Naked In Public

@katrinanelson

Katrina Nelson, 23. Welcome to my palace of poetry, my castle of thoughts, my empire of adventure in all shapes and sizes. My style -- like my dreams -- roams everywhere....so beware, be kind, and be ready for a different kind of exposure. So masks off,...

106 posts

"For Sylvia, Who Will Bake Me Mad"

Oneness

Somehow putting on my Dad’s shirt made me feel better. Something about it was cold, something about it was warm.

It felt woven with all the Balance I didn’t have.

It was my cloak from myself, somehow. The material might have laid outside my skin, but it acted to separate my body from my mind for a second.

The most dangerous times, after all, was when they were the same thing.

Anyway, I had my protective layer on. I laid down in bed, and looked straight at the mirror.

I smiled at the girl I saw ahead of me. I tilted my head at her. She tilted hers back.

She was pretty. From this distance she seemed to have clear skin.

But her eyes said, “This T-Shirt is protecting me from Something deep inside it.”

And I know my eyes said back, “Something deep inside, where all the fibers ache.”

Nothing was wrong, necessarily. It was like she needed time alone.

But couldn’t find it. Anywhere.

Her eyes grew heavy, but she heard her fingers still typing and grew fond of her hands. They were so diligent to her thoughts. They were little spouts to her tea pot of feelings.

And before her eyelids dropped, she felt her fingers desperately tapping away to the Microsoft Word document, eager to get a couple things down.

Before she forgot them forever.

She wanted to remind her future self to…

“Never do anything because you have to, do it because you care.”

Remember you are working very hard, and you really are doing well.

Remember that the One loves you. He does.

Remember to only move because you want to. Only work out because you care.

Don’t be so hard on your mistakes.

If you know you won’t be happy about making a choice, don’t make it.

No complaining.

The Summer One called. He said ‘You were right’ and he said ‘Thanks for believing in me.’ Also he wants to start writing, says he found someone.

Recall that this made you want to call the Music One and tell him you love him.

Recall that this made you want to see The Friend One.

Recall that you went home and watched the Friend One’s movie.

Remember how much you thought of your situation with Wish One as you watched the movie.

Realized that its possible the Wish One only used you. And does not love you. And will not love you, not as the Current One can, does, and will.

Remember that.

Recall that you might have thought of all your Ones today.

Except yourself.

The girl in the mirror clutched her Dad’s shirt tighter.

Never alone, always haunted.

Bedroom Canyons

And she wasn’t sure what she was on to.

Everyday was feeling bigger.

She fell asleep ever night on the edge of something.

Of her sanity?

Of her life?

No, really, sometimes she’d qualify that she felt like she’d die in a couple hours.

She’d be swelling, trying to sleep,

Swelling with life.

Is that how it feels before you die?

Or, even wilder,

Is something beginning?

Every night felt like arriving at a door, an important door.

I find it so hard to sleep, sometimes.

I feel kept up by ideas.

Sometimes new ones, sometimes old ones.

I get kept up with loves.

Usually new ones, absolutely old ones.

Can I, will I, should I, may I

Might we, have we, didn’t we

I can’t even sleep right now.

Because sounds are bouncing in the dark

And they spell out

T O M O R R O W I S I T

And it takes me quite some time

To turn the echoes of possibility

Into a lullaby

So I can finally sleep

And see what all this fuss about tomorrow

Really is anyway.

A Freeway Car Named Desire

I got in a pretty bad car accident with a yellow car on the 101 the other day. It all happened so fast, and yet was all over in an instant.

I’m okay, I just haven’t fully-recovered yet.

Let me recount.

_______________________________________________________

Is it terrible that part of me wouldn’t mind dying this way? I chuckled to myself, maybe too lightly considering the morbidity of the thought. But I was light as a feather, hunched over the steering wheel and my pink pocket journal, scrawling feverishly while attempting to keep my eyes glued to the car ahead of me as I drove along the 101.

But how could the thought of death scare me right then? I’d just fallen in love. I was invincible.

The car next to me honked. I looked over and saw a wrinkled Mexican woman in the passenger seat of a mini van laughing and shaking her head at me. I shrugged and let another small laugh escape…alright, fine.

I nodded, not sure if it was to her, to myself, or the two pages spread out across the wheel. With all the self-control I could muster, I closed the journal around the pen and set it onto my own passenger seat with a loud sigh. I suppose I’d be mad to let writing kill me.

My lightheartedness was twirling with the heater, impervious to the dense fog that beat at the car windows. But I just fell in love, Mini Van Woman! C’mon, cut a young girl some slack. I sunk into my driver’s seat and reflexively glanced up at the rear-view mirror. I didn’t smile at my reflection; my reflection had already been waiting for me, smiling to itself. Every fiber of my body needed a pen. I needed a sound other than laughter. I’d only been speaking in laughs and sighs for this whole Ordeal anyway…. I needed words. I needed to map this weird experience out. And while I might have been driving straight (even when I was writing, thank you very much) I was an unsafe driver. I was spilling my heart all along the freeway; I was crushing all over the place.

