je pense que c'est un au revoir

All I can think about is ink and coffee stains on napkins. And none of that means anything to anyone, except me.

I wear my rain boots when I walk the streets of Paris. I bought them two sizes too big so that I could catch the rain in my boots. I never carry an umbrella with me. But if I do, I open it facing the ground so more rain pours in.

I've seen the Eiffel Tower, but that's not the reason why I came to Paris. I came to taste the cheese, smell freshly baked bread. But most of all, I came to feel the words drip from my fingertips, drip from my fingertips to the pages. I came to feel Paris take my heart and never give it back.

I came to Paris to realize that it's okay to bleed. The scrapes on my knees will tell you where I've been, where I have bled. And although the cuts hurt, healing is the best part. The stains remain so I can be reminded of my past, but also to remind me of how much stronger I have become.

Paris taught me that it doesn't matter what other people think. And although people stare at me eat as I walk the streets of Paris, I do it anyway.

And I will never know everything, but I still try, reaching my palms towards heaven hoping God will be generous. And he has been very generous, painting the universe on the palms of my hands and teaching me the constellations.

"And that one is Orion," I say. And God nods, reassuring me that everything will be okay.

But when God is busy, I stand in telephone booths, and speak with His angel secretaries. It costs 25 cents to call Heaven, to get unlimited access to Heaven. And the people outside bang on the glass and tell me my time is up. Someone insists that their call to their brother in Alabama is more important than my call to Heaven. But I can't hear them. Months of practice and I have managed to block them out completely. In the end, Heaven is all that matters.

I've made calls to Hell, too. I call the Devil and insist he visits me this afternoon- he owes me that much. We sit in the garden and sip our tea, but we forget, on purpose of course, the napkins for when we spill. We talked about silly things, nonsense really. And when we finished we threw our teacups behind us, letting them shatter into a thousand pieces. We laugh in unison, the Devil and I, and make everyone jealous of our sinful friendship.

I am a part of Paris. I gave Paris my heart and I will never ask to have it back. I find my self melting into walls of cafés and I am okay with that. Paris has become my home, not just some place I dream about. 

I feel comfortable here.

Audrey said, "Paris is always a good idea." And I believed her.

Avec Amour,
Lois Lane

lois and lucifer: a dance for two

I give up playing your stupid game. I'll never win. If winning gets me to Heaven and I'm pretty sure I am the deepest anyone can get in Hell.

But don't you worry about me because I don't mind it here. I smile and the devil smiles back.

Yes, I am in love with the devil.

Madly in love with a damned soul.

As a child I feared him. He was always a troublemaker, spilling all the finger paint in the art center. I vowed I would never love anyone who dared to be so terrible.

But then he showed me how fun it was to steal chocolates (dark chocolate, of course) from my mother's purse.

"Welcome to the dark side," he said.

It was the best chocolate I have ever tasted.

And when I turned sixteen he took me to prom, but that wasn't our first date. Our first date happened before I turned fifteen. The kiss he gave me made me weak in the knees. We didn't go all the way, but we went pretty far.

The night before my eighteenth birthday we made love till the morning light and you whispered in my ear, "Marry me."

Of course I said yes.

We lived happily down in Hell and occasionally came up to steal chocolates from my mother's purse.

-Lois Lane

this is why i write pt. ii

"Shake the Dust" by Anis Mojgani

This is for the fat girls.

This is for the little brothers.

This is for the school-yard wimps, this is for the childhood bullies who tormented them.

This is for the former prom queen, this is for the milk-crate ball players.

This is for the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired, elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters. Shake the dust.
This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them,

for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns,

for the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children,

for the nighttime schoolers and the midnight bike riders who are trying to fly. Shake the dust.
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-god. Shake the dust.
For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy,

for those gym class wall flowers and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers,

for the kid who's always late to class because he forgets the combination to his lockers,

for the girl who loves somebody else. Shake the dust.
This is for the hard men, the hard men who want to love but know that is won't come.

For the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for.

For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself.

