Unorganized, Unprocessed, Unrefined

It's 12:09 a.m., but I have to write because I feel it, and I haven't felt it in a few weeks.

I'm sitting on my bed with a pillow on my lap, my laptop on top of that. It's hot in here. I would sleep with only a top sheet, but here I just have a thick brown comforter. Ironically enough, I'm wearing pants and socks to bed tonight. Yes, pants and socks. Don't ask why.

Here, the silence of my room is almost haunting, mostly because I am left to think to myself and partly because there are four people up here--it should be noisy.

Tonight I went to the gym--which I have been doing quite often lately--with the intention of reading some Ben Johnson poetry while eliptical-ing. I eliptical-ed, but was so distracted from the poetry. I've realized that trying to do something else while reading poetry is actually very counter-productive. There's no way to get a good amount of insight from a poem, when you're busy thinking about other things, like your heart rate and how many calories you've burned so far and what your reps per minute is and oh that guy's kind of cute and oh hey there is Jordan again with his girlfriend and I wonder if someone is using the abductors right now and there's that awkward patron that wants to date me. These thoughts, plus the sporadic reading from On My Small Daughter, plus the new Jason Reeves song I just bought, turned up to the third to last bar on my sound gage, leads to much more confused thinking than should be had at the gym. Isn't exercise supposed clear your mind? But I feel like when I'm at the BYU-I gym, I need to distract myself as much as possible. I need to drown myself in noise and get the heck out as fast as I can, because it's a meat market in there. Right now, I choose to be a vegan, thank you. Needless to say, reading Ben Johnson didn't go over well.

Today Victoria and I drove to the corn fields. They're corn fields, right? We drove for an hour, turned off the car, turned off the music, and I could hear the blood in my ears. (I wonder what silence is like without the blood in my ears--I hope someday I can know that.) It felt good to be in between the green earth and blue sky and nothing else. I am so small and cannot be in control of anything.

My hair is drying. I love taking showers at night.

Getaway

So, I've been doing this new thing--when I'm in a class I despise and I do not want to pay attention--where I write down songs lyrics to a good song I know and randomly mix the words into my own poetry. Here's one of the results from A Clean Getaway, by Maria Taylor:

Of no day, no door, no getaway.
I fear to love a someone met with no name.
I made a home of hung pictures; it looked just like a smile.
Except it wasn't in my own face.
I didn't know.
At the bar they know, tough voice made by my friends--hard.
They were laughing and I? Losing.
I miss every single great heart.

No! Could you just getaway?
I see across it.
And there:
Like the yard, a park, my grass.
Clean. I had made clean.
Finally, I made the place.
Except it felt there were no he.
Had I made just like I met? Waiting for it? No.
It felt like what I was: I
And you?
I just miss.

That's all.