I love this. It was on a show I've started watching called "My So Called Life."
A Fable
Once upon a time there was a girl.
She lived in a house of gingerbread and candy.
She was always asleep.
One day she woke up
and the candy was moldy.
Her father blew her a kiss and the house collapsed.
She walked down a street full of strangers.
They were swaying like paper dolls.
She blew them all kisses and watched them disappear.
Once upon a time there was a girl.
She lived in a house of gingerbread and candy.
One day she woke up.
She woke up.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
The Way it Was
I wrote this short story today. I'm not absolutely decided on the title. let me know what you think..or don't think...
Jonah was from one of those towns where it wasn’t hard to imagine what it was like before Rosa Parks sat on a bus or Martin Luther King Jr. made long speeches; the kind of town where everything was in black and white like those old silent films Jonah’s Grandpa Henry had shown him growing up, except in film, people seemed extraordinarily happy for no apparent reason; they were always dancing, or tripping, or running around in circles. In Olli, Alabama, there only seemed to be cotton fields around the next corner, and though Jonah liked them when they were white and soft looking, they didn’t make him extraordinarily happy, as a matter of fact, he couldn’t really think of anything that made him happy for no apparent reason other than Sunday lunches at his Grandpa Henry’s: fried chicken, and greens, and sopping cornbread in pea juice. He liked the company, and the old record player that didn’t work, and he liked forgetting about the lines people drew in town. That’s another thing about those silent films, the people were white- only their hats were black, or their shoes, or their cars- you never saw any black people in those films; if you did, it was probably a white guy with black paint on his face, a clown of some sort, pretending to be something he wasn’t.
On occasion, some stranger would pass through, and quickly, so it always seemed: There were always the same faces, and if not the same faces, similar faces, because all of the new ones looked just like the old ones. In fact, when Jonah looked through his most recent senior yearbook, he could have sworn girls and boys from his parent’s albums or grandparent’s albums had snuck their way into his. If he looked at those neat little squares with those little faces, he could forget the time, sometimes the year. Was it really 2006 or was Rosa still sitting, her back straight in 1955, or were people still clapping in 1963 with Dr. King? He knew that if he walked outside he could catch the bus and sit at the very front if he really wanted, and he could go to school, and he could smile at the white boys and girls in the hallways, but even so, he forgot what year it was sometimes: It seemed to him that people weren’t allowed to have prejudice openly, not like before, but they could have preference, and as long as he had lived in Ollie, people had preferred to stick to their own kind.
Like any summer, the cotton fields were being plowed by tractors, not backs, and Jonah spent days with Grandpa Henry, or throwing basketballs at the red brick on the side of his home. And children, at least, were free to choose sides while outside of school, and unlike red rover where the other side has the opportunity to join hands with their counterparts, the children didn’t run to the other side; they didn’t call out to the other side to join them.
It was on a Tuesday that Jonah was throwing the ball hard against the wall when his neighbor, Mrs. Maude began nagging him. He counted the number of times he hit a brick that had a black spot on it, but he’d forget the number each time she’d yell over, lifting her head from behind large clay flowerpots. “I need sum o’ that coan meal, but Ernest aint come in yet,” or “if I had that coan meal, I coud fry okre fo Ernest,”she’d say just before she’d purse her lips and begin again to shove bulbs into the potting soil. 15, 22, 25, he’d count again. “Jonah, I said thata needs coan meal fo Ernest,” and she cupped her red mouth so he’d have to hear her over the thump of the basketball. Mrs. Maude was late into her eighties, and Jonah knew she probably really did need corn meal, and Mr. Ernest probably was really gone visiting someone or another, so he walked over to get her money. When he left her carport, she smiled and smiled, her lips stretching as far as they could in a, “I knew he’d come around” sort of way.
Ollie didn’t have much: a small baseball park that was really a few mounds of red dirt in someone’s field, a gas station, a school, two or three churches, and two stores- Jonson’s and Smith’s. No one had ever told Jonah not to go to Jonson’s, but as far back as he could remember his mama and friends and pastor had only ever gone to Smith’s- that’s just the way it was. There weren’t any signs or laws or anything really, black people just went to Smith’s and white people always seemed to go to Johnson’s.
