Red Doors (An Irrational Sentiment)
April 30, 2016
an original short story by eden.celeste
Lucy had an irrational sentiment towards red doors. From the age of two, she'd stretch her arms out to them as if extending her admiration.
In her teenage years, as her parents were going through a messy divorce, she became confident that there were families behind those doors that didn't look so sentimental. Lucy could now grasp at the concepts of anger and sadness and how they those emotions then give us warped perceptions of the ones we love. Still, she'd look at a red door and feel delighted. Her hope was astounding. So much so that she inspired her mother to take up counseling. Her father was absent after the settlement went through, but Lucy wrote to him for months and months. When she finally got a reply out of him, it was a cold letter. Short and stern. He asked that she not write him anymore. And that was that. It was the first time Lucy ever felt true jilted.
About a month later, a family friend called Lucy up and told her that the letters were really a gift to Lucy's father. They had became a reality check for him, despite the way he had framed the letter. The family friend pleaded that Lucy just be patient. Lucy's father would come around eventually, she insisted. He was trying to do better, be a better man, she promised. Although Lucy wouldn't see him for another two years, he really did take that time to right most of the wrongs in his life. He sought out financial help, found solace in AA meetings. and got his real estate license.
Oblivious to all the changes going on in her father's life, Lucy had her own change to handle. While she struggled so deeply with the distance from her father, Lucy began applying for colleges. In the midst of her futuristic plans, Lucy kept experiencing this reoccurring dream. In it was a red door that she kept approaching although she could never reach the door to open it and see what was inside. After the sixth time of waking up in frustration, Lucy journaled about the red door to try and make sense of its meaning. She quickly attributed that door with safety and warmth. That was easy enough. What she had a hard time with was coming to terms with what reaching the door represented for her. Was it about solitude? Confinement? Grief?
This was all the inspiration for Lucy's personal statement. Suddenly she was typing away about her hopes and dreams for the world. The red door was her steadfast belief. She vowed to live out her goals in honor of creating space to keep others safe and warm. She authentically admitted to not knowing how she'd accomplish such a huge feat, but it was tied to her aspirations of becoming a social worker. Lucy could feel it in her bones that she was on to something here! Sure, all of it seemed unattainable at the moment: the completing her degree part or the opening up a safe haven of her own part or even the staying positive enough to keep reaching part. Lucy just knew she believed in something steeped in heartbeats, as deep and forthcoming as red.
Lucy had an irrational sentiment towards red doors. From the age of two, she'd stretch her arms out to them as if extending her admiration.
In her teenage years, as her parents were going through a messy divorce, she became confident that there were families behind those doors that didn't look so sentimental. Lucy could now grasp at the concepts of anger and sadness and how they those emotions then give us warped perceptions of the ones we love. Still, she'd look at a red door and feel delighted. Her hope was astounding. So much so that she inspired her mother to take up counseling. Her father was absent after the settlement went through, but Lucy wrote to him for months and months. When she finally got a reply out of him, it was a cold letter. Short and stern. He asked that she not write him anymore. And that was that. It was the first time Lucy ever felt true jilted.
About a month later, a family friend called Lucy up and told her that the letters were really a gift to Lucy's father. They had became a reality check for him, despite the way he had framed the letter. The family friend pleaded that Lucy just be patient. Lucy's father would come around eventually, she insisted. He was trying to do better, be a better man, she promised. Although Lucy wouldn't see him for another two years, he really did take that time to right most of the wrongs in his life. He sought out financial help, found solace in AA meetings. and got his real estate license.
Oblivious to all the changes going on in her father's life, Lucy had her own change to handle. While she struggled so deeply with the distance from her father, Lucy began applying for colleges. In the midst of her futuristic plans, Lucy kept experiencing this reoccurring dream. In it was a red door that she kept approaching although she could never reach the door to open it and see what was inside. After the sixth time of waking up in frustration, Lucy journaled about the red door to try and make sense of its meaning. She quickly attributed that door with safety and warmth. That was easy enough. What she had a hard time with was coming to terms with what reaching the door represented for her. Was it about solitude? Confinement? Grief?
This was all the inspiration for Lucy's personal statement. Suddenly she was typing away about her hopes and dreams for the world. The red door was her steadfast belief. She vowed to live out her goals in honor of creating space to keep others safe and warm. She authentically admitted to not knowing how she'd accomplish such a huge feat, but it was tied to her aspirations of becoming a social worker. Lucy could feel it in her bones that she was on to something here! Sure, all of it seemed unattainable at the moment: the completing her degree part or the opening up a safe haven of her own part or even the staying positive enough to keep reaching part. Lucy just knew she believed in something steeped in heartbeats, as deep and forthcoming as red.