What a perfect, quick romance…. Before I even knew what I was doing, I was throwing on my right blinker and flying across the lanes to the soonest exit.

Fine, I’ll pull over and do this.

So— hazard lights on and undoubtedly making myself another half-an-hour late to my LA appointment—I scribbled:

“WRITE, EVEN WHEN DRIVING.

Dear Mystery Traveler—

Correction: Dear Mystery DUDE with Lots of ArmTattoos And A Kind Face Who Was Driving A Yellow Truck Which, When You Finally Passed Me, Had “Traveler” Written on the Bumper--

I’m not sure how we flirted through traffic without looking at each other...

Or how we danced through traffic that didn’t move...

Or how we only saw each other for 5 seconds at a time...

Or how we communicated in only laughs and small glances...

But!

Thank you for the lovely entertainment. I forgot how much I liked games that had nothing to do with wit. I forgot how much fun I have when I feel like there’s nothing to prove. I forgot that other people are capable of ‘letting go’ at the same time as I am.

And I realized how thrilling it is to go happily into something and knowing it will end. I learned a lot from our stretched out, agonizingly slow and mut rendez-vous, mister Traveler, sir Stranger.

It was a lovely, quick romance. A fantastic roadway friendship. I love your tattoos.

Always, The 2015 Honda Fit Girl

It was the quickest letter I’ve ever written, and I’ve written a fair few in my day. I hardly lingered with it either; for the first time, this one was just for me.

Which got me thinking— In a way, aren’t all the letters we write… already letters written to ourselves?

And the company of this thought sat in my passenger seat the whole rest of the drive, musing softly about our past words for others, and quietly admiring the way that the traffic mysteriously lifted with the fog to reveal a burning sunset. Like desire, the thought whispered. Please shut up I chuckled back.

But the hopeless romantic in me kept swooning at the red setting sun… and I continued to listen, despite myself.

And Speaking of Soup, I Still Have Those 36 Cans of Your Soul and I’m Only Talking about Them Now

Part II of That One Time I Took 3 Days Off of Work And Sprinted Up For Santa Cruz (aka I recommend you first reading the post below this, but you do you, boo boo)

“Yes, yes, do get back to your art,” he ushered, and we hugged tightly and quickly, as genuine acquaintances do. I turned to walk back to the wooden table where my laptop sat open. Then I heard, “And also—”

I turned to look back at I Forgot What His Name Was But He Had Once Been in A Literature Course of Mine. We were standing in the center-most space of one of my favorite Santa Cruz coffeeshops, covered in the sunshine that bore in from the completely-windowed left side. He stood there, still the middle, holding his coffee and 2 books…looking untouched by time, as if we both could be heading for the bus station to sit in Humanities for section together.

He smiled softly. “Welcome home.”

I smiled, and I felt—more than saw—how he knew I melted at his words. I Forgot What His Name Was But He Had Once Been in A Literature Course of Mine had volunteered once in discussion that he was a recovering alcoholic, and in frequent attendance of AA. I had a feeling his understanding eyes had been picked up somewhere along the journey; they watched me kindly now. His ice blue eyes sent “Welcome home” with all the meaning that his small smile held.

No one had put it that way since I’d arrived in Santa Cruz that weekend. They had said “Katrina, you’re in town!” I got “You’re back!” “I missed you!” “What are you doing here?” and even “Why?”…but I had never gotten “Welcome home.” Everyone was indicating that I belonged there and yet was somehow a stranger… and yet I didn’t felt like I belonged, and I didn’t feel like a stranger, either.

But someone had said “Welcome home”, someone had recognized all my This without any “you” or “I”. I was completely absent, and yet completely present in the well-wish. It was the perfect celebration of simple.

And that’s when it happened. The break from Friday evening’s ache—

It was even a zoom past Friday evening’s search for “zest”—

I fell straight into home. Straight into the word I hadn’t even known I had been looking for.

I mustered up all the depth one could apply to a quick smile and a “thank you” and took the momentum of the realization back to the table. My lattee had grown somewhat cold in the quick exchange of the Verve run-in, and yet I smiled as the luke warm temperature slipped down, running in time to the chorus in my head of welcome home, welcome home, welcome home.

It made sense to me now, why I felt so betrayed from the lack of change and yet from the lack of recognition of the city. It had been like I’d gone to my childhood home and walked around, inspecting it, all on my own. Like I’d spent the day answering the ringing phone and responding to several “Wow, you’re here!”s… and then we’d chat and I’d hang up, and go back to inspecting and aloning.

What had been missing was my mother at the door, saying “Welcome back, my love!” to ease me into realizing…it was okay to be here and still be going places.