The bell rang when he walked in, and Mr. Eddy Smith- the great grandson of Edward Smith, the original owner- asked him how his mama was doing, and her tomatoes: “I dunno how Mrs. Maude grows them tomatoes in this helluva summer,” he said like always, his hands on his hips. “Well, if ya have any trouble finding anything, just holler.”
“If they don’t got buttermilk, they don’t got nuthin,” his mom had always said, but it didn’t matter much if there was buttermilk corn meal or not because there wasn’t any. Jonah stood on the isle, scratching the back of his head, looking from the sticker that said, “corn meal: $2.37” to the empty space between the self rising flour and brown sugar he grew up eating out of the bag. “Dammit.”
Jonah forgot what year it was. He was sort of aware that it was 2006, but in the back of his mind it was still 1955, and he couldn’t go to Jonson’s. But when he parked his car outside of the small white building, he didn’t see any police, or flyers, or dogs, and he knew he could walk in. He could just walk in like he walked into school every day, and he could smile at the white people, and he could use their red or blue baskets, and he could buy their buttermilk corn meal. He watched a white woman carrying several bags in one hand walk out of the swinging doors, her son by her side. Jonah wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating things, but it looked like she was sort of panicked, and took her son’s hand in hers, and rushed him to the car. She was even kind of rough with her groceries; she just flung them down and then got in her car and drove away.
Sitting there, watching the little boy, he thought of this kid Thomas Frye. They both had Mrs. Kensington in kindergarten, and Jonah liked him a lot. They’d sit together on the alphabet rug and talk about the Power Rangers, and they’d swap milk at lunch, just because. They liked the same books, and they both had relatives named Ruby: Jonah had an Auntie Ruby and Thomas Frye had an Aunt Ruby. Jonah remembered wanting Thomas Frye to spend the night with him, but his mom had said it wasn’t right, and when he saw Thomas at school, Thomas Frye told him his mom had said the same thing. You two don’t got nuthin in common boy, ya’ll come from diffrent people, Jonah thought, but he couldn’t remember who said it, his mom or Thomas Frye’s. Jonah watched the little boy and knew no black boys had every spent the night at his house.
Jonah sat there awhile, watching the people walk in and out, several watching him while they carried bags to their cars. He knew he could go in, he knew he could; he kept saying it over to himself in his head, There’s no reason I can’t go on in. No one’s going to get on to me, but he couldn’t get out of his car because there was a line there, a little white line and Jonah knew that if he went in, they’d stare or he’d stare. He knew that if he went in, he would be messing up someone’s preference, or maybe his preference. There was a line around Johnson’s, and he couldn’t make himself go in.
When he got home, Mrs. Maude was still working in her yard, her blue floral dress was scrunching up around her hips and breast, and she seemed happy. “There’s Jonah boy, I wuz worried you’d been in uh accident.” When she pursed her lips at his empyt hands, he told her how Smith’s didn’t have any corn meal. “You think they’d know to keep sumthin as simple as coan meal in the stoe,” she said when he handed her back her money. When Jonah went back to throwing his basketball, he watched Mrs. Maude continue to dig, and shove, and pull, and he knew that Mrs. Maude hadn’t even considered asking him if he had gone to Johnsons, because she never would have expected him to; just like his teachers, and his preacher, and his friends, and his mamma wouldn’t have expected him to, because that’s just the way it was.
Jonah was from one of those towns where it wasn’t hard to imagine what it was like before Rosa Parks sat on a bus or Martin Luther King Jr. made long speeches; the kind of town where everything was in black and white like those old silent films Jonah’s Grandpa Henry had shown him growing up, except in film, people seemed extraordinarily happy for no apparent reason; they were always dancing, or tripping, or running around in circles. In Olli, Alabama, there only seemed to be cotton fields around the next corner, and though Jonah liked them when they were white and soft looking, they didn’t make him extraordinarily happy, as a matter of fact, he couldn’t really think of anything that made him happy for no apparent reason other than Sunday lunches at his Grandpa Henry’s: fried chicken, and greens, and sopping cornbread in pea juice. He liked the company, and the old record player that didn’t work, and he liked forgetting about the lines people drew in town. That’s another thing about those silent films, the people were white- only their hats were black, or their shoes, or their cars- you never saw any black people in those films; if you did, it was probably a white guy with black paint on his face, a clown of some sort, pretending to be something he wasn’t.