Do not let a moment go by that doesn't remind you that your heart beats 900 times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean.

Do not settle for letting these waves settle and the dust to collect in your veins.
This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling,

for the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone.

For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers' singing lips and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner's shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.
This is for the tired and for the dreamers and for those families who'll never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the biggots,

this is for the sexists,

this is for the killers.

This is for the big house, pen-sentenced cats becoming redeemers and for the springtime that always shows up after the winters.
This? This is for you.

Make sure that by the time fisherman returns you are gone.

Because just like the days, I burn both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you.
So shake the dust and take me with you when you do for none of this has never been for me.

All that pushes and pulls, pushes and pulls for you.

So grab this world by its clothespins and shake it out again and again and jump on top and take it for a spin and when you hop off shake it again for this is yours.

Make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all.

Walk into it, breathe it in, let is crash through the halls of your arms at the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood pumping and pushing making you live, shaking the dust.
So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob and open on up, running forward into its widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.

liquor and the future.

Dear Boy that I used to love,

I've burnt out all feeling in my fingertips, but even worse you've burnt out all feeling in my heart. You held the the match and lit the fuse that ran through my veins and directly to my heart.

I never imagined I would love another, but I am standing in my heart's ashes and I realize you've really done it this time.

I have a hole in my chest, right where my heart used to be. I'll grow a new one but that takes time. Lots of time.

And somehow that new heart knows what you have done and can't look at you the same anymore.

And I know at church they tell you that we must forgive everyone, but I've never been really good at that.

But I can be good at not telling you how I really feel. And that's what I'm going to do. You'll never know.

And my heart will fight against my Self, but that brick wall I built after you burnt my heart is stronger than my new heart.

My heart no longer beats for you.

Whatever.
Lois Lane

cake.

We would sit at a table, a table for the four of us, and eat cake. We would laugh so hard we had to bring a backup pair of pants. We laughed so hard we made the old peoples go crazy. We didn't mind, we were eating cake.

I remember the green carpet and the linoleum floors. I remember in every room there was always large stacks of books. So this is what heaven is like, I thought.

We would have swimming parties and sleepovers where we would watch predictable love story movies. We were best friends- nothing could ever come between us.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

But then time became our enemy and we began to grow up. We slowly drifted apart and became different people.

I just wish we could go back to eating cake.

years of rocking

invisible.

I found out that all those losers in the back who just read the whole time are not really in the back at all but where ever there book is. Yes, I was pretty much furious when I found out that they were all keeping this secret from me...

Invisibility: A How To Guide

- You know that card that has your face on it that gets you into all the football games and basketball games for free? Well guess what? That card has other magical powers- it can make you invisible.

- Take your card to the library. They have a variety of tools that are extremely helpful for your quest to becoming invisible. Shelves full.

-Don't be shy. Take as many books as your arms can carry. Take five more.

- Maybe, I don't know... read them? Just a thought.

- Use all of your renewals if you have to.

- Read everywhere. 

-Let teachers scold you for reading, but don't let them take your book away. 

- Choose to stay home and read over hanging out with your friends. Don't you know that your books are a better friend than your so-called friends?

-Don't stop reading.

four-wheel drive.

I hate people. They are constantly reminding me of two things: one) my imperfections and two) I'm always getting older.

I think I drink orange juice in the summer and hot coco in the winter to make me feel like I'm growing younger.

So what I can't throw away dead lightbulbs? So what I collect them? That doesn't make me not human anymore. So please quit looking at me like I'm otherwise. I'm asking nicely, I think.

I have one birthday wish. Just one. But it is a wish that will never come true. Does that mean I can tell you my wish? I better not. Maybe it will come true. Maybe.

I'm still working on my list of books to read before I die, and my list never stops growing. So why do I keep working on it? I don't want to stop reading.

My mum hates when my room  is messy. I hate the person I become when it's clean. My mum is trying her hardest to mold me into some perfect daughter, but that's not who I want to be. That's just not me.

If looks could kill.
-Lois Lane

'tis the season.