Home.

I had needed to return here.

I had needed to return to Verve, to type.

I needed to type because I needed to express myself.

I needed to express myself because I felt a lot of…

Oh god, you’re all gonna hate me. You’re gonna think I’m so cheesy, so Katrina, but…

I needed to talk about all the Love I felt upon returning.

Seriously.

I needed to type about how every inhale of the ocean breeze here brought me a new memory of a dear moment I loved someone in Santa Cruz.

I can’t help it! I miss You! All the Yous I’ve ever loved!

Remember that one time You flew to Santa Cruz to surprise me, when you were supposed to fly to another state? You’d only met me twice.

Remember when we wrote letters back and forth to each other for 5 months, every day? We’d never even met, except the one time I drew a heart in the bus window for You before running off.

Remember when You bought me two of every flavor of Anderson’s soup on the shelf? I had 36 soups for far too long.

Remember when You stole me away from work to take me on a hike and a picnic? I wasn’t as in to you as I should have been.

Remember how you stole the keys to the only car in the lot to pick me up from that sketchy house? You and I had only been study partners then, even I'm surprised I'd asked for your help.

Remember when you drove your motorcycle at 3am to pick me up in the pouring rain? I wasn’t even single, then—you had no chance. You did it anyway.

Remember when You carried me after I passed out in the meadow?

Remember when Your music was playing in every coffeeshop I tried to study in? As a matter of fact, it’s playing in Verve right now.

Remember that one time You and I skipped along a Westcliff the whole way home? I thought I was going to bump my head on the sky.

Every turn in Santa Cruz bombarded me with memories—good and bad—of all the growing up I did. I couldn’t look, smell, listen, or move without touching a moment affected by my heartstrings.

Because, like our childhood homes, that’s what it’s all about. It’s all about the Love we either got or didn’t get…

In that one place we spent a mini episode of forever. Because growth occurs where love is manifested and rejected; either way, it defines you.

I sat there, the metal seat warmed by the sunshine. I wish I could give You each a lifetime.

I wish I could spend a quick forever waking You up every morning with coffee. I wish I could play your music, I wish I could go to your every show. I wish I could live in the wood cabin You dream of, I wish I could give you the children you dreamt of having. I wish I could make You laugh for eternity, in the way I know You deserve. I wish I could watch You work until the day I die, I wish I could be in your photographs until I’m in the corner of your favorite photo as a mess of wrinkles and You can say “forever” as you look at it. I wish I could applaud your distances, I wish I could be bussing the tables to your dreams. I wish, I wish, I wish… I wish there was enough Me’s for all the You’s.

But there is not enough of me.

And there are far too many Yous.

But what I found on this trip was a place to feel all this affection— a safe place to Love with all the longing I have…and not hurt anyone by it.

A bubble of memories, a shelled freedom to breathe You in. The ocean breeze, the green grass, the wood of the the trees….

In a place I can cry, smirk, sigh, smile the way I need to. With You as company, just not in sight.

The way we all cry about the things we need to, I suppose, when we all finally go home. The place we can say all the things we need to say, without fear of being wrong or judged. I used to think it was wrong to feel this much.

By the time I looked up from my typing, I Forgot What His Name Was But He Had Once Been In a Literature Course of Mine had already finished his coffee and left, potentially back to his work place.

I smiled into my cold coffee, placed the wide mug down on its white china saucer with a resonating 'clink' of finality, and proceeded to type so.

pYUZsY�ȸi’

Chicken Soul for the Post Grad Soup

Part I of That One Time I Took 3 Days Off of Work And Sprinted Up For Santa Cruz

For something to do, I put another spoonful of my “Zesty Chicken and Black Bean Salad” in my mouth and chewed slowly. Granted, there wasn’t a whole lot of this rumored “zest”, but my mission here wasn’t to food critique; I needed to decompress, and I needed quick sustenance while I did so. Gotta love Starbucks, I thought to myself with only half sarcasm. I’d walked up and down Pacific Avenue of downtown Santa Cruz, and of all the interesting, quirky, quintessentially Santa Cruz places to eat… my feet paved me straight the chain coffeeshop, right up to the tired-looking, bespectacled barista, and left me to order “Um this, please. And…Um…A tea? Yeah, tall. Mint? Yeah, thanks” in the lamest way one could possibly order tiny mint tea and a Zesty Chicken and Black Bean Salad.

My words came out short and choppy, but my train of thought had been running nearly 1000 miles a minute just outside the shop as I’d paced the familiar concrete. I’d chosen Starbucks, in the end, because it was easy. To choose anywhere else might have swept me into tears. My brain was on overload enough; I was hardly prepared for “Where do I want to eat now that I’m here.” Like I said, thank god for Starbucks. They all look so similar on the inside, it’s so easy to tune out of the atmosphere and right into…

What had to be said. What had to be thought of. I’m here, I’m back.