On occasion, some stranger would pass through, and quickly, so it always seemed: There were always the same faces, and if not the same faces, similar faces, because all of the new ones looked just like the old ones. In fact, when Jonah looked through his most recent senior yearbook, he could have sworn girls and boys from his parent’s albums or grandparent’s albums had snuck their way into his. If he looked at those neat little squares with those little faces, he could forget the time, sometimes the year. Was it really 2006 or was Rosa still sitting, her back straight in 1955, or were people still clapping in 1963 with Dr. King? He knew that if he walked outside he could catch the bus and sit at the very front if he really wanted, and he could go to school, and he could smile at the white boys and girls in the hallways, but even so, he forgot what year it was sometimes: It seemed to him that people weren’t allowed to have prejudice openly, not like before, but they could have preference, and as long as he had lived in Ollie, people had preferred to stick to their own kind.
Like any summer, the cotton fields were being plowed by tractors, not backs, and Jonah spent days with Grandpa Henry, or throwing basketballs at the red brick on the side of his home. And children, at least, were free to choose sides while outside of school, and unlike red rover where the other side has the opportunity to join hands with their counterparts, the children didn’t run to the other side; they didn’t call out to the other side to join them.
It was on a Tuesday that Jonah was throwing the ball hard against the wall when his neighbor, Mrs. Maude began nagging him. He counted the number of times he hit a brick that had a black spot on it, but he’d forget the number each time she’d yell over, lifting her head from behind large clay flowerpots. “I need sum o’ that coan meal, but Ernest aint come in yet,” or “if I had that coan meal, I coud fry okre fo Ernest,”she’d say just before she’d purse her lips and begin again to shove bulbs into the potting soil. 15, 22, 25, he’d count again. “Jonah, I said thata needs coan meal fo Ernest,” and she cupped her red mouth so he’d have to hear her over the thump of the basketball. Mrs. Maude was late into her eighties, and Jonah knew she probably really did need corn meal, and Mr. Ernest probably was really gone visiting someone or another, so he walked over to get her money. When he left her carport, she smiled and smiled, her lips stretching as far as they could in a, “I knew he’d come around” sort of way.
Ollie didn’t have much: a small baseball park that was really a few mounds of red dirt in someone’s field, a gas station, a school, two or three churches, and two stores- Jonson’s and Smith’s. No one had ever told Jonah not to go to Jonson’s, but as far back as he could remember his mama and friends and pastor had only ever gone to Smith’s- that’s just the way it was. There weren’t any signs or laws or anything really, black people just went to Smith’s and white people always seemed to go to Johnson’s.
The bell rang when he walked in, and Mr. Eddy Smith- the great grandson of Edward Smith, the original owner- asked him how his mama was doing, and her tomatoes: “I dunno how Mrs. Maude grows them tomatoes in this helluva summer,” he said like always, his hands on his hips. “Well, if ya have any trouble finding anything, just holler.”
“If they don’t got buttermilk, they don’t got nuthin,” his mom had always said, but it didn’t matter much if there was buttermilk corn meal or not because there wasn’t any. Jonah stood on the isle, scratching the back of his head, looking from the sticker that said, “corn meal: $2.37” to the empty space between the self rising flour and brown sugar he grew up eating out of the bag. “Dammit.”
Jonah forgot what year it was. He was sort of aware that it was 2006, but in the back of his mind it was still 1955, and he couldn’t go to Jonson’s. But when he parked his car outside of the small white building, he didn’t see any police, or flyers, or dogs, and he knew he could walk in. He could just walk in like he walked into school every day, and he could smile at the white people, and he could use their red or blue baskets, and he could buy their buttermilk corn meal. He watched a white woman carrying several bags in one hand walk out of the swinging doors, her son by her side. Jonah wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating things, but it looked like she was sort of panicked, and took her son’s hand in hers, and rushed him to the car. She was even kind of rough with her groceries; she just flung them down and then got in her car and drove away.