Share more gratitude for Wednesday night dinner.

wishful thinking.

I remember my best friend in the first grade. I remember that we sat next to each other in  Mrs. Thomas' first track class. 

I remember you were easy to talk to.

I remember we ate lunch together everyday. I remember we would wait for each other when we used the bathroom before recess. You would use the bathroom on the right and I would use the bathroom on the left. I remember I usually finished first. But sometimes I would purposely take longer, just to see if you would wait for me. You always did.

I don't remember what we did at recess, but I do remember what happened in class.

I remember our classmates teased you. They teased you about us.

"Brady loves Lois Lane*, Brady loves Lois Lane," They'd chant.

I remember you put your head on your desk and began to cry.

I remember blushing, just a little, but mostly I was confused. What were they talking about?

I remember this was the first time I began to learn what love was. Maybe not true love, but nonetheless love.

Then something sad happened. Cedar Ridge split into two schools. I stayed and you went to Deerfield. I didn't see you for a long time.

I remember the next time I saw you was at that Smile Perfect patient party at Seven Peaks. I wanted you to remember me.

And you know what? I think you did, maybe just a little.

After that, there was seventh grade Utah History. I remember the seating chart was alphabetical by last name. I remember my last name came right after yours. I remember secretly hoping we could be friends again. Nothing happened.

Now here we are, same school once again. I'm too shy to talk to you, but maybe one day we can be friends again.

Maybe.

Yours 'til the cat meows,

Lois Lane

*Obviously I'm not going to use my name so my pen name will have to do.

Pumpkin Spice: A Fall Playlist

one: Baby, We're Really in Love by Hank Williams

two: A Fairy Tale by Cindy Woolf

three: Laura by Bat for Lashes

four: Dance for You by Dirty Projectors

five: Back in Baby's Arms by Patsy Cline

six: Afternoon by  Youth Lagoon

seven: Keep You by Class Actress

eight: Time Travel by Blouse

nine: Cold War by The Morning Benders

ten: Forever, Now and Then by Clem Snide

eleven: Never Come Around by La Sera

twelve: Sing a Song for Them by Jenny Lewis

thirteen: Crying (Album Version) by Roy Orbison

fourteen: Harvest Moon (Album Version) by Neil Young


Please, someone teach me how to use Grooveshark.

oh phooey.

 

I try to write a post about something other than love and I simply cannot do it. 

Oh phooey, you've got me, hands cuffed behind my back. My crime?  I can't stop thinking about you.

Did you know that I tried to hate you? Yes, yes I did. My intentions were good, I promise. You had my thoughts running marathons and my mind needed to stop to get a drink of water and catch it's breath. I needed to feel normal- whatever that feels like. 

If it makes you feel any better, I failed. 

fall[ing] rain.

 

And out they come.

The slippers all throughout my room start to peek out of their hiding places. Some pairs linger on the carpet of my bedroom floor more than others- I like to pick favorites. Matched with a large fleece blanket, they make my miserably cold body feel somewhat more comfortable.
And a flip of the switch.
As the temperature falls, it becomes clear that leaving my window open only makes life in the basement  more miserable. With a flip of the switch, I can get an artificial fire burning to keep my limbs toasty warm. I will attempt to read a book as I lounge on the cuddle bag, extremely to the fireplace. I always end up choosing to fall asleep instead.
And the steam rises.
It is an obvious fact that hot chocolate taste better made with warm milk rather than boiled water. The creamy chocolate is an amazing sensation as you feel it running through your body from the minute you swallow it. Drinking the hot chocolate on your porch or by a window makes it taste extra spectacular- it doesn't really, but yet it really does make it seem like it tastes better.
And they turn the color blue.
The gloves go on, sleeves pulled down, and hands stuffed in my pockets. My hands loose their fleshy color and begin to turn into ice cold rocks. Like vampires' hands, but we aren't going there. The cold disables me from writing legibly for the next hour or so. It causes my hands to swell up to the point where it looks like a plastic glove filled with air, ready to burst any minute.


And now I am ready for fall.

director's orders.

