MacKenzie, on a whim

the moon is haunting me. it follows me around all day long, hidden under baby blue baby blankets, thick with lint balls from lives before I existed. it is everywhere I look; underneath beds that make too much noise, behind dollhouses in empty houses, the moon is in the eyes of every boy who speaks to me in Brooklyn warehouses, the walls are broken and the woodwork is revealed. the heat is on full blast and smells like something burning. their hands cusp their words and in them, i see it, full and bright, blinding me.

I am so tired of reliving the same short story over and over and over I am tired of hearing people repeat themselves of their tired eyes wallow in imaginary realities your truth is too far from my imagination your life is nothing to do with mine anymore I want to close the door lock all three locks even the one thats broken open the window in the back of the apartment jump out of it away from the ocean broken down boardwalks, the nails are coming up and out catching all of the young girls skirts old roads are tired of my tires cracked sidewalks splattered beige and black the same drunks sit where their fathers once sat barstools that used to spin in their youth they've grown stiff, solid, they talk themselves in circles hypocrites spitting up bullshit bullshit bullshit. let me go home.

is a function of letting go of what you have." Today I talked to my father about going to the UK this spring and moving to Brooklyn in the fall. His opinion is always very important to me and as he sat at the bench of my great grandmothers vanity in his white robe, he smiled and told me he always wants me to live my dreams. He wants me to open a credit card so I will be fully prepared. "It's not going to be easy, you know. Your brother will tell you that." But nothing is easy, especially making our dreams come true. I assured him that if there was anyone in the world I could do it with it's Samantha, she's wonderwoman. I know he already knows that, who doesn't? I am the luckiest girl to have a big sister like her, the best role model, someone who always pushes me to do better and be better and achieve more. Making changes to your life is hard because we get comfortable in our situations. There is a comfort in sitting in that dirty van wishing the seats ...

Keep in mind this was written about a month ago.. I want to come back and add onto this now that the feeling has become exponentially larger in other senses. I wonder what it is about coming and leaving that makes us feel so emotional. Logically, in my mind, I know that leaving Florida, my mother, my beautiful younger but far from little sister, the friends I've loved in my past, my dogs, even the cat who ignores my existence, is not anything to get upset about. Certainly nothing to cry about. I am going home to my comfortable and clean, organized bedroom. My loving boyfriend and my balancing best friend. What reason is there to blubber like a baby? None. Regardless, I find myself tearing up in the walkway of our little white ranch. I hold my sister tighter, suck in the delicious scent of her shampoo, feel my nose touch her ear through the cascading avalanche of her hair, I hug her petite frame, close my eyes and instantly feel all of the tiny bits and pieces of missing her at onc...

While recently visiting my mother in Florida, my brother showed me an interesting post. It was entitled "How to be an Artist" One of the rules was "Write the book you want to read." Which made me think, how about live the life you want to read about? Can you do that AND be the artist you long to be? The post also said artists must be boring in order to accomplish their art. Where does said artist draw inspiration from then? How does one solve this problem? If I must dedicate all of my time to creating my art, where will I get inspiration? A tortured mind? Is it possible to balance the tortured artist's mind with the experience of a well lived life? To see so much madness within the world would surely calm down the insanity within, n'est pas? Is it possible to be completely happy with oneself, live a fulfilling and happy life, AND create art, any kind of art, through living and experiencing life? An experiment in living..

I've watched you change with the moon, you have distanced yourself from all that loves you while the crescent wanes above, I have felt you so fully even while millions of miles apart; I gaze above at the rabbit, you'll see a man. I have watched as you come back, a vine rabidly growing up and alone, in between and inside, around everything you adore and need and all the while, that large beautiful light in the sky fills itself up more and more. You are the mood, not the soldier in the sea, to me, you are the moon.

I like to imagine the New Jersey landscape as untouched; I like to picture all of the hills and waterways saved from discarded water bottles and candy wrappers, hushed away from the roar of trucks driving by on the overpasses. I see deer running alongside the parkway, they leap after one another and in my mind I create an endless wood for them to stretch and jump as they please, their grace is accentuated by the quiete calm of the forest. I like to imagine all of the communities are deleted from this planet, huge houses filled with rooms unused are snapped out of reality and in their place, the pine barrens, thriving and growing, curling, burning as they please, as the earth would naturally have them burn and regrow. spiny stalks grow sideways from the brown ground, trees snapped in half leaning on themselves. these guard rails to not belong, these SUVs, minicoopers, mercedes, they are metal aliens cheapening the extravagance of the most beautiful organism. ...

Hello happenings of my darkest dreams, I knew we would soon meet Flashes of the future fighting my frightening thoughts; unfamiliar houses, all the wrong lovers, who will I have when the planes come? For you know they are coming and they will take everything they can once they arrive. They will take no prisoners, none that we will know of at least It will all be gone and in this new life we will wake and and miss  what we never were. (to be revisited.)

I still see you, New Zealand It is as if I never left, your cold pale sky floats within me, large puffs of smoke in the air, hanging about like the wet clothes in our caravan. My whole life fit into a 9x12 foot box, condensation stricken windows, forced heat to clog our throats and crack our lips Steam in the showerrooms before the sun came up (the first sun of the day) us on opposing sides of the room, olive oil on our skin. I am still there, the land of the big white cloud It fogs up the windows of my mindsets and sweeps me away down a steep hill (the one we rolled down looking upon the mountains,) lakes made from angry ancient craters; emptiness in the land, emptiness in the earth I have never left you, home away from homes World full of foreign families,                            babies in the backseat                       ...