Sitting there, watching the little boy, he thought of this kid Thomas Frye. They both had Mrs. Kensington in kindergarten, and Jonah liked him a lot. They’d sit together on the alphabet rug and talk about the Power Rangers, and they’d swap milk at lunch, just because. They liked the same books, and they both had relatives named Ruby: Jonah had an Auntie Ruby and Thomas Frye had an Aunt Ruby. Jonah remembered wanting Thomas Frye to spend the night with him, but his mom had said it wasn’t right, and when he saw Thomas at school, Thomas Frye told him his mom had said the same thing. You two don’t got nuthin in common boy, ya’ll come from diffrent people, Jonah thought, but he couldn’t remember who said it, his mom or Thomas Frye’s. Jonah watched the little boy and knew no black boys had every spent the night at his house.
Jonah sat there awhile, watching the people walk in and out, several watching him while they carried bags to their cars. He knew he could go in, he knew he could; he kept saying it over to himself in his head, There’s no reason I can’t go on in. No one’s going to get on to me, but he couldn’t get out of his car because there was a line there, a little white line and Jonah knew that if he went in, they’d stare or he’d stare. He knew that if he went in, he would be messing up someone’s preference, or maybe his preference. There was a line around Johnson’s, and he couldn’t make himself go in.
When he got home, Mrs. Maude was still working in her yard, her blue floral dress was scrunching up around her hips and breast, and she seemed happy. “There’s Jonah boy, I wuz worried you’d been in uh accident.” When she pursed her lips at his empyt hands, he told her how Smith’s didn’t have any corn meal. “You think they’d know to keep sumthin as simple as coan meal in the stoe,” she said when he handed her back her money. When Jonah went back to throwing his basketball, he watched Mrs. Maude continue to dig, and shove, and pull, and he knew that Mrs. Maude hadn’t even considered asking him if he had gone to Johnsons, because she never would have expected him to; just like his teachers, and his preacher, and his friends, and his mamma wouldn’t have expected him to, because that’s just the way it was.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Consider This
It takes 468 licks to get to the center of a tootsie pop. And yes, I spent a night intermittently licking a tootsie pop and watching American idol to find this answer…because I was tired of thinking, “how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop”…so I answered it. 468. Done.
Today I was driving home, and at some point- maybe I was paying too much attention to the words of a song, or the sun coming through the front windshield- but I noticed I had drifted over a little towards the side of the road. No biggie. And then I started to imagine all sorts of scenarios: a tire going flat, and me flipping over off the side of the road; a car hitting the side of my car, sending me flipping off the side of the road; the 18 wheeler I just passed rear ending me, and sending me off the side of the road, but mostly I just thought about what if my little drifting a few seconds before had turned into me flipping off of the road. I wondered if I’d die instantly. But more than dying, I thought about the minutes before: The sun on my blue dress, making the cotton warm; the words of the song I was singing; my hands tapping on the steering wheel; the flashes of purple blossoms on the side of the road; the cars moving between each other; my passenger window that whistles because of the wind; the little cross hanging from my rear view mirror swinging side to side, and at times knocking against the necklace from Malawi.
I was thinking that if I had died right then, it would have been perfect. I was so caught up in the song, and the sun, and singing, and playing seatbelt air guitar, that if I had crashed and died instantly, the last thing I would have remembered would be this perfect moment that I was having. I didn’t think so much about the pain of it- the crash and burn- the fire, the crunching of metal, and breaking of glass…I just thought of it like a flash of bright light, and purple flowers, and the sun…and it would be over. Thinking about it like that, I hoped that when I die- one day for from now- it could be beautiful like that: I could be so distracted by a perfect moment that I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes away from it to even notice death approaching.