What scares me the most is the thought that my life is a live TV show.  It scares me to think that someone may be filming my every move. All my embarrassing moments are exposed to the public. 

No. That's not scary. What scares me is the fact that I have no control of whats going on in my life. I'm afraid of following the director's script.

I hope this is me:

it isn't fall until i post this quote.

Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms.

-You've Got Mail 

pinch me, please.

The night you walked me home and asked me to dance, I knew that I would never forget you. 

Your name was written in my bones and I told my self that I loved you. Was I too young to know what love is? Was I still-peein'-my-pants young or was I old enough, just old enough, to know if this was love?

I believe your name was written on the bone in my right arm. That's the arm that always hurts. The more I think of you, the more it hurts. Even if duct tape could fix it, I wouldn't let it. 

You are definitely worth the pain. 

Dear Icebergs,

Sorry to hear about global warming. 

Karma's a nightmare.

Sincerely,
The Titanic

hoover dam in a can.

Please don't read this. It isn't worth your time. Go read a book. 

Or something.

This post will soon be replaced with something... different.

It was the ball that everyone dreamed about being invited to, and I had been invited. The word on the street was that Life was invited, too. He was a fine, single fellow that all the ladies, married and single, admired. Life was going to the ball.

The ball was exquisite. Men and women were dressed in their finest apparel and masked personalities of somberness and poise, always giving compliments on others' apparel despite their true thoughts. Typical. There began to be a buzz throughout the ball room- Life was here and he was looking for someone. Not just anyone, but someone very specific.

I talked among old friends, discussing their latest accomplishments when I realized that Life was looking at me. Gracefully, he walked over to greet me and asked me to dance.

It was if I was dancing with an old friend. His voice was sincere and passionate as we talked. I never pictured this dance to ever come to an end. Time passed and I was completely unaware. That is, until I saw Death.

Death was never invited to these kind of socials, but always intruded if he desired to do so. He was staring at me. Feeling self-conscious, I began to hear Death's foot, tapping rapidly-  a morse code for me to leave Life's side. But I was too scared. Instead, Death came and tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to dance.

This dance was not like dancing with an old friend, yet it felt... perfect. It made no sense, but yet it simply couldn't be any other way. Then Death leaned close and whispered in my ear, "Run away with me."

"Death," I said, "It will be an awfully big adventure."

 "Will it happen today? I don't know, for I never know beforehand, and deep down it really doesn't matter. It's the possibility that keeps me going, not the guarantee, a sort of wager on my part. And though you may call me a dreamer or a fool or any other thing, I believe that anything is possible." 

- Nicholas Sparks 

my thoughts: a list

1. I have a wagon of pebbles (more like a box of pebbles) like Stargirl. My wagon is pretty full.

2. I never leave the house without my chapstick. Sometimes, in fact most times, I have to have at least two in my pocket.

3. I like to concentrate on my breathing.

4. I read the newspaper every day.

5. I really want a pair of rollerskates for my birthday.

6. I drink milk like Mormon Mamas drink their diet coke. Ridiculous? Maybe.

7. I've promised too many people a pan of brownies. I never keep those promises.

8. My favorite type of shoe is slippers. I have at least ten pair hiding all over my room.

9. If I could be any type of animal, I would be a bird. I would do anything to fly.

10. I can find Orion. I wish I could identify more constellations than that.

this is why i write.

I guess you could say the reason why I write is all because of Natalie Williams.

No. Not really. But she did have an influence on my reasons for writing.

My eighth grade year my dad signed me and my sister up for Natalie Williams' basketball skills camp. Three people hurt me that week, but I like to believe they hurt me for the better.

Natalie liked to have favorites. I was most definitely not one of them. She liked to focus on her favorites and spend minimal time with those like myself because I only frustrated her. On the other hand, my sister was definitely a Natalie Favorite. She was good. I tried so hard to be as good, if not better than my younger sister, but my efforts were in vain. Not only was she good, she also had the praise and the focus of both of my parents. They became more interested in her improvement and gradually became less and less interested in me...