I’m in Santa Cruz.

And..

It’s the same.

I felt it growing on the drive up, but the reality of the sameness of the city collapsed on me as I drove in. As the Fit drove on the roads, through the familiar traffic, up the familiar hill…. I was aching. I was breaking with each sight. My heart was craving friendly reminders of Other Times, and the universe was answering with full-on memories of Another Lifetime.

Memory works funny, too. I realized that in the very moment I was driving passed my old house on Soquel. It’s one sided—I was shouting “I remember you!” with my heart, and the building was answering, amused “I’m busy with new people but hi, I guess!”

I was celebrating a grand return and the city wasn’t celebrating back. Each tree, each sign, each person dismissed me as “Who? Oh you came here once? I’m glad. You know, a lot of people have come here before. A lot of people are here now.”

It was an indifferent glad. How do I explain it?

It was like being in a relationship where you’re obviously the one who cares more. My heart was exploding, “It’s been so long!” and Santa Cruz was smiling and shrugging, saying “It sure is nice to see you, too. What was your name again? Thanks for coming.”

It left a funny taste in my mouth. It tasted like the shadow of death that had happened too long ago to sting, to someone you used to know.

I was feeling Out of Place.

Out of Place. That’s the emotion. It was a soup of disappointment, eagerness, understanding, contentment, awareness, old, new...

It was a soup of a lot of things, and I felt water spill from my eyes as I felt Out of Place driving down from campus, with the perfect view of the ocean that I used to gaze at and dream of my Somedays and Eventuallys. My Someday Man, my Eventual Family. My Someday City, My Eventual Adventures.

I drove the same hill I zoomed down for 4 years—in the rain, on a bike, in the sunshine, in a stranger’s car, in my bosses truck, in my mom’s Prius, in a thousand different buses—and stared at the same view with a new pair of eyes.

And the Out of Placeness of it burned them into tears. My relationship to Somedays and Eventuallys had changed, I carried them in a new pocket of possibility; I was driving with the ghost of younger Katrina in the passenger seat and whispering, “You poor, beautiful thing. The world is very big, you know. Even bigger than your precious Somedays and Eventuallys could ever imagine.” And we cried for both of our losses, for both of our gains. Santa Cruz was a pond, and it hurt to see that from The Other Side.

And I cried myself into a familiar parking spot that Dane once parked us in when we went to see Titanic in 3D. And I sniffed my way past my favorite ATM machine, where I deposited my first check. And I smiled past homeless man who once told me, sometime around midnight when I walked to the Soquel apartment alone, “They might try to burry you, but they don’t know you’re the seed, my dear.” And I walked myself straight into a Starbucks, to write down how much it ached that the parking spot thought nothing of me, the ATM had forgotten me, the old man had no idea who I was.

And somehow that made it better, writing about my Out of Place.

It was weird, but the awareness of the ache was the zest my soup of feeling needed to really taste the experience.

Hell, even my salad got better.

Old Flames

I almost burned the house down today.

I thought this and chuckled.

I laughed, and twirled down the sidewalk.

I can’t believe I almost burned the house down today.

I snagged a yellow flower from a fence.

I looked up and saw a park, it looks so different..

I recognized it from the night I pushed you down

Right there, in a patch of grass--

Black grass, night park grass--

On another twirly night down the same sidewalk

And kissed you.

I almost burned the house down today.

I thought this but

I wasn’t grinning now, I was sad.

I’m sorry I pushed you

And kissed you

And made you think I was the kind of person

Who wouldn’t burn your heart down.

But at least it wasn’t my house?

I grinned again

Because the yellow flower said

I wasn’t a monster.

And the sidewalk kept moving,

And my feet kept walking,

And so we both kept paving....

And moved on.

Ode to Your Authors

They say you spend forever

Your whole life

Rewriting the first poem you’ve ever loved.

Maybe that’s why we all become…

Our parents.

Hear me out.

Because their love—

Great Love—

Or lack…

Great lack!

Is really the ink

That designs our lives.

From the start, we watched.

We guide our hands

We push our Life Pens

(We choose him

We choose her

We love him

We leave her)

But as we write our stories…

What’s this?

What’s this appearing on my soul?

A word… so familiar.

A quality… I know.

A sentence… I would have sworn I invented.

And yet, I recall! I’ve heard this twinge expressed by…

Oh.

Oh, my mother.

Because from the start, we watched.

Those noted gestures—sonnets, silent.

The quick kisses—rhymes, unheard.

The wicked tensions— lines, invisibly broken.

Body poetry that our infant eyes soaked!

And we were marinating in an art

No one knowing

The parent dance

Or lack of

Was being absorbed.