Then, I thought about my family. I thought about my friends. And I felt sorry for them, mostly because I knew that their experience and mine would have been two different things. They would remember the crunching, and breaking, and squealing tires. They’d remember the pain of it. And I felt sorry, because if I had drifted too far today, and if I had flipped, and If I had ended in one second, they would never know how happy I was the second before. They wouldn’t have known about the sun, and the tapping, and the cross swinging from side to side; they wouldn’t have known I was laughing, and singing, and thinking about them. They wouldn’t have known how quickly a few seconds or even minutes are. I kept thinking, “if I died right now,” they wouldn’t know what I felt, or thought. Because I had died…they would have only thought about the dying, not the living the few seconds before, and without considering the seconds before, they could never have imagined it being a beautiful ending.
I guess in summary I wondered how many people have had beautiful moments like mine today, but they did flip, and they did crash, and their life did end in a flash. I wondered if they smiled before the glass broke, and if Dave Mathews was singing when the tires lost touch with the road, and if they were so caught up in the moment, that even when the car flipped, they still had not begun to realize what was happening, and before they could- before they could cry, or be afraid, or care- it was over. And their loved one’s had no idea how perfect their life was just before it happened, and how quickly it ended, and they’ll never know, because the memory is gone.
So, if I ever go before you think it’s my time,I guess I’d like you to think that I had a perfect moment just before, and that I was so caught up in it, that I didn’t have time to be afraid, or to scream, or to care, and I had slipped away as easily as one slips into sleep.I’d like you to think of the smiles, and the songs, and the warm sun with me.
I consider a lot in long drives.
Today I was driving home, and at some point- maybe I was paying too much attention to the words of a song, or the sun coming through the front windshield- but I noticed I had drifted over a little towards the side of the road. No biggie. And then I started to imagine all sorts of scenarios: a tire going flat, and me flipping over off the side of the road; a car hitting the side of my car, sending me flipping off the side of the road; the 18 wheeler I just passed rear ending me, and sending me off the side of the road, but mostly I just thought about what if my little drifting a few seconds before had turned into me flipping off of the road. I wondered if I’d die instantly. But more than dying, I thought about the minutes before: The sun on my blue dress, making the cotton warm; the words of the song I was singing; my hands tapping on the steering wheel; the flashes of purple blossoms on the side of the road; the cars moving between each other; my passenger window that whistles because of the wind; the little cross hanging from my rear view mirror swinging side to side, and at times knocking against the necklace from Malawi.
I was thinking that if I had died right then, it would have been perfect. I was so caught up in the song, and the sun, and singing, and playing seatbelt air guitar, that if I had crashed and died instantly, the last thing I would have remembered would be this perfect moment that I was having. I didn’t think so much about the pain of it- the crash and burn- the fire, the crunching of metal, and breaking of glass…I just thought of it like a flash of bright light, and purple flowers, and the sun…and it would be over. Thinking about it like that, I hoped that when I die- one day for from now- it could be beautiful like that: I could be so distracted by a perfect moment that I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes away from it to even notice death approaching.
Then, I thought about my family. I thought about my friends. And I felt sorry for them, mostly because I knew that their experience and mine would have been two different things. They would remember the crunching, and breaking, and squealing tires. They’d remember the pain of it. And I felt sorry, because if I had drifted too far today, and if I had flipped, and If I had ended in one second, they would never know how happy I was the second before. They wouldn’t have known about the sun, and the tapping, and the cross swinging from side to side; they wouldn’t have known I was laughing, and singing, and thinking about them. They wouldn’t have known how quickly a few seconds or even minutes are. I kept thinking, “if I died right now,” they wouldn’t know what I felt, or thought. Because I had died…they would have only thought about the dying, not the living the few seconds before, and without considering the seconds before, they could never have imagined it being a beautiful ending.
I guess in summary I wondered how many people have had beautiful moments like mine today, but they did flip, and they did crash, and their life did end in a flash. I wondered if they smiled before the glass broke, and if Dave Mathews was singing when the tires lost touch with the road, and if they were so caught up in the moment, that even when the car flipped, they still had not begun to realize what was happening, and before they could- before they could cry, or be afraid, or care- it was over. And their loved one’s had no idea how perfect their life was just before it happened, and how quickly it ended, and they’ll never know, because the memory is gone.
