Get these words out of me.

Thought Number ONE.
Today I had my last creative writing class.
There were three people I wanted to talk to before I left,
because I'd probably never see them again,
and they should know that they matter.
I notice you. You are inspiring.
This is what I was trying to say.

What I wanted to post, is what happened next.
Before I left, a girl turned to me.
She said something along the lines of what I said to these three other people.
But she was uncommonly genuine, and her level of insight shocked me.
You saw that part of me? I thought.
I didn't know anyone could see that.
I was comforted to know that I am visible.
Because I know who I am. I know my worth. But sometimes its shockingly relieving to hear that someone else also knows.

Here's the deal: Until about three weeks ago,
I had distanced myself from this girl.
I held a stupid grudge about
something she'd said earlier that I didn't believe in.
Sill there she was, seeing me,
genuinely looking for who I was.
And I, had blocked myself from seeing her.
Now she's gone.

Thought Number TWO.
After Creative Writing...
I was sittin on a bench outside the Wilk, bent over a notebook in my lap.
Black ink pen.
I was writing about the girl.
The first drop of rain came down-- and I had no idea until
It fell on the back of my neck.
And I knew that that must be the most beautiful place for the rain to make itself known to you.

"Cold cold water.
Evokes emotion.
Let it fall on me.
Cold
Cold Cold
Water."

That is what I wrote next. But you cannot tell what I meant, not from what you just read. You'd have to see it on the page, the ink running in the raindrops that ensued. You'd have to see the sporadic capitals in my handwriting and the sketch I drew next to them. Something is lost here in the void of machinery.
And then, seeing this page, you still may not feel it. Because coldplay and damien rice sing about cold water, and I write about it, and you think about it-- and for all of us, reality differs. How can I make you see my world?
Intangible.
That is what we are
to each other.
Endangered.

My page fills up with me, in those sporadic capitals.
I wonder, What has spun me into the woman I am?

And then, a little boy in a hooded jacked ran past... his family was shuffling to keep up. He looked at me on that bench and yelled "My brother is a DOOfus!"
And I loved
the blending
of life.

Thought Number THREE:
Tonight I was fixin my schedule at Sabrinas... cookin up some goodness.
I really like Mashed Potatoes and Corn.
This, I think, is a relatively healthy meal.
If you take out the cheese and butter and milk-- there is health left over.
Right?
Nope.
Sabrina informs me that this combination is all starched up, and therefore will turn straight to sugar inside of me. You know what that is? A fat load of dumb that's what.
And there I was spoonin my potatoes in ignorance.

(Thought 3B:)

Has anyone else noticed a severe lack of butts on campus?
Its like the body part has failed to exist.
And I swear I didn't notice on purpose.
Is it the skinny jeans? Cause those make butts weird.
All cougs: please eat some mashed potatoes and get that mess goin.
K thanks.

Um, study break for thought-spaz?

Just now I poured some Doctor Pepper down into a blue blue cup.
It foamed and bubbled and I was surprised— I hadn’t expected such a reaction.
I saw the foam rising towards me and realized—here it comes.
I was filled with a little fear just then, knowing that I must act.
I was past the point of preventing overflow…
But could I act in this next short moment—to control where it landed?

“Its Doctor Pepper,” I said to myself. “Chill.”
The urgency of the moment had overtaken me in the strangest way.
And I realized: that this feeling has taken custody of me many times before.
There is so much in me that can never be contained.
I am a child of the sudden overflow.
Where should I let it fall?

And now… back to my paper.

* * *

So I'm back. Have I ever told ya'll that I love my major? Because it's my soul. It will take me hours to write this paper because I'm so into the novel I'm writing about.
Words. Are. Rich.

Here's somethin:
"Since our extraordinary conversation I have thought of nothing else. ... I feel, I know with a certainty that cannot be the result of folly or misapprehension, that you and I must speak again-- " A letter from Randolph Henry Ash to Miss Christabelle LaMotte.

WHAT IF PEOPLE STILL WROTE LETTERS THIS WAY? WITH FEARLESS HONESTY AND A SENSE OF HUMAN URGENCY FOR ONE ANOTHER? WHAT DO WE DO WHEN WE FEEL DRAWN TO SOMEONE THIS WAY TODAY? WE FRIEND THEM ON FACEBOOK, SEND A PASSIVE TEXT. WHAT WOULD HAPPEN, IF WE ALL BECAME GENUINE PEOPLE?

GAH I love literature.
I feel it in the nighttime here. I am bursting from who I was... from the girl I was just today-- into someone else. Did you see me tonight at FHE? Because I'm not even her anymore.
I sprint to keep up with myself.

Disclaimer: This is about a boy.

I got off work a few days ago and had a voicemail from Sister Baughan.
Sister Baughan is one of my favorite young women’s leaders from my NC days… she’s been tryin to set me up with her nephew for a while now. Apparently the famous nephew has moved back to NC because the big city wasn’t for him. “When are you comin back here?” she asks me. She thinks its time I met him.