An essence so human

So deep

We skip trying to use words altogether

But practice the ink in our lives

Trying the poetry at our stories

All our days spent

(Loving him

Loving her

Hurting him

Missing her)

….With a pen

Dripping

As we try to guide our pens

With that eternal lullaby

Of our favorite poem

Our first poem.

Their story.

Our parents

Or lack of.

Always writing,

Always living,

Always watching,

Or watching out.

There and Back Again

A Hobbit’s Tale by Bilbo Baggins

A Young Thug’s Tale by Katrina Nelson

--ACCORDING TO MANY UNACKNOWLEDGED TEXT MESSAGES THIS MONTH, I HAVE BEEN REGARDED AS UNREACHABLE--

“Hey Kat! How are things? (:”

“Are you doing okay?”

“Katrina, how have you been?”

“What boy made you cry in the bathroom?!? Tell me so I can beat him up.”

“What’ve you been up to, Kitty Kat?”

“I wanna see you!”

“Yo, been a while.”

“Hi, hey, hello.”

“Hey how has your week been?”

“Hello?”

“Are you happy?”

“C u tonite??”

“Soo nice out! Are you off tomorrow?”

“KatriiiiiiiiiiinnnnaaaaaaaaaAAAaaa”

….ah.

Whoops.

You know how voicemail is a thing? “Hi, you’ve reached Katrina Nelson! I cannot make to the phone now, but if you leave your name and number after the tone, the odds that I’ll give you a call back will increase exponentially (Unless you’re Barry Schultz.) Anyways, have a fabulous day!”

How nice—how courteous— it would be to set up an automated textmail thing, letting people know when I’m off supremely living or absolutely dying.

Which was pretty much all of February.

You know what?

Like a Bilbo Baggins post-adventure...

I think I shall sit down....

And explain how I’ve been. Or maybe rather who I’ve been.

-- ACCORDING TO MY OWN SOCIAL MEDIA POSTS--

You’ve seen concert posts and roses. Hair fashion shows and smiles.

But no one saw the Week of Ill. No one saw the Break. You know what’s funny? I would have posted about it, if I could. But I had no energy to move. I genuinely had no energy to give a fuck.

Ah, here,I have as good a source as any for tracking my process into Unreachable.

--ACCORDING TO MY FEBRUARY JOURNAL ENTRIES--

February 1:

They said they’d call in January.

They didn’t.

February 5th:

So it’s been Mama D’s 6 days a week. I’ve never had a greater grind... but why, why can’t I stop from messing up?

Note to self:

Clean menu’s constantly, or have someone else do it in the back. .

Always seat if the restaurant is nearly empty.

Except if it starts to fill up, then check the count.

Don’t have Alonzo set up until most of the group is there.

Bread, bread, bread, bread. Always bread.

Wear better shoes for running.

Drink more water.

Katrina, my goodness gracious! You never wrote about Genevieve’s 23rd. About her driving hours upon hours to spend the weekend with you. About dancing wildly in the rain with your best friend, who’s soul you could have sworn you saw. About shopping in the rain around Laguna. About the Chromeo concert, and about befriending Hugo the Valet Guy. About Hugo the Valet Guy helping you skip the 2 hour wait. About you paying him in HubbaBubba Bubble Gum.

And then you forgot, Katrina! To write about that sweet, sweet date. The thai food, the Cupcake wine! The Laguna hike, the Top of the world! That little Meadow, the first time slacklining. The boat. The boat with lots of candles and starlight.

Oh, Katrina. Silly girl. How you’ve forgotten to write about driving after a late night of work to LA just because you needed to see Mackenzie. How Branden talked to you for the whole car ride, how authentic that was! How you and Mack 2 cuddled up on the couch and ate peanut butter. How falling asleep beside her felt like you’d never been apart. It was beyond needed; I felt full again.

Speaking of necessary--- there was that long overdue meeting Phil for Acai bowls! You really can’t forget a conversation with an artist like that, I can’t believe I held a conversation with such talent. Talking about Annika and I; talking about La and Dad. Talking about La being lost because Dad. How he analyzed your signature! How loop it was, meaning how passionate I must be….

Passion! Ah yes, last Sunday with Crystal! I would wish I was Crystal if the thought of her didn’t make me feel like a great enough human already. And her addition of nutritional yeast to avocado toast! And Pistachio Gelato and sunshine everwhere. The caffeine high was incredible, but I couldn’t top the conversation. Speaking of conversation—

Rick! He’s in Nashville. But the 2 hour time difference hasn’t hindered the ability to call him up before falling asleep to tell him Joshua Tree is a thing to be done! Its kind of terrifying, to have someone you want to talk to but that—

REMINDS ME! Alexio, writing simply, “Hope your days is terrifying in the best way”. It got me thinking of how good it is to be terrified sometimes.

February 6th:

Fuck being terrified.

February 10th

This is what Parvin told me:

“Let it go. Let him go. Don’t cry over spilled water. You’ll want to make more room in your heart, dear one.