It hurt. It still hurts.

My parents are very invested into the whole sports thing. I had to find something that would make them proud of me. I was afraid of being the awkward, nothing child.

So I turned to creativity, the arts. I focused on my choral classes and learned to love music. I also took on journal writing to express my frustration and to cope with my differences. I went from writing only a sentence a day to twenty pages a day. I learned to love writing.

I used to think I was writing all because of Natalie Williams or because I was trying to impress my parents. Now I know that I write for myself and myself only.

I wouldn't mind if it rained.

titled untitled.

we are the dreamers
the stars in our eyes and the universe painted on our ceiling
our palms held high towards the heavens
ready to grasp any inspiration God has to offer.

we pull the laces, remove our shoes
and allow Hell to singe our feet
just a little
to feel like we are human again
for we are invincible.

or so we think
because no matter how hard the wind beats against our faces
it will not be the cause of our wrinkles and
our bones and our heart will never fail us.

or so we think
for our hearts are crushed
when we find out what we thought was love
really isn't love.

and we fall
fall hard against the pavement
thinking that it is all over
but the heart knows how to heal
how to mend us back together
like magic.

the frail human's mind can't grasp forever
but love
love comes close enough
to what forever must feel like
what God must be like.

love and insides.

"So we made the hard decision and we each made an incision
Past our muscles and our bones, saw our hearts were little stones
Pulled them out the weren't beating and we weren't even bleeding
As we lay them on the granite counter top
We beat 'em up against each other
We beat 'em up against each other
We struck 'em hard against each other
We struck 'em so hard, so hard until they sparked"

- The Calculation, Regina Spektor 

do you have a favorite tv show?

Full House, dude.
Oh, don't forget the Brady Bunch and Smallville, too.

i'm growing to be human.

When I was young, my father would tuck me in at night, scratch my back and ask, "What did you do today?" I would then respond with the same three things I said the day before: "I went to school, I did my homework, and I played with friends." Every day was the same. Same old routine.

I was a robot.

Then I became too old and too cool for my dad to tuck me in anymore. I still went to school and did my homework, but I let my books tuck my mind to bed instead. Some nights I stayed up scribbling numbers on paper and punching equations into my calculator. Sleep hours became shorter. My daily routine was different, but still very much the same.

I was a robot.

Now I have entered a world full of teenagers functioning on no sleep, a world known as high school. Hard stares into the white board, ears trying to bring my mind to focus on what the teacher is saying. Focus. Focus pocus.  Hours of my childhood routine become more skewed and now I have more homework hours than I have sleep hours. I still go to school and I still do my homework. This time, my homework is what keeps me up, even when I am trying to sleep. My routine is different, but very much the same.

I am a robot.

Is it possible that maybe one day I will become human? Am I even the slightest bit human? Maybe. I feel as though I might be catching a glimpse of what it is like to be human. I want change, I want something new. Maybe that's what it means to be human. No more daily routines that go on for years and years. Maybe it's experiencing new things and going on adventures.

If you ever find out what it's like to be human, tell me. I would like to know.

welcome to the daily planet.

I have a thing for superheros. So naturally, I picked a superhero comic character as my pen name. Don't ask me whether I like DC or Marvel better because I can't answer that. I like them both. Lois Lane seemed to be the most reasonable pen name, considering the fact that she is a journalist, a writer.

I like the superhero idea of a secret identity. It seems to fit the mold of what this blog will be. A separate identity to accomplish something your other identity simply cannot do. You're still yourself but there is something about a secret identity that gives you that power to do something you never imagined you could do.

Lois Lane, my secret identity, is a writer. I write for myself, but through Ms. Lane I can share my ideas and imaginations. I can share without the fear of what my peers have to say. Hopefully my potential as a writer will improve as I take on this secret identity.  I'll fly with Superman, fly all over the world. Visit Paris, even.

No. Not just visit Paris- that's a tourist's job. I will drink in Paris and take on every adventure she has to offer.

So here's to the masks and flowing capes- let the adventures begin.