Dear you,

Last year, you were absolutely amazing with providing topic ideas and I think I did them all. So I'm asking you again, a year later, if you could help me out with topic suggestions for November Journaling Month 2009 (NoJoMo). One entry a day, everyday.

Don't be shy! Please help! I'll need it to get through my third attempt!! Any ideas would be greatly appreciated.

Love,
Jax

A thing to which I am vulnerable.

Dear Alisha,

I listened to your message while standing on a street corner. I can never find the words I want to say to you, ever, but – after listening, there was this wave of emotion, raw and too big for my body. Do you ever have moments like that? Where the feeling is so physical and it’s just too much for your skin to hold in? That’s what it felt like.

I’m sad that you don’t have internet or decent phone reception, but we do what we have to do. I’ll be here. Always.

I miss you horribly.

What else can I say that means more than that? I miss you horribly. And you are a tank – especially when you’re not. I both know and don’t know how hard things are, how easy it would be to give in, and I’m proud of you. You’re a fighter.

Expect an email soon - lots to tell. My life is never boring.

Love,
Jax

November 17

Yes, please.

November 18

A lot has happened and, as usual, I don’t have the words. Matthew Good’s 99% of Us is Failure is playing in my head, I know it’s real slow, honey, painful and real slow, accurately describing the slow-motion of time while we get past this. The Letting Go process. Sometimes, I think it’s an art, a dance, two steps forward, five steps back but I pack away photos, a letter, receipts – all of it, into a shoebox, away, away. It’s been almost a year.

November 19

To Do:

- watch airplanes

- break dishes

- see a show of sorts

- weekend trip/day trip?

- see New Moon

- breathe

November 20

You are a thought that makes me smile.

November 21

Um, holy fuck.

November 22

Lots of words; not ready to post.

Yes, please.

Things that make me feel better
[a list to revisit]

i. cleaning – putting things in order, scrubbing, mopping
ii. photoshoots/photoroams
iii. good friends and phone conversations [thank you sonal, katelyn, and denise – you are amazing, xoxo. As are you.]
iv. art therapy/art journal
v. orgasms, obvi.
vi. bubble baths!
vii. long walks/running – my father walks a lot when he’s preoccupied about something. Let’s just say that for the past week, I have been doing a lot of walking.
viii. a good book – currently: the exit may be behind you by s bear bergman
ix. lots of blankets, hot chocolate, comfy socks.
x. writing, words, and finding the perfect poem to fit a mood.

--

Things that I have been thinking about but haven’t had a chance to write
[be patient; the words are coming]

i. today.
ii. yesterday, I woke up thinking about Kingston, about hot dogs, and a yellow shirt. I meant to write it down ALL day, wondering why I was thinking about you; why you were so present; what I felt, then. Safety, I suppose. A form of home. I didn’t want to leave and I was so – excited/scared/half out of my mind then.
iii. sit down, shut up, and read: I DO NOT BREAK. Rinse. Lather. Fucking repeat.

No, really.

If I break or am hurt by another person, I recover; same as you. Yes, I may break but who the hell doesn’t? If you don’t, what the fuck is wrong with you/do you have a heart to break? I am not made of glass; I am not more or less vulnerable than anyone else. Yes, I may be sensitive, but my sensitivity can sometimes be a gift: I pick up and notice things and moods that other people don’t. I guess what I’m trying to say is maybe I like breaking; I'm not [completely] afraid of it. Just mostly.

Maybe I like knowing that with my previous loves - I fucking fell in love; I fucking fell for you and not having you in my life is enough to make me shatter. And that’s okay, because it meant you fucking matter and also that there are mosaics to be made from the pieces. Plus, feeling something –anything- that strongly means I get to write some kickass/emo poetry. Because you can’t write poems unless they flow directly from heart-stream to page and I’ve got stories I need to tell.

place holder 'til I come back to write more. Give me 20 minutes or so.

My words are hiding; they are playing hide and seek with shyness. I don’t know what colour the walls of your room were when you decided not to pray. I put a book by Jean Vanier back on the shelf today; maybe I will always be the kind of girl that will spend more money on books than shoes, clothes, dreams; maybe I’ll always be the kind of girl confusing need versus want. If I could, I’d tell you that every time I use a comma, it’s a love letter to you.

But my words are tired of being love letters, tired of being the first thing that is noticed – throw out the envelope and stamp, ignore the carefully chosen stationary. I wonder how many people would still want to know the details about why my eyes look so green when I smile without the words on a page. They’d learn that my eyes turned green the day your breath turned cold (the same day the sun sidled up behind the cloud). Do you remember that day with the pink polka dot dress? You were stood up by the sun.

Do you remember days with sunshine spilled from canvas and the bright blues, greens, reds of memories screaming off the palette – memories are always bold, underlined, and meant to be said out loud, like: I’m sorry we never got to laugh about boys. I’m sorry I didn’t get to call you tonight, tongue hiding behind smile, laughter hiding behind voice, carefully choosing words that say something, different from everything and different from the right thing. I fell asleep on the couch tonight and, in a dream, I remembered to look for my words behind the laundry hamper in the basement. I woke up, turned on the computer, and began to write. My words are love letters to this life. The colour of your room was baby blue.

Water by Sharanya Manivannan

My favourite memory of us
is of that day we washed each other's hair,
standing in the waterfall
of the shower, that moment sweet
succulent as fruit, complete as
a circle, the prowl of knowledge beneath
it bitter and delicate as the powder
on a butterfly wing, powerful
as a secret.

We kissed and drew in water.

Do you remember what I had
said to you, a year before? How could
I not love you? How could I
not? We had just met. You had
a birthmark the shape of Africa
on your chest; my heart had a
void in its vocabulary just the size
of your name. Love is so small. It
could fit into the hole in a bead, the eye
of a needle, and still not seal it.
It's this world that is so huge.

Now our lives feel reduced
to abacuses.
I count the days it will be before
I can see you, you count
the days it's been since I left.

This is a city of rain.
And chaos – I smile to myself,
navigating its corridor-like
streets filled with schoolchildren
hitching yellow autorickshaws, drizzle
flecking their eyelashes, the morning
still not arrived in their eyes.

I lick moisture from my lips
and am sure
I taste salt, a kiss of tears.

Pain only appears in
the presence of love. This much
I can say I have learnt
by heart. Here in this place of
chaos so profound it silences
mine,

I wrap my secrets in skin and
hug them close,

imagine drawing out parabolas
of steel and silk from the centre
of my palm to the
centre of yours, like bridges,

delicate, taut
as the webbing
on a bat's wing,

and wait for you to reach
across the distance and pick
the pieces up, so precise
I could almost taste those
kisses

slippery as our love. Almost
forget how imprecise to desire bringing
shape to a love like water –
profound, perfect, universal.

Nothing else will save us now.