How I'd Come to Know Inspir
March 14, 2016
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an original poem by eden.celeste
It only took a second for me realize, that's it! That's the next challenge I wanna tackle. Well then there was a beam of light, and the rest of it seemed kind of odd to me. Cause I'm not a believer of much, you see? I just walk along this Earth feeling pulled in the direction of the Next Best Thing. But that day, I felt more. It was almost electric: a ping in my soul, and another ping in my brain. My feelings and logic, they were conversin'! They said they liked the idea of this challenge. Then went on, muttering something about conjuring the creature named "Inspir." Which was crazy talk, really! 'Cause Inspir is a character in the old fables. So I shut those thoughts down and went about my day. That's when things took a turn for the worse. I began to feel all tormented and unruly. Could the two incidents be connected at all? Nah, no way. But sure enough, every time I'd sit down to hammer out the day's mundane chores, nothing came of them. All I'd do is get distracted by thoughts of The Next Challenge. And by the middle of the day, I was dazed and confused. All caught up in the future. What was this feeling inside me? Unsure of my next move, but not liking what other cards I had to play, I took a chance and called out to Inspir, It was silent for about a solid minute, and then He answered. Confident and sure. This was how I'd come to know Inspir. I'd never be the same. |
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Trivial Yet Distinct
August 2nd, 2015
Writing is about observation. It's about turning the boring stuff into a poetic soliloquy. One of my first writing prompts was about a horse. That was the only context. From there, each individual could literally take the story anywhere. Prompts are good for the writer's mind because they force us to pull stuff out of thin air or capture the real stuff. It's up to us.
Neither one of these short pieces began as prompts, but I did try to focus in on specific details. They were inspired by the late Marina Keegan. When I first read through Marina's book, The Opposite of Loneliness, I was blissed out for days. I wanted to enroll in Creative Writing classes again. I was determined to reach an audience the way she has. I still pick up that book for little chunks of enlightenment.
Sure, it sounds like I'm talking this author up, but the thing about her writing is that it's meaningfully simple. She writes about everything. Nothing is off limits. The topics range from whales to her 1990 Camry and even artichokes. Hence why I'm trying to capture trivial things that can be memorable and distinct. I don't think I hit the nail on the head, but I'm getting closer.
Airport Pick-Me-Up (original prose by eden.celeste)
Sister grabbed my hand as we wiggled to Taylor Swift. Wiggled is the correct word I'd say. You can't truly dance in the car- not really.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"I just love you. And I've missed you," she sniffled.
We'd go on to share stories until we came crashing into her apartment. Sister's roommate was asleep so we had to whisper. Her cat kept us entertained. Exhaustion made us giggle at everything it hopped on or attacked. That's when we thought it'd be a good idea to turn on Netflix- Kimmy Schmidt for the win! We settled down, both of us trying to fight to stay awake. My last thought of the night was a happy one.
Maybe I should fly in at midnight more often.
Sister grabbed my hand as we wiggled to Taylor Swift. Wiggled is the correct word I'd say. You can't truly dance in the car- not really.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"I just love you. And I've missed you," she sniffled.
We'd go on to share stories until we came crashing into her apartment. Sister's roommate was asleep so we had to whisper. Her cat kept us entertained. Exhaustion made us giggle at everything it hopped on or attacked. That's when we thought it'd be a good idea to turn on Netflix- Kimmy Schmidt for the win! We settled down, both of us trying to fight to stay awake. My last thought of the night was a happy one.
Maybe I should fly in at midnight more often.
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The Wedding Reception (original prose by eden.celeste)
Wine, love, and laughter. I was 21 again. Reliving the moments we had as college kids. We really didn't know what responsibility looked like, did we? Our homework would get neglected. We made scenes in public places. Both indecent and invaluable. Like that time we went and saw One Day in theaters, and inappropriately cackled at the tragic ending. Yeah, that was terribly wonderful.
When the time came to say goodbye to the bride, it hit me- 2 days just wasn't enough. Could I have more? Never had I been this emotional saying it. Why was this time different? I apologized. Quite frankly it was her day. The selfishness frustrated me. She said not to worry about it, and squeezed me tight. I fled for the bathroom, and into a stall I hid. In denial about crying, I tried to stifle the noise. It didn't work, of course- it never does. I managed the meltdown pretty well I suppose, but then I had do something about the mess. There was snot and makeup all over. I'm sure I looked like a raccoon. I blew my nose into the raw toilet paper. Ouch. The woman in the next stall asked if I was okay- wondered if I needed anything. As embarrassed as I was, it was such a relief to hear the compassion of a stranger.