In fact, you’ll make a ballroom.

And so many people can come in.

And dance,

And dance.

And it’s that last one dancing—that’s the one you want.

The one who puts you on a pedestal,

Who let’s you know you’re worthy.

…And that’s not the person that puts tears in your eyes, my love.”

February 11th.

Make a cake. Let them know how excited you are that you’re on A TOP 10 TEAM!

February 11th, again

The moment I brought out the cake I wish I hadn’t spent forever making it. Then I wished I’d spent more time. Then I wish it all just never happened.

Since when did I become such a shy person?

February 12th:

Larissa’s Birthday! Keep it together, keep it together.

I don’t care if you’re sick IT’S LARISSA’S BIRTHDAY GET THE FUCK UP AND GO FUCKING MAKE IT THE BEST DAY OF HER LIFE.

ALSO, KEEP MAKING THOSE VALENTINES.

February 13th

This is what Parvin told me today:

“And I got up.

Just like that, in the middle of the night during a hot flash. I sat up.

And I put Menopause in front of me, and I said “Listen you fuck.

You’re not going to do this to me. I’m not going to let you take over my life.”

And I meant it. I believed it.

And I never had a hot flash again.

And that was it.

So…

You can do it. With whatever you have.

And when they’re gone.

Close the door and never open it again.

That is all, my love.”

February 14th

I’m about to pass out, but write even when tired.

Today we had over 700 guests in Mama D’s.

I love Love.

I really, truly, love Love.

(There is an absence of entries from February 15th to February 17th. This was when I was so sick I could not get out of bed. This was when I slept for 2 sets of 16 hours straight. All I would do was wake up to drink water and then pass out. This was when no one heard from me).

February 18th

G e t u p .

END OF JOURNAL ENTRIES.

--ACCORDING TO ANNIKA--

I experienced what my currently-concussed-but-still-sharp sister referred to as "a crash”. I thought I was dying, but I humored her explanation. Come to find…

I did not die at all. I woke up, eventually. Go figure.

And when I woke up, it started to make sense. Oh how patterns love to disguise themselves. I was doing it again—I was doing everything but writing again. Within that little window of February I’d picked up a quick stint of babysitting. I was still working in the office several times a week. Mama D’s was more stress than I let on, just because I wanted so so badly to prove I deserved to be there. I yoga’d, every day. Sometimes biking, occasionally beaching. I was being Lovesick over a Not Here, and I let myself crumble.

And so, on the approach of my Dad’s Birthday....

I decided to do a little neccessary rebirthing of my own.

--SO ACCORDING TO ME, RIGHT NOW--

What the heck, let’s make even more room in my heart. Let’s start a dance party in my new ballroom of perspective.Let’s journey back to the simple Shire days for a little while... And then go meet the Dragon.

It’s time to head back to the armchair. To the pen, the paper, the bookcase...

--SAVE FOR, ACCORDING TO THE NEWPORT PUBLIC LIBRARY--

5 of those books are overdue.

I have no intention of returning them anytime soon.

_____________________________________________________________

SO THAT’S HOW I’VE BEEN DOING, MOTHERFUCKERS.

The Second Shooter

You can only smell gunpowder

If the shot is street-level,

Occurs up-wind,

And it blows in your face.

When it happened,

I smelled no gun powder.

But I could have sworn,

Smiling,

You were my killer.

I knew, in the moment, I was shot.

Assassinated, surely.

Straight to the heart.

You shot me,

I could have sworn.

Love is blind.

In the moment, I would have sworn

If I could speak.

But I said nothing, only smiled;

I was slain speechless.

And when it was confirmed!

How my ghost danced!

The autopsy report said Yes,

Yes, it was her heart.

She was struck there.

And my ghost was a pure echo of

Yesyesyesyes

It was love lovelovelove

I always knewknewknewknew

Until.

Until the detectives were called in.

And the questions were asked.

The key witnesses shook their heads that

No,

No there was no smell.

She was definitely happy but no,

I smelled no gunpowder.

My ghost froze.

Why does gunpowder matter?

I know what I felt!

And the autopsy!

My heart!

The detectives nodded, taking notes:

Ah, but did you know?

You can only smell gunpowder

If the shot is street-level,

Occurs up-wind,

And it blows in your face.

And my lost heart stopped.

Because we had been walking ahead.

We’d been dancing up-wind.

We were right in the spot for everyone to see.

Why did no one smell gunpowder?

Oh.

Ohohoh.

We watched the footage.

The detectives,

The witnesses,

And my ghost.

And found....

While you might have carried a weapon--

And I was definitely shot through the heart---

I’d jumped the gun.

You weren’t my shooter.

So now,

As a ghost,

Living with a missing heart,

I haunt these lines,

Aching to whoever is listening....

Let the eye witnesses solve it for you.

I call these eyes ‘Your Closest Friends’.

