outpickingdandelions

[outpickingdandelions]

juxtaposition.

yesterday afternoon you stopped by Malley's to pick up chocolates for us, your grandkids, because Grandma wanted to keep our childhood Easter bunny excitement alive for one more year. this morning you were sedated, having cups of chicken scooped out of your esophagus that had been there since yesterday's lunch.

you couldn't eat or drink. you felt this mass of undigested food in your chest, and still thought of us. stubbornness, love. aging is beautiful until it is heartbreaking.

I love you, Papa. hang in there.

[outpickingdandelions]

i think i'm better and then it's Christmas day and i'm running through the woods because my dog's 450 dollar collar fell out of my pocket and i can't go home until i find it. and i can't stop crying because how could i ruin what was finally comfortable? this was the first Christmas in 13 years where i wasn't anxious. where i woke up warm and happy and excited. where i'm 19 years old, grinning wildly because i got five nights at freddy's stickers. and then i'm running through the woods until my vision goes away because when i return home the house will be the way it used to be. cold. harsh. i'll open the door empty-handed and the soles of my feet will stick to the floor. every step that follows will suck out what love i have left, until i am but a shell again. how can i go back?

and then the collar is in my hand and tears are still pouring down my face because I'm 19 crying over a dog collar and the way things used to be. and Pete sprints over, wrapping his lanky arms around me and i am safe. Pete will walk me home and we'll open the door and be welcomed. the soles of our feet will stay on and love will seep through our pores into our bloodstream until we are healed. it will take time. but for now i am here. i am home.

[outpickingdandelions]

10/07

i test tomorrow. 

dealing with nausea, especially in the morning. urinary frequency. bloating. i think it’s hysteric. once the test is negative, i’ll go back to normal. go back to studying chemistry and statistics and planning for next semester instead of next trimester. go back to pushing myself a little too hard and calling it progress. go back to spending little bits of money here and there to reward myself for getting through the week.

for now, i wait.

pregnancy scare: a thread

[I will be updating this with my jumbled thoughts over the next few weeks]

09/23

i might be pregnant.

i might be pregnant and i can’t stop thinking. one principle of quantum superposition is that matter can hold multiple states at once. this embryo: Schrödinger’s cat. late period, box opens, cat's alive. does Pandora’s box open, too? i’m in a permanent state of cognitive dissonance. of evolution fighting anthropology. i yearn to be a mother but the cultural contexts of my current existence are not nurturing.

[outpickingdandelions]

10/01

God often reminds me how fragile life is.

i’m driving home after spending the last hour dwelling over what life would be like if i were pregnant. the probability is so low, but some sort of thought needs to occupy the vast space in my skull. so i think. and then as i turn into my driveway, i see her. a skinny squirrel laid out on the road. must have fallen out of the tree. and my mind stops. i stand on the tar and scoop her up with a shovel. cars line up on either side, but no one honks. from one side, she could be sleeping. eye narrow, paws tucked in. still warm, but no pulse. her physical form is whole, but her spirit has left. she is simply a shell.

i carry her into the woods and find a peaceful place in the crook of a tree to let her rest. fingers run over her back, checking once more for life. it’s surreal. that warmth before rigor mortis begins to set. i leave her uninjured side facing the sky, similar to how i found her, and around her, I tuck her tail. a temporary nest. and i say goodbye.

pregnancy scare: a thread

[I will be updating this with my jumbled thoughts over the next few weeks]

09/23

i might be pregnant.

i might be pregnant and i can’t stop thinking. one principle of quantum superposition is that matter can hold multiple states at once. this embryo: Schrödinger’s cat. late period, box opens, cat's alive. does Pandora’s box open, too? i’m in a permanent state of cognitive dissonance. of evolution fighting anthropology. i yearn to be a mother but the cultural contexts of my current existence are not nurturing.

[outpickingdandelions]

i find myself writing for results. for publication, for scholarships. and i wonder why i find no inspiration. honey, you are weaving your world into a limiting lexicon. displaying the beauties and sorrows you perceive into two-dimensional symbols. so think, for whom are you writing?

yesterday i attended a birthday party for a one-year-old. it seemed ironic - all that fuss for a being incapable of forming memories. but in truth, don't we remember? i am nineteen, still unweaving webs of mistrust spun in my early childhood. every time i look into my mother's eyes i am relearning how to love. the infant may not remember the party, but a deep part of her will grip onto that excitement. that love.

i baby-talk animals but not infants. they are learning so much. piecing together the complexities of everyday. i see myself in them. i explain life. i'm your cousin, i murmur. but everyone's a cousin in this family. you probably won't understand the family tree; i still don't. but i'll be here for the gatherings. take you into the basement to play ministicks when upstairs gets too loud. too personal. our family doesn't understand proximity. stands close enough where eye contact makes bones hurt. points out flaws which you learn to firmly correct. no matter what the others say, you can talk back. i'll talk back for you. you won't know who you're related to, or how. but even through the stress, you'll sense the love.

i let this infant lay into me. watch her chew on everything she can find. you don't know what your parents have been through, but i've watched your father grow up. his heart turned into love even before dating your mother. i see the way they look at you. the light in their eyes, the warmth in their faces. you'll grow up well, will look forward to the weekend campground visits. the smokey burgers as the sky softens, the gastrointestinal and integumentary illnesses obtained swimming in the Cut. the pancake breakfasts spread out by Grandma and Grandpa.

i cannot force the way i write; i think in paragraphs. cannot confine myself to a few words. and that's okay. inspiration does not come to those who beg. and with these children i'm reminded of endless sentences to be said.

