlaced with layers of rhythm that fit the conflict. Dissonance and chaos, coherence and simplicity.

I watch her. She is simple and complicated, frustrating and easy, carefree and moody, patient and short-tempered, clueless and intelligent. I want to be near her, I want to touch her, to talk to her, to look at her. I notice the curve of her body, the color in her eyes, her face in mischief, and in happiness, and in thought. She watches, brushes against me, smiles, shares, discusses, argues. We are electric, but we are silent. The timing is off, and we both know it, though neither one of us will say it. There is a dichotomy between what is palpable and what is desired, which leaves a gap that is evident but not acknowledged.

There is something beautiful about the silence, something beautiful about leaving the gap unacknowledged. We keep living, interacting, and watching without the vulnerability of making our feelings known by saying. We understand each other by how we act towards one another, how we look at each other. The mystery remains, the excitement intact. Words are futile. Expression through speech often leads to ruin, and we both understand.

And yet satisfaction comes from expression.  At times I wish I could tell her how I think she is beautiful, but I don’t. I am afraid if we acknowledge the gap, the thrill will leave. Maybe we will find out there was nothing there at all, that it was the secrecy holding it all together. The dichotomy works, it is what keeps the desire strong. For this reason, we will say nothing. I will leave, she will leave, we will both go on to find others to love, others willing to courageously acknowledge the void that we won’t, and it will work, and we will forget about each other.

Still, she could have been the love of my life. 

The List That Keeps On Listing

(Here is a list. Perhaps inspiration/ topics for potential writing projects? Not sure.)

I dance with myself every night before bed.

I only like raisins when they are covered in chocolate.

I love looking at people’s hands.

I love men with big noses.

Hair in my food does not gross me out.

I talk to myself every morning when I drive to work.

I have a sex dream at least once a week.

I think about sex all the time.

I am no good with little kids.

I love teenagers.

I want a puppy more than I want a baby.

I want a boyfriend more than I want a husband.

I want to save the world.

I want to grow a garden.

I’ve always wanted to go to Afghanistan and Argentina.

I’ve always wanted to live in a really big city.

I’ve always wanted to live on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

I want to sell my car and buy a bike.

I want a horse.

I am fascinated by people who collect wolf paraphernalia.

I am fascinated by people who love dream catchers.

I love my mother for this reason.

I love cutting my toenails.

I find the blackheads that are extracted by Biore strips fascinating to look at.

I use bobby pins to clean the wax from my ears.

I can’t snap.

I can whistle. Like a boss.

I’ve been someone's boss. I've been some people's boss, actually.

I want to paint a picture using my ponytail as a paintbrush.

I want to cover my body in paint.

I love doing laundry and washing dishes.

I always play with my hair.

Growing up I wanted to be a chef, an author, a teacher, and a singer.

I have done three of the four.

I physically can’t sleep past eight in the morning.

I make cookie dough just to eat the dough.

I hate mushrooms.

I love dreams where I am naked.

If I could get away with being naked all the time, I would be.

I don’t think being naked is sexual. Or it doesn't have to be.

I love being barefoot.
I love driving barefoot.
I love barefoot walks/hikes.

I love being surrounded by flowers.

I write with my right, kick with my left.

I love puns.

I smell books before I read them.

I read the last paragraph of books before I read them.

I love writing lists.

Technology scares me.

I collect lipstick, books, flowers, and typewriters.

I like vegetables more than fruit.

I used to sneak green olives and banana peppers from the fridge as a kid.

I could eat an onion like an apple.

I love raw potatoes because they taste like dirt. 

Radishes too.

Forrest Gump is my favorite movie. Maybe.

I’ve always felt like I should have lived during the sixties.

I've always wanted to be a hippie.

I want to start a commune.

Ringo is my favorite Beatle.

I like The Beatles.

I think The Beatles are overrated.

I love to sweat.

I can’t wink.

I love being winked at.

I love riding the bus.

Strangers come up and talk to me on the bus a lot.

And in the grocery store.

And at coffee shops.

And on the street.

I want to have an endless supply of dollar bills so I can hand them out to every homeless person I meet.

I don’t care if they’re faking it.

People are my passion.

They fascinate me.

I like to watch them.

I’m watching you.

Mormon Girls Are Cool Too.

My crush senior year had long wavy hair, broad shoulders, a large Roman nose, nice smile. He wore the same outfit everyday, a white shirt and blue jeans, until one day he showed up in a western style jean pearl snap he was given at a yard sale, then he wore that everyday. He was funny, he was smart, he was a smartass, he was rebellious. At sixteen he had already started smoking cigarettes. He listened to Stevie ray Vaughn and Led Zeppelin and he played the guitar and drums. He was mysterious, he was a jerk, he was kind, he was lovable, and every girl had a crush on him, but he didn’t realize it. He never gave me a second thought, though I couldn't stop thinking of him.

That year I started spending a lot of time with some people who my mother was leery of, and perhaps rightfully so. They smoked, drank, used bad language, told dirty jokes, watched bad movies. But I was fascinated by them. I was drawn to them. I was the awkward Mormon girl in the corner who they tolerated having around and I was grateful for their tolerance. I ended up being their punching bag a lot of the time, but I endured the abuse because I found them more interesting than my other friends, more interesting than my family. Oftentimes they would question my overly-joyful countenance, telling me I was the happiest person they’d ever met, questioning why I was so happy, asking me questions about my religion, laughing at my answers. Any time they swore when I was in the room they would turn to me and say, “you make me feel so guilty for saying bad words,” to which I would cautiously respond that I never asked them to change their behavior for me, that they shouldn’t feel self-conscious. I wanted to prove to them that Mormon girls were cool too, that we were deep and thoughtful, that we listened to good music, and though perhaps we were sometimes ridiculously happy, we were sad and pensive as well.

I spent a lot of time sitting in my bedroom listening to Abbey Road and writing really bad, angst-ridden teenage poetry that would become the lyrics to my overly dramatic angst-ridden teenage songs.  Though on the outside I was a loud, cheerful, self-proclaimed weirdo, inside I was restless, uncomfortable, always a little ashamed of my religion, always feeling limited, and feeling very misunderstood. I felt so different from my family, so different from the snobby kids I met at church activities, and so different from my school friends. I didn’t fit with anyone.

There have been moments of reflection in which I see how much I have changed. I have matured, I have progressed, I’m not as loud and obnoxious as I used to be, I have made best friends who will always be my best friends, I have done things and been places and experienced things that have changed my perspective. But there are also moments of reflection in which I shamefully realize that I have not changed at all. Twelve years later, and I am still drawn to the long-haired, broad shouldered, intelligent men who will never give me a second thought. I am still an awkward Mormon girl being tolerated by some. I still listen to albums over and over again, but instead of hiding in my room and writing angst-ridden teenage poetry, I sit in a coffee shop and write angst-ridden adult prose. I still unnerve people with my cheerfulness, still make them feel self-conscious for their indiscretions. I am still restless, ever restless, ever confused, ever conflicted. Oftentimes ashamed of my religion, I feel constrained, and I'm still trying to prove that Mormon girls are cool too; we listen to good music and read good books and watch interesting films. We are informed and intelligent and we question things. Not all of us are Republicans. And though we are sometimes ridiculously happy, we are sad and pensive as well.

Heaven help me, nothing has changed.