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a ride home

it's been a while since I've felt dependent on anyone.  After years of building up so much self reserve to avoid futility in personal arguments and the like, I need a ride.

It's not just that I need a ride today.  It's that I'm at my parents house, waiting to hear from my mom, to see if she'll give me a ride.  

It only adds to this endless, "I feel bad when I ask for things" mentality.  Only because when I do, it seems like a huge inconvenience.  

Brother is in town, they drive to the airport and take shopping

Sister is in town, "here's a car to drive for a month".

I need a ride home form work, "I guess I can figure something out."

I'm 17 and angsty, apparently.

actually back to a digital chronicle.

A little less than a year ago I told myself I would start to livejournal again. check it, I'm not a liar.

the little black notebook I obsess over, it will be digitalized.

here are a few entries from said book, which I have deemed internet worthy.

this should help catch you up if you haven't spoken to me in a year.

I'm moving away, I know little of what it will bring to me, and what I will bring to it. As I'm tried with the frivolous battle between love found, love lost: I'm no longer growing weary as I did in times past. I find detachment from such trials to be easier done and departed from. Occupational, economical, educational woes plague me less, and yet I know the next corner...you get the idea. As I write, I realize: I deserve what I get, and get what I put into. I have no one to complain to but myself if I have taken the steps to rectify personal strife.
(here's an old one)

I heard it whispered on summer breezes, not unlike cricket winds and bullfrog clouds.

A summer spent chasing nothing between pillars in uneven cobblestone gardens,
where the leaves throw themselves down, eager to take part in a last dance before autumn.

A summer spent in late night city park adventures,
Where we spy the policeman as he stares at his car, patrolling nothing.  He knows where we are, and feigns interest.

A summer spent flashlight sprinting over cobwebbed iron bridges and through tunnels of branches, listening to nothing but our own hurried feet.

A summer spent on top of bed sheets, our only blanket being a faint breeze carried by moonsong.
We talk and laugh ourselves to sleep, to pick up again in the morning.

A summer spent learning again, catching glances again, whistling songs again, a summer spent...
(another old one, summer is my thing, fall is my failure)

A flood of summer thoughts, early autumn dreams, carried late night through curtained windows.
A mist of thought, gently bumped along by murmuring bullfrog voices.  Each grumbling to the next, the idea...
It doesn't matter the details nor the actual discussion of the topic,
Only mode of dialogue:
Gentle nods and sways from tall oak branches, recognizing tall swamp grass, the talk continues...
Delicate soundless song, hinted at through the cloud filtered moon in July.
In a few months, the song will be gone; replaced by colder tunes, and sadder melodies.
But for now, this is summer's song.
Summer's song carried deep in pocket of late night friends.
As they spread the tune, they laugh; equally contrasting the not still and yet not moving midsummer sky,
it nods in silent approval.
(written, influenced by the passing of my grandfather last fall, my grandmother, and her stories)

She picks mint leaves for his hospital gown pockets,
He's not in the garden now, but the garden, small as mint leaves, is there.
She visits and tends for over a year, gaining courage, losing hope.
He still knows the appropriate flowers.
"Yellow roses are good, but maybe red is the best," he suggested.
So both are planted in his garden when he is gone.
He isn't here to lift the bigger stones, so I do now.
And even I can't pretend allergies are at it this time.
I keep tending as he did, she tells me stories, hoping to get both sides right.
And years ago, she tells me, of porch imaginings of stars,
or maybe planets.
And they would imagine similar lovers looking back, imagining them the same.
Weeks before a life changing departure, I'm starting to see and feel the culmination of stress and release.
I'm struggling daily with the idea of family and friends, who is which, and how to maintain everything I want.
I admit fully, I am a hopeless romantic.
I need trees, fields, Minnesota, my family, my home.
What will I do when I have none of this?
Can I be so naive to think I can progress without change?
Is it enough to hope for success, without struggle?
Is it trivial to be somewhat consumed by these ideas? 
I guess, in less than one month, my questions will be answered.
Here's to the deep end.

back at it again

so I decided to livejournal it again. I need to write more, dwell less, and move on consistantly. Hopefully this is one route there.



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