[outpickingdandelions]

09/29

How are you, really?

I am okay. I am good. I am a mixture of good and okay and passion and desperation. I want a baby. A primal need for motherhood has rooted and I don't know how to handle it. But who can I talk to? I'm probably not pregnant. But I suspect I'll be sad when my period comes.

I miss my cat. I think he's dead. And I'll never find closure. How do you deal with that? The uncertainty? That's the central theme in my life right now: uncertainty. The pregnancy scare, the never-ending cold, the unknown disease. Am I going too fast? How do I get time to slow down? I'm chasing passion after passion and 24 hours isn't enough.

pregnancy scare: a thread

[I will be updating this with my jumbled thoughts over the next few weeks]

09/23

i might be pregnant.

i might be pregnant and i can’t stop thinking. one principle of quantum superposition is that matter can hold multiple states at once. this embryo: Schrödinger’s cat. late period, box opens, cat's alive. does Pandora’s box open, too? i’m in a permanent state of cognitive dissonance. of evolution fighting anthropology. i yearn to be a mother but the cultural contexts of my current existence are not nurturing.

[outpickingdandelions]

09/24

my great grandmother looks down on me. a mother raising seven children in the slums of Cleveland during the great depression, living with the salary of a steel factory worker. barely enough food and so many mouths to feed. and in all the photos, all the stories, they are happy. my dear child, she whispers as I rinse my hands of soap and worry. the world has you. rivers spend years eroding the most efficient path, and every landscape is different. carry on.

pregnancy scare: a thread

[I will be updating this with my jumbled thoughts over the next few weeks]

09/23

i might be pregnant.

i might be pregnant and i can’t stop thinking. one principle of quantum superposition is that matter can hold multiple states at once. this embryo: Schrödinger’s cat. late period, box opens, cat's alive. does Pandora’s box open, too? i’m in a permanent state of cognitive dissonance. of evolution fighting anthropology. i yearn to be a mother but the cultural contexts of my current existence are not nurturing.

[outpickingdandelions]

pregnancy scare: a thread

[I will be updating this with my jumbled thoughts over the next few weeks]

09/23

i might be pregnant.

i might be pregnant and i can’t stop thinking. one principle of quantum superposition is that matter can hold multiple states at once. this embryo: Schrödinger’s cat. late period, box opens, cat's alive. does Pandora’s box open, too? i’m in a permanent state of cognitive dissonance. of evolution fighting anthropology. i yearn to be a mother but the cultural contexts of my current existence are not nurturing.

[outpickingdandelions]

allergic

based on events from this week's allergy immunotherapy.

It wasn't the usual. Sitting at the table designed for children instead of the chair in between the wall and the support beam. Homework spread in front of me instead of my writing notebook. I'd barely settled down after receiving my shots when an excruciating cramping materializes in my lower abdomen. Suprapubic region. And I try to quantify it. Bad period? I'm eight days late. But this pain isn't the usual. This pain is someone grabbing my uterus, my intestines, whatever organ is down there and squeezing. This is that organ rupturing, flipping inside out.

I stray from the usual and walk, hunched, to the bathroom without a word to the receptionist. Do I have to use the bathroom? I sit on the toilet and there's no blood. No urge to defecate. And heat rushes over my entire body, my face. Nausea. And I am not okay. Do I need a nurse? I need a nurse. But I'm alone in this bathroom and I refuse to push that "Help" button. I stand and head to the sink and meet myself, face-face in the mirror. Red splotches have already spouted on my skin, so I wash my hands quickly and head to the nurse's station, clutching my stomach.

"I don't feel too good," I say, and they all turn to face me.

"How so?" one nurse asks. I can't think.

"I'm just. Hot." And life is a blur. And my stomach hurts so. Bad. They take me into room three and grab the doctor and bring in the vital sign monitor, the pulse oximeter. Ask questions and I answer but I can't sit still or it hurts too bad, and my fingers are subluxing from gripping the seat so hard but I can't let go.

The respiratory therapist brings in four packets of Benadryl. Liquid, a kind I've never had before. Sticky and sweet and burns like alcohol.

