Let me tell you, if I had to write myself into four pithy, relatable, attention-catching lines, they'd go something like: She existed. She was sad a lot and tried to make up for it with wit. She cared too much and for too long. She was afraid.
That's not the eye-catching type of thing anybody is looking for, is it? A lot of what I've had to come to terms with is that not everything I write will be worth reading. Not everything I write will be worth writing, in fact a lot of it won't, and most of it will mean nothing to you common folk. But really, it's kind of all I have. This is the part where I'm supposed to say, "But my words are all I have and damn it I'll use them." I then fix the camera with my determined yet soft gaze, and I set off to find my destiny. They are not all I have. They are a tiny part of my life and a tiny part of the way I quantify what I have. They are, however, something.
A lot of what I write will not be worth writing, will not be worth reading. Not everything I write will make me feel proud, good about myself, and I will not want to put it out for the outside world. I am coming to terms with this. With the fact that my words mean nothing to anyone, really, but me.
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The night we slept at the Lake of the Clouds was unremarkable at first. It was so foggy that we couldn't see the hut until we were on top of it. It smelled of a thousand unwashed feet and the bodies they had carried. It was freezing, windy and raining. My father had lain out, in detail, the spectacle of this magnificent hut for us. We had anticipated it for weeks, Gabe and I. We'd been so ready to sleep at the hut perched on the edge of the sky. Disappointing didn't even cut it.
The hut itself sits right next to a moderate-sized lake (duh), which is kind of more like a giant pond, if my memory is correct. It sits in one of the valleys on the ridge of Mount Washington, and is placed right on top of a pretty significant drop. On the right days, one can look out and feel as if they're floating over the aforementioned clouds.
Gabe and I were hungry and tired, annoyed that our magical evening was no longer possible, and above all, freezing. Despite this, our father made us go back outside and explore. I'll be the first to admit that the terrain is quite a bit Hobbit-esque. I can appreciate this now, but eight-year-old Katy did not feel the same. We made our thousandth rock cairn of the day, and trudged back inside, too glum to articulate how upset we felt.
That night, Gabe crawled into my bunk and shook me awake, "Katy-mo, are you awake? You have to wake up!" I grumbled that I was awake, not wanting to admit I'd fallen asleep so fast or so easily. Our room had a window and Gabe pointed out it, his eyes wide. He only said, "look."
Outside, the fog had cleared, and the moon was full and close enough so that we were able to see everything. The clouds, directly below us, formed a base of silvery water. Dark mountains stretched for miles beyond us. We were looking out of a ship's window, us two. And that night, we slept on the clouds, my brother and I.
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The Heavy Kind of Music
Dry-dirt January creeps in with sticky fingers,
the click of a fan being set and
the way that Solomon Burke sings.
Everything I've ever forgotten,
sewed together and layered out.
The kind of music that doesn't exist
but makes your bones hurt
all the same.
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A collection of stories, I've decided. That will be my book. That's what it will be, because that's all I have and so far, I don't have much wisdom to share from them with you. Not because I haven't gained anything from them, but because I am not ready to share. Contrary to popular opinion (or not, I don't really know), I do not share quickly, or easily. It may seem like I do, but that is only because most things I do share I consider to be surface level. I'm really open about a lot of things, but it takes me a lot longer to go deeper. I think sharing my stories will be the deepest I can go without going too deep. I'll give something of mine to become something of yours. They will not be to me what they are to you. They will not be to you what they are to me. I like the idea of that.
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"Take me to your river, oh, I wanna go"
The night we slept at the Lake of the Clouds was unremarkable at first. It was so foggy that we couldn't see the hut until we were on top of it. It smelled of a thousand unwashed feet and the bodies they had carried. It was freezing, windy and raining. My father had lain out, in detail, the spectacle of this magnificent hut for us. We had anticipated it for weeks, Gabe and I. We'd been so ready to sleep at the hut perched on the edge of the sky. Disappointing didn't even cut it.
The hut itself sits right next to a moderate-sized lake (duh), which is kind of more like a giant pond, if my memory is correct. It sits in one of the valleys on the ridge of Mount Washington, and is placed right on top of a pretty significant drop. On the right days, one can look out and feel as if they're floating over the aforementioned clouds.
Gabe and I were hungry and tired, annoyed that our magical evening was no longer possible, and above all, freezing. Despite this, our father made us go back outside and explore. I'll be the first to admit that the terrain is quite a bit Hobbit-esque. I can appreciate this now, but eight-year-old Katy did not feel the same. We made our thousandth rock cairn of the day, and trudged back inside, too glum to articulate how upset we felt.
That night, Gabe crawled into my bunk and shook me awake, "Katy-mo, are you awake? You have to wake up!" I grumbled that I was awake, not wanting to admit I'd fallen asleep so fast or so easily. Our room had a window and Gabe pointed out it, his eyes wide. He only said, "look."
Outside, the fog had cleared, and the moon was full and close enough so that we were able to see everything. The clouds, directly below us, formed a base of silvery water. Dark mountains stretched for miles beyond us. We were looking out of a ship's window, us two. And that night, we slept on the clouds, my brother and I.
--------
The Heavy Kind of Music
Dry-dirt January creeps in with sticky fingers,
the click of a fan being set and
the way that Solomon Burke sings.
Everything I've ever forgotten,
sewed together and layered out.
Fingernails scratching on blue flowered-sheets,
and me, at five, white feather boa
clawed around my neck.
Tamborines as they are thrown,
and the sound of an oven door as it slams
so hard that it breaks,
The kind of music that doesn't exist
but makes your bones hurt
all the same.
--------
A collection of stories, I've decided. That will be my book. That's what it will be, because that's all I have and so far, I don't have much wisdom to share from them with you. Not because I haven't gained anything from them, but because I am not ready to share. Contrary to popular opinion (or not, I don't really know), I do not share quickly, or easily. It may seem like I do, but that is only because most things I do share I consider to be surface level. I'm really open about a lot of things, but it takes me a lot longer to go deeper. I think sharing my stories will be the deepest I can go without going too deep. I'll give something of mine to become something of yours. They will not be to me what they are to you. They will not be to you what they are to me. I like the idea of that.
--------
"Take me to your river, oh, I wanna go"