So, if I ever go before you think it’s my time,I guess I’d like you to think that I had a perfect moment just before, and that I was so caught up in it, that I didn’t have time to be afraid, or to scream, or to care, and I had slipped away as easily as one slips into sleep.I’d like you to think of the smiles, and the songs, and the warm sun with me.
I consider a lot in long drives.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Glass Bottles
Writing sometimes seem like insanity to me. What sane person would write secrets and post it on their neighbor’s door to read? I would. Me. Why? Some people are born to dance, some are born to play guitar, some are born to build, some are born to add, some are born to paint. I was born to write.
I wrote my first story before kindergarten; it was about animals. I wrote another about a cloud, “but not just any ordinary cloud,” and I wrote another one about mermaids. I wrote in my first journal in elementary school, it had flowers printed on the front and a silver lock but ended up being buried by my brother: He actually made the effort to climb up my “start tree,” retrieve it from the plastic bag tied to the highest branch I could reach, read it, and then rid of the evidence in a black heap in the backyard. When my new one was full, I started another. And in junior high, another. And two more in high school. And I just recently began a new one in December. I have one filled from Africa. I have one journal with nothing but random thoughts, and quotes and lists, and poems. I have one to God. I have one with songs. I have one with nothing but letters to a person I don’t even know, yet.
I’m a writer. It has occurred to me that it doesn’t even matter if I’m a good writer, just like it doesn’t matter whether someone who loves to talk is an eloquent talker, or has a lisp, or has a tied tongue…they’re still going to talk. Some people need to speak, and if they don’t, you can see the excess of words building up behind their closed lips, and it’s only a matter of time before the words start tumbling out. It’s inevitable.
Several months ago, I started writing anonymous confessions in the backs of library books. I even left little hints to lead the reader to the next anonymous message. I’ve written random things on the doors of bathroom stalls; I’ve written, carved, and painted “Martha Lee Anne” on walls, tables, chairs, driveways, trees, and desks; I sometimes write random notes and purposefully leave them for someone else to find; I’ve written, “blah blah,” and “I’m bored” in the corners or textbooks; I’ve written “ wash me” on the backs of cars; I even carved “Martha Lee Anne,” on the underside of the 100 year old piano in my living room ; I’ve filled ten journals, soon to be eleven in 23 years because I believe, one day, someone will read them. And if they read them, then they read me. If they read me, they know me. If they know me, I existed. And if what I wrote mattered to them, maybe I matter to them. I’m throwing my heart out in as many glass bottles as I can, because one day, those bottles will wash ashore, and one day, someone will open them.
It sounds vain, but it isn’t meant to be. And it sounds like I want to live forever, but I don’t. I want to know people. I want to know their thoughts, and heart, and ideas. I want to know you…We have so little time, so little conversations, and we fill it up with the weather, and sports, and “What’s your major.” But I can look outside and see the weather for myself, I watched the game, and I already know your major because either a) I saw it on facebook or b) we have already had this conversation. I have friends I don’t even know, and I have friends who don’t know me, because we’re so busy hiding our stories behind locked up journals, and tying them up as high and away from others as we can. But if we hide our stories, who are we?
When I write, it’s like the words become something tangible, something real, something that, hopefully, will grab hold of people and pull them closer to me. And in that time, maybe we’ll know each other, maybe we’ll be real friends, and maybe we’ll find that amidst all of the things that keep us isolated and alone, we’re the same.
We have both cried. We have both tried to figure God out. We have both loved. We have both been undeserving and thankful. We have both been awkward and insecure. We have both failed and fumbled, but still found small victories. We have both seen death and life. We both know how to smile, and frown, and furrow eyebrows. We both know life can be ugly, but is unimaginably beautiful too.