A few minutes pass and the pain subsides. And I'm not afraid anymore. No epi-pen, I insist, and the doctor agrees, with the condition that I'm closely monitored. So I'm babysat. My hives become bigger and more widespread, and my throat becomes itchy. But then my throat calms, and the hives shrink. And even though I look like I've been ridden with pox, and my body will be angry for several days more, I am good. Safe to leave. No hospital admittance, no epinephrine. And I am thankful.

[outpickingdandelions]

when i'm exposed to people that are sick, or when i get certain viruses, i slip into a mild, dissociative psychosis. walk around and nothing is real.

yesterday: a perfect summer day. as if God is celebrating the close of summer. the temperature was that of a house with no air-conditioning, and i felt encapsulated in a two-dimensional plane. as if I was stuck in this invisible box, and my world was so small. my life, simply a simulation. if i cannot see it, is it truly real? and who are the beings watching me? are my decisions even my own?

holding that large stack of books, I stared at two honeybees on a vibrant goldenrod. eyes itchy, but these two honeybees were so full of life. they were real. so wasn't i real, too?

and i continued on. in this bizarre, flat plane. a chess piece moved by someone who doesn't know how to play.

i'm better today, even though i did not sleep. i'm real enough. these perfect summer days continue.

[outpickingdandelions]

intoxication

i try to avoid clichés. because the overuse has dulled them into just other meaningless phrases in the american lexicon. but they hold truth.

i walk on a tightrope. a ledge on the top of a building and if i move the slightest bit to the left i could tumble into a world of fear but. i don't. i screw my head on the correct way and take three deep breaths and exist in this space that is one step away from my typical existence.

people live here. take it as an escape. burn their esophagi to feel this numbness and honestly? i feel peace in my understanding that i could not stay here. in truth, i am hardly myself. like playing a videogame, but you, the main character, has been stripped of the primary layer of pixels and you're just this core with several missing pieces. a visual disaster, but still one technical being.

and i can't stop thinking about this concept in quantum mechanics where atoms can stray from their well; essentially glitching. theoretically, the probability that i can sit here and then shift into the wall in front of me is not zero. there is an extremely miniscule chance that every single atom in my body could disobey direct orders on where to exist and i could simply. exist a little bit to the left. and maybe it's the wine talking. the depressed chemical messages in my brain. but i don't feel all the dissimilar to an ungovernable group of atoms in this weird, multidimensional plane.

[outpickingdandelions]

worms

our bodies are full of worms. tiny, microscopic worms and at first that bothered me because they're probably there, wiggling around in my tissues and they live and they die and they'll stay there.

but now it's turned into the knowledge that i will never be alone; i am their home. my organs, the space between them. rooms. some of these worms know nothing else. lived in no other space. and maybe this is me finding emotions in places where none lie but i choose to believe that i bring them comfort. that this relationship is mutualistic: me, their habitat. them, my friends.

and on nights where it seems like no one is listening, the worms feel my heart rate in the blood pulsing through my veins, my arteries, my capillaries. take in the oxygen that seeps through my lungs. and i know that i'll never be truly alone.

[outpickingdandelions]

word vomit from my notes app

and then i'll open my eyes and everything will be the way they used to be. every inconvenience, a death wish. every bandaid, a broken home. and the storm covers me and i think this is is. i am back. and i cry out what little water my body holds onto and then she sets her hand on my chest and takes out the hurt. she lets me grieve until i don't have to anymore.

[outpickingdandelions]

a monologue from last night's dream

They stop walking. "You know, Finn, we can't help you if you're not honest with us..."

"You don't believe me, either? And you don't believe her?"

"Nothing I say, nothing I experience, can be proved. You think I'm falsifying this to support my friend? He's the star of the football team. What leads our school to championships. to fame. And I'm just some troubled gifted kid making up stories for the attention. Sure. I'm lying about shit I haven't told anyone but him. That he used to make me an outcast."

"What did you tell him?"

She scoffs. "What did I tell him? There's not even a point in telling you. But I am so fucking done. I told him what he did to me was wrong. How if he owned up to that in private, I wouldn't go to the cops. He laughed. Said he didn't know what I was talking about. Said exactly what you said, and then he told me he'd end me. And you know what? He's right."

"Every night, I go to bed thinking about how he liked the taste of my blood in his mouth when he busted my lip and I can't stop tasting it, too. How I've tried to scrub off every cell on my body he touched but I can't get deep enough, and that kills me. My body has belonged to him since that night, and every time I hear about what he did to Steph? I know she feels it, too."

"So if you don't want to believe me, then don't. But I'm done. I'm gone. This is your last fucking chance then nobody's hearing from me again."

[outpickingdandelions]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[outpickingdandelions]

[outpickingdandelions]

i don't want to be an inspiration.

i don't want to be

the reason my insurance

covers this novel treatment.

i want quiet.

i want to be a child

cradled in the arms of a mother

who learned how to love

before she had children.

i'm so tired, Mom.

but how can i accept love

if i cannot accept forgiveness?

i walk over the graves of

every person i've ever been

to offer you a hug.