For the eye-witnesses can solve it for you.

They watch.

And they watch from street-level.

For they’ll be the ones who tell you

If the person beside you—

Or the person you dream of—

Is the one who takes your heart.

Or if....

If maybe—

You took it yourself.

If you instead

Gave it away

To the open-air.

Just because you wanted so badly, So so badly,

To lose your heart.

Yes, take to your truest Witnesses,

Because...

You can only smell gunpowder

If the shot is street-level,

Occurs up-wind.

And blows in your face.

A New Kind of Accident Baby

Larissa’s birthday is my fault. Let me explain: When I was 3 years old, I fell. It wasn’t a big fall, it was a tiny trip that my mother didn’t see. My mom didn’t see, but The Universe did. And there was something about that trip that caused It to stir my way. The Universe saw my All, my After, and recognized that there was more balance to be had. It called to all the the souls– We have a family who needs an angel. The Angels peaked down. Don’t the Nelson’s already have one? Angels don’t argue, but this was they closest they came. They already have one angel, Universe. Why two in one family? What does it mean? The Universe waited. One Angel stepped forth. This family was meant for me, it spoke. The Universe knew. And the Angel dropped from the sky. And as she spun her wings dusted away, And as she shrank she lent the sun her glow. And she fell. And she landed. And as she sat and waited, she forgot. And on February 12, 1997, an Angel was born to the Nelson family. For reasons still unknown, I have Grace just a phone-call away. I have Complete Kindness sitting with me at dinner. I have Wisdom on a couch right next to me watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

So today! Today I celebrate 19 years of Larissa balancing out my greatest Trip of All. Love you to the moon and sun and every star, Lala… with no hope of coming back, it’s so infinite.

My Answer to "Why Africa?"

"Kayenzi centre

Gahini sector

Kayonza district 16th

December 2015

Dear Katrina,

I’m writing to you this letter with full pleasure and I greet you and your family. In fact, every thing gonna be alright cause of your support and strong sponsorship. I surprised by talking with you on the phone that made to be happy and tighten hope. I swear that your support changes more in my life.

In this moment, I write this letter, I am with my fellow students in training of three days where we taught about nation “ start your leadership journey today” this made and built the strong idea and hope of future good leader.

I always pray for you and may God bless you, Your lover, your boy

I love you!

David NSHIMIYIMANA."

....That's why.

It’s not enough to know there are other voices out there. Sometimes you have to chase them for the full story.

And there are stories over there, waiting to emerge. Waiting to be told through more than letters! Through scars and eyes and hearts and talents and dreams--

And they wait for me, for us, in Rwanda. Somewhere near David. Maybe with David.

Let’s find out.

(OI. Wondering where this all came from? Didn’t expect this? DID? Well I visited http://worlddanceforhumanity.org/ and BOOM. Life changed).

Constellations in Confetti

Soulected, sōl/ekt/ed ; adjective

Meaning 1. To feel chosen very deeply, so deeply you feel it in the part deeper than your bones.

Ex: And when he looked me in the eye, I knew I’d be Soulected; he was the dog I was going to bring home from the pound, and I began planning on how I was going to have to steal him if they said he was already purchased.

Meaning 2. To experience the pure joy of a Soulection concert.

Ex: Holy shit, when Esta came on! How did it take me so long to be Soulected?

At the setting of 2015 and the rise of 2016, I experienced both.

_______________________________

“Aye, aye! 20 seconds ya’ll!” Syd (half of The Internet) called over the microphone.

The crowd hollered back in the bizarre, organized nonsense that only large audiences could produce. Already there were people pumping their hands. Girls heads were spinning, looking for their Someone. I felt boys looking out of the corner of their eyes, heads wishing they could spin just as wildly but trying to remain cool as they privately sought out Someone.

I tucked away my quick smirk into my never-ending smile– the same smile I’d worn for 22 years, which also happened to be held up by the 2 glasses of champagne, 2 Jack n Cokes, and the bliss that comes from any moment I’m dancing.

“AIGHT, AIGHT LET’S DO THIS, SANTA ANA!” Syd yelled.

I heard the screams and heard hundreds of 2015’s flying out of broken people, heard chants of drunk bodies writhing atop lit souls, throwing back there deepest prayers for 2016 deep down into the pit of there existences, knowing it was too late for words while at the same time being the exact moment to sound their dream’s alarm. We were a concert venue piled high with prayers being shaken and stirred by sounds, throwing them back with drinks and hoping they came out less messy then they felt. Feelings were on hold or being held up; however they swam it remained an electric ocean.

We were a community of hopefuls, a community of hopeless. We were moving in infinity and praying we didn’t get lost. We drank to feel light, we drank to feel grounded. We drank so we could feel immortal, we drank so we could let our human out. We were confused, and we wanted to forget.