In my head, I start to plan out my reply. One particular word seals-the-deal for why I’m not going out with her nephew. This word is “boyfriend.”

My general reaction to this title is
“I know, weird for me. But cool, huh?”
His name is Wayne. Sometimes he freaks out about all of it too, and that’s good to know.
For example: The other night he was real tired, and something like this fell out of his mouth:
“I’m layin here with you and thinking:
I’m dating Lyndsi Shae. This actually happened. Woah.”

“I know, weird. But cool, huh?” I'm not sure what I said outloud, but that of course, was my mind’s profound reply.

* * *
Jeff sat behind me in Creative Writing this week.
“So who’s that boy you were with on Sunday?” he asks me.
I tell him.
“But Lyndsi Shae, what will happen to your emo poems?”
Bahahaha.
I make him take back his choice of adjective, but then just laugh some more.

When I write about Wayne, it does not ache. I am not full of questions, I am not left anticipating. I am calm. This is new, relieving, comforting.

* * *
Wednesday night, we had a big talk about how we’re different from each other.
The weird part is that I’m not going to tell you about this talk at all. Nope. It’s ours.

I will tell you about the next Tuesday, when a great five minutes was spent rollin around, crackin up about together about the word “hash”. "Haaaaaaash. Corn beef HASh. Haaaaashbrowns." Ahahaha.

I will tell you that its great to label something ours.
There is no inhibition, no clamor of denunciations.
We are outloud.
The first time I realized this was in Salt Lake:
We were walkin down the street, and he held my hand.
I thought:
Does he realize that they can see him?! This means he’s with me. Like, the real-real way. It means all his other girlfriends will see, and on top of that, all of his potential girlfriends will see. Does he know what he’s doing? He’s ruining his chances with everyone else.
Oh my gosh. He does. He knows what he’s doing.
And he’s doing it anyway.
Right here in front of the whole city.

Outloud.

So then there's the weather of course, which is obviously relevant.
The night after Salt Lake we were in the livin room. It was quiet, and outside, the rain started comin down. It came soft, and was maybe a little embarrassed of itself.
“I know we haven’t had a lot of moments yet,” I said. “But I can tell this is going to be one of my favorite ones—me you and the rain.”
And then, a few nights later—there was the wind.
Howling. Violent. Crashing outside of us.

(Then Wayne went to Oregon for a little while, and I went to work.)

All over the road home, there was rain.
Deep grey clouds set low over the mountains.
But the sun also shone throughout the rainy haze, and the wind combined.
I drove home under the incongruent sky, remembering us and the wind, us and the rain, us and the sun—and now, all of them were present.
The earth is speaking, I thought.
Howling, contradicting.
I have no idea what it is saying to me, but I'm not scared.
I am curious, ready, calm.

(Your) SILENCE IS EASY.

I'm sittin in the library--
My hair is rainy today, it waves in slow remembrance of my walk home last night.
If you knew me, you'd see it and remember that this is what I'm like after the rain.
I am a slow pulse, the afterbeat of that staccato thought.

The music is in me-- it will not pass.
God.

My laptop is at home, 19 pages of words.
They're ready for me.
Instead, I am here in front of this screen.
10 academic pages call my attention.
I am not ready for them.
Why can't my paper be about how I've felt for the past 3 days?
Please can I just turn in my journal? It's better.

I just need to say-- that I have a lot to say.
I am full, full-up with words.
I am full, full-up with growth.
And soon, 1000 people will have been to this blog.
What does that mean?
Soon, I will be swimmin in a pool and soapin in a shower and then talkin to him.
What does that mean?

Further West.

We faced the ocean.
“Should we run?” I asked.
And so he followed me, into the questions.
We could have quarantined the contradiction.
Instead, we swam inside.
I was Floating. Waiting. Trusting.
He was Sinking in his echo:

“Don’t get too attached.”

His waves came up and shrank back.
Promise and retreat.
Belief and indecision.
But never
Never
Stability
Up, shrink back.
Up, shrink back.

“You can’t pick and choose what you go slow with.”

Up, shrink back.

I rode a wave into shore and then,
Then it was his idea:

There they were on the edge of the water, our drip castles in the sand.
FRAGILE.
IGNORANT.
TEMPORARY.

They were his idea.

He was hoping to fall asleep in the transition and wake up with the answer.
But his sun never entitled him to conviction,
And with the morning, came only a plea for more time.
(One for me, and one for her.)
A neutral party in his own war.

But I loved building that sand castle,
drip FRAGILE
drip IGNORANT
drip TEMPORARY
I loved building that sandcastle, despite the coming wave.

My ignorance was washed away.
So was he.
For while he never spoke an answer,
there was a day
when I stopped waiting.

It was his idea.

I remain unapologetic for my intensity.
“Should we run?”

Up, shrink back.
Up, shrink back.

Promise & retreat.

And love said “CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?”

But he was drowning in his echo.