I write, not just for myself, but for you too. Because at some point, maybe you’ll hear me. Maybe you’ll believe me. Maybe, you’ll remember, and you won’t forget. Maybe your heart, like mine, will find itself unfolding, and you’ll want someone to be there when it does. You’ll want to know the person standing next to you in a line, or the person with their head laid down in the library, or the person sitting next to you in class, and maybe, like me, you’ll write a tiny confession in the margin of a book, or carve your name on a table, so that when they read it, they’ll know you too.
Maybe you’ll start throwing out your own glass bottles.
I wrote my first story before kindergarten; it was about animals. I wrote another about a cloud, “but not just any ordinary cloud,” and I wrote another one about mermaids. I wrote in my first journal in elementary school, it had flowers printed on the front and a silver lock but ended up being buried by my brother: He actually made the effort to climb up my “start tree,” retrieve it from the plastic bag tied to the highest branch I could reach, read it, and then rid of the evidence in a black heap in the backyard. When my new one was full, I started another. And in junior high, another. And two more in high school. And I just recently began a new one in December. I have one filled from Africa. I have one journal with nothing but random thoughts, and quotes and lists, and poems. I have one to God. I have one with songs. I have one with nothing but letters to a person I don’t even know, yet.
I’m a writer. It has occurred to me that it doesn’t even matter if I’m a good writer, just like it doesn’t matter whether someone who loves to talk is an eloquent talker, or has a lisp, or has a tied tongue…they’re still going to talk. Some people need to speak, and if they don’t, you can see the excess of words building up behind their closed lips, and it’s only a matter of time before the words start tumbling out. It’s inevitable.
Several months ago, I started writing anonymous confessions in the backs of library books. I even left little hints to lead the reader to the next anonymous message. I’ve written random things on the doors of bathroom stalls; I’ve written, carved, and painted “Martha Lee Anne” on walls, tables, chairs, driveways, trees, and desks; I sometimes write random notes and purposefully leave them for someone else to find; I’ve written, “blah blah,” and “I’m bored” in the corners or textbooks; I’ve written “ wash me” on the backs of cars; I even carved “Martha Lee Anne,” on the underside of the 100 year old piano in my living room ; I’ve filled ten journals, soon to be eleven in 23 years because I believe, one day, someone will read them. And if they read them, then they read me. If they read me, they know me. If they know me, I existed. And if what I wrote mattered to them, maybe I matter to them. I’m throwing my heart out in as many glass bottles as I can, because one day, those bottles will wash ashore, and one day, someone will open them.
It sounds vain, but it isn’t meant to be. And it sounds like I want to live forever, but I don’t. I want to know people. I want to know their thoughts, and heart, and ideas. I want to know you…We have so little time, so little conversations, and we fill it up with the weather, and sports, and “What’s your major.” But I can look outside and see the weather for myself, I watched the game, and I already know your major because either a) I saw it on facebook or b) we have already had this conversation. I have friends I don’t even know, and I have friends who don’t know me, because we’re so busy hiding our stories behind locked up journals, and tying them up as high and away from others as we can. But if we hide our stories, who are we?
When I write, it’s like the words become something tangible, something real, something that, hopefully, will grab hold of people and pull them closer to me. And in that time, maybe we’ll know each other, maybe we’ll be real friends, and maybe we’ll find that amidst all of the things that keep us isolated and alone, we’re the same.
We have both cried. We have both tried to figure God out. We have both loved. We have both been undeserving and thankful. We have both been awkward and insecure. We have both failed and fumbled, but still found small victories. We have both seen death and life. We both know how to smile, and frown, and furrow eyebrows. We both know life can be ugly, but is unimaginably beautiful too.
I write, not just for myself, but for you too. Because at some point, maybe you’ll hear me. Maybe you’ll believe me. Maybe, you’ll remember, and you won’t forget. Maybe your heart, like mine, will find itself unfolding, and you’ll want someone to be there when it does. You’ll want to know the person standing next to you in a line, or the person with their head laid down in the library, or the person sitting next to you in class, and maybe, like me, you’ll write a tiny confession in the margin of a book, or carve your name on a table, so that when they read it, they’ll know you too.
Maybe you’ll start throwing out your own glass bottles.
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