…and while we knew nothing, we knew One thing– it didn’t matter for the next 10 seconds. If were was anything we could do, it was to commit and contribute to the sounding coundown. We are safe in the countdown! Nothing could happen in the countdown! There was nowhere else to be other than in the countdown!

For once, we were in control of Time.

A society of too many souls—drunk, sober, hopeless, hopeful—all aware of the silliness of putting too much stock into a manmade “new”, and also maddeningly wrapped around it. What it could mean? We all needed a New, we all wanted a Promise. We’d all lost people, were on our way to losing more, on our way to gaining more AND GOD DAMMIT WE WERE GOING TO HOLD THE SLIVER OF POSSIBILITY IN THIS GODDMAN MOTHER FUCKING COUNT DOWN WHERE THE HELL IS MY NEW YEARS KISS AND–

I stood in the sea of this Impossible Humanity, refusing to look anywhere but dead ahead, feeling a montage of my past only ever felt when I cry myself to sleep,on those rare nights when lost memories preview themselves on the channel playing my favorite ones. All my life’s seconds played, but wired into hyperspeed. They were bursting electricity, hense I didn’t see them; I felt them. It wasn’t feeling alive, it was feeling like I had already lived and there was more.

It was complete Loss dipped in pure gold Hope. All I felt was—

“10!”

DAD!

“9!”

MomAnnikaLarissaMomAnnikaLarissaMom!Annika!Larissa!

“8!”

How am I gonna do it?

“7!”

Right now! Right then! Right now!

“6!”

Quick Katrina, What was that Marcus Aurelius quote?! Shit, we’re already on—

“5!”

‘What is the purpose of my soul right now’!

“4!”

TELL ME AND I’LL DO IT! I promise with every stage light in this room, even the ceiling's darkness—

“3!”

THAT’S IT! It’s the darkness!

“2!”

The darkness is the light! I GET IT, THIS IS WHY I’M—

“2!”

MomDadAnnikaLarissaMomDadAnnikaLarissaMomDadAnnika!Larissa—

“1!”

IT!

And as the world cried out HAPPY NEW YEAR—as my body threw itself up into the air with my own “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” shout—I was a miniature super nova.

And I surely would have passed out from all the Possibility that dropped in The Impossible had Ricky not slapped me on the back and Andrew’s lips swooped in on mine, softly delivering me into a different kind of dizziness.

And as I eased out of the symbolic and found myself standing as Katrina Nelson—simple, happy, broken, full, and with a mane recently painted white—I returned with something in-hand.

My quick voyage into myself (into the room? Into the sky? Into the past? The future? I actually don’t know where I went… but I was back) left me with only one piece of evidence of the time-space travel—

I was given the smallest brush of Purpose. And also this sentiment, fully formed:

2016 is going to be one colorful fucking show, people. We’re going to undo darkness, we’re going to dissect the light that we so desperately live for. We won’t be ruled with black, we’ll smear it with white and cut out corners. We won’t make angels out of our demons (we can’t!) but we can fight with grateful hearts until all the spilled blood makes a masterpiece of our pain. And with the hardest work and the smallest shift in perspective, the never-ending will turn to timeless dancing.

Life is not a countdown, it’s a soul’s build up.

Of course, I wasn’t given the map, the directions, to do it; I’ve only got a couple ideas.

But I do know one thing—

I’m passing out the paintbrushes, since something whispered to me during the countdown that they make excellent swords in the fight for our Purposes.

GUYS.

IT’S HAPPENING.

Safe and No Sounds

Skin.

Skin.

We touch so many skins.

Think about it. Think about them.

..

…

….Some haunt us so, huh?

Because while skin has no mouth…

Certain One’s can bite at the edge of your memory.

Though skin has no fingers…

The right One can can claw at the back of your mind.

Though skin has no feet...

That One, that One you just thought of. Does it not sneak in and dance until you’re heart aches from being its dance floor?

For one minute you’re lying there...

Safe and sad in your bed.

When suddenly--

a whole body

Of skin!

Their skin!

Invisible!

Impossible!

But you can’t deny its there, at your fingertips.

Their skin!

Burning-- but only because the distance is so cold

Burning!-- only because the icy fire of memory stabs

Burning! An old, familiar flame licking your hands, your lips,

A knife sharp imagination

That rages in.

Because

.

..

...Well.

There is no One’s skin.

You’re safe and sad in your own.

Their skin.

I wonder who touches it now.

I wonder if it feels the same to them?

I wonder if I ever explained how you felt—

How your touch sounded on mine—

I wonder if I could ever explain it properly?

You’d miss mine, if I did.

I wonder if you think of my skin, too.

Not my face.

Not my words.

Just the Language of

The blind and deaf.

And the careful sentences I wrote in circles, without speaking, all over yours.

I wonder if

Maybe

I’m the only one who remembers those conversations.

How safe and sad if I was.

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