Happy First Day of Class.

Today I went on campus, because its the first day of school and I belong there. I don't have class til 5, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I wanted to be out there with everyone else on this big day of beginning. I brought a book, my journal, and found some grass. I layed down definantly like "Yep, my first day too!" and wrote for a while about the things my Mom told me today. When I got up to go home, I saw my favorite tree. "I didn't recognize you with leaves," I thought, and in seconds I am underneath this tree, sittin back against the trunk, with no more thoughts of walkin home. Fresh dirt gets all over my jeans, my bag, and both sides of my journ. I realized: This is where I belong today. 

Today I am calm. I can hear my thoughts and they are not all fighting over the same thing. I can write them down and not be embarrassed for you to see. Here are some thoughts from beneath The Freedom Tree.

My least favorite word is: INDESCRIBABLE.

Because using it means I cannot show you this part of my world, though there is a triumph in the word INDESCRIBABLE, because it means I have experienced something even higher than the power of words can obtain, which is a power so great that my entire life has been consumed by the seeking of it.

2:23 PM.

I feel very grounded when I claim myself.

I AM A WRITER.

I AM A WOMAN.

I AM STRONG.

I AM SOUTHERN.

When I say these things, I am comforted by the categories.

I AM A STRONG SOUTHERN WRITING WOMAN.

Is this a cop-out? 

Could I be more than a combination of certain, definable compartments?

Yes. Yes I could be.

I must be, and you must be too.

This is why the standard way of getting to know people feels dull and futile to me.

"What's your major?"

"Where are you from?"

Because you are MORE!

You are more more more!

How can I find the rest of you?

Lyndsi Shae 2:34 PM

If I meet you today, I will endure this standard list of questions gladly. Because we are human and I cannot completely alter the process of introduction worldwide. I'll be patient because if you'll let me see who you really are in there-- this whole mess will fade, and real us will emerge. Worth it. 

Yeahhh!

I MADE BEST FRIENDS FRIDAY!

Check. It. Out.

Towel wrapped.

I am out of the shower and ready to beast this to-do list.

I am out of the shower and not caring about my to-do list.

I am out of the shower and would rather write to you, about the four fish Lou just flushed, because one kept swimmin up. He made it against the current, again and again and again. 

Am I you? I thought.

I hope I am you. 

He circles the toilet bowl for hours, but when he swims a little too low, Lou pulls the lever again. This time, he does not resurface. He had the strongest will, the most enduring fight-- but he is still just a fish. And down he goes. It isn't fair that his size got in the way of his fight, that he never had a name, that before this day, I could not tell him from any other fish. It isn't fair that I didn't save him. I will think of this all morning. Because I am you, little fish. And who will help the fighters become survivors, if not for those who have already survived?

July 21st, 2009.

I sit before the ocean as the tide goes OUT.

Each wave beats sure and fierce on the shore 

before the force of a cycle, the pull of the moon

gives it no choice but to SHRINK BACK.

As it retreats, returns to its center,

it sings its last presence...

chanting in HORIZONTAL BREAKS:

IT'S NOT OVER. 

IT'S NOT OVER.

THIS.

IS NOT.

THE LAST.

Even for you, blank face.

It blows my mind that:

1. At every concert ever, there are those people in the front row. Someone got front row tickets because they have sweet connections and always get front row tickets. But someone is freaking out and having a top ten moment of their life, right now, over there. And if it’s one of those little shows where no one is particularly thrilled out of their face about who’s playing, I’m pretty sure the band absolutely is. Because woah, who cares if no one knows the words to their song… this is their stage.
(I think life is like this.)

2. Girls can have such skinny legs.
I always stare.
Really?

3. I am dating Chris Usher.
I know, kinda embarrassed to admit that this isn’t way standard by now. But really, he showed me to his Mom and wants me to stay a while. Still a big deal for me. (PS: Chris Usher and Stoph are the same boy. Don't freak out.)

4. Claire Dannals Sorensen is on my best friends list. Definitely.
Annnnd her roommates even like me now.

5. I was so pumped to see my Dad this summer.
Before he went back to Charleston,
my Dad came and found me to say goodbye,
where he then proceeded to say “I love you”
…first.
I totally believed him.
I had (almost) no unspoken words left.

6. There are boys out there probably hoping I don’t publish poems about what happened with us. (To those boys, I am a little bit sorry that it may happen.)

7. My bishop reads my blog.

Speaking of, here’s a piece of me from July 20th.
* * * * *

In case anyone hasn’t noticed, I am not a submissive woman.
I will not cling to your side, seeking my identity by leaching off yours.
If you are looking for this girl:
1. Gross.
2. Keep walkin.

I’m on the beach house bed with Katie now, after a nap of unknown length—which ended at 10:30 PM. I woke up and thought: I needa call my Stoph.

Go upstairs in a tired haze.
Find service.
Leave slurring sleepy voicemail.
Receive 50 billion text messages.

3 of which from: boy-you-used-to-love.

Every once in a while he comes back.

Like when he found this blog.
He reads this with you.
So does my Bishop.

Everyone: welcome.

Good thing I’m the same Lyndsi Shae all the time, otherwise I’d hafta spaz that you all congregate here to see (gasp!) the actual me. She’s the same me that’s always around. I have secrets too, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid.

I am this woman.

• to my professors and my mother.
• to that boy I used to love
• and my new roommate
• and the crabby DMV lady.

But how can you be one person with so many hair colors? they ask.

I am this woman and you are a part of my story, which in this case, is being told in mass volumes—daily. (On pages more frequent and more filling than this blog. And one day, on something printer-press big.) It’s a good thing I don’t have different versions of myself on file for each of you. But you can watch my hair change, if you want.

EXtractioN.

Meet Lyndsi Shae, grieving the loss of her wisdom teeth.
She is layin in her bed
deliriously singing to Stoph.

(sickeningly hopeless romantic country love songs.)

She is at the store,
20 minutes after poppin an oxycodone,
head imploding
jaw seeking
her 893,23949th consecutive meal of chocolate ice cream.
Ohhh man. she says
about to fall on her face and bust another involuntary nap

What happens when she realizes
Stoph is not in her room, but on an opposite coast
the ice cream is gone
and she can't remember
when she wrote those 5 journal pages
that now stare her in the face.

I'll tell you what happens.
Time for more pills.
Swallow. Go nuts. Repeat.
...Recover?
Ouchhhh.