Wine, love, and laughter. I was 21 again. Reliving the moments we had as college kids. We really didn't know what responsibility looked like, did we? Our homework would get neglected. We made scenes in public places. Both indecent and invaluable. Like that time we went and saw One Day in theaters, and inappropriately cackled at the tragic ending. Yeah, that was terribly wonderful.
When the time came to say goodbye to the bride, it hit me- 2 days just wasn't enough. Could I have more? Never had I been this emotional saying it. Why was this time different? I apologized. Quite frankly it was her day. The selfishness frustrated me. She said not to worry about it, and squeezed me tight. I fled for the bathroom, and into a stall I hid. In denial about crying, I tried to stifle the noise. It didn't work, of course- it never does. I managed the meltdown pretty well I suppose, but then I had do something about the mess. There was snot and makeup all over. I'm sure I looked like a raccoon. I blew my nose into the raw toilet paper. Ouch. The woman in the next stall asked if I was okay- wondered if I needed anything. As embarrassed as I was, it was such a relief to hear the compassion of a stranger.
Kansas Fields Forever
May 16, 2015
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original poems by eden.celeste
Remnants Two twin beds shovedtogetherwithcare. Surrounded by purple walls, with matching curtains. It's almost...sterile. Uninhabited. The other room's just the opposite. Cluttered. A mess of boxes and books. Unrecognizable. Space that doesn't feel like mine anymore. A collection of things... abandoned. Wish I felt sorry, but a proud sentiment dwells inside. This place blessed me with courage. Filled me with compassionate, spoiled love. Prepared me for departure, to survive outside it's comforting walls. The comfort brings me back: familiarity, all smug and warm. (February 2015) Billy Joel invaded my mind as I caressed the remnants of my childhood: "You can get what you want or you can just get old." All the new, shiny pieces of myself ho-hummed along. That is, until I discovered missing fragments of myself. Ones I forgot along the way. Suddenly, the process of simple reminiscence was disrupted, jarred. Vienna was waiting for me. The push and pull of "passion and pride" was prominent. I attempted to shove(me)togetherwithcare. (April 2015) My crazy child-self tried to slow down. That lasted for about a day or two. It might be awhile, Vienna. Thank God you're patient. Heavy Heads When's it both of us, together again, we snuggle up. Laken in the pink sheets, I slip into the blue. It used to be a month apart. Now it's six, seven, or even eight. Much to catch up on. Must stay awake. Whispers float in the dark. We chatter. About: boys, our parents, memories, and struggles. Our heads feel heavy 'til one of us passes out, mid- |
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That's How Strong (His Melodic Rasp)
November 23, 2014
original poem by eden.celeste
"I don't want no cream and sugar
'cause I got you now darlin',
but just let me enjoy,
help me enjoy
this good time that we'll have."- Otis Redding
I've known it.
Maybe, for at least a decade now?
This soul is an old soul.
The feel good tunes of older eras,
they nourish my carefree spirit.
(My little feet dance innocently/wildly to
My Girl The Way You Look Tonight Ain't No Mountain
High Enough I Got You Babe Uptight [Everything is
Alright] Do You Love Me? Sugar, Sugar)
All it takes is two seconds.
Whole body,
whole soul,
overcome with joy.
The heart knows what it wants.
The heart gets what it wants.
It thumps louder
to the reverberating beats.
It's why "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner."
Ya know?
'Cause you can't control contentment.
It's not be bottled.
Not to be stopped.
The loophole?
To redirect the contentment.
Bring care-free action to thought-full reflection
The reflective tunes of older eras,
they nourish my hopeless romantic spirit.
(Bookends Try a Little Tenderness All I
Have to Do is Dream At Last The Man That Got
Away Don't Worry Baby Fire and Rain,
their gentle sounds whoosh over me.)
It's 'cause I love falling for surroundings,
not just romance itself.
My heart breaks in the process,
but I've felt the world upon me!
That's why these tunes are so significant.
They don't just get to me.
They drown me in bittersweet sorrow
as I consume the human experience.
And nothing, NOBODY
can compete with Mr. Redding.
Otis, you had me at
That's How Strong My Love Is.
I was only 13 years old!
How was a 13 year-old girl
supposed to handle that melodic rasp?
I dreamt of a love that might also
"wrap me in it's colors and keep me warm."
Nowadays,
I'm quite fond of Cigarettes and Coffee,
but still, I search.
Even made a promise to myself:
Otis Redding will be a part of my wedding day
'cause the man I marry?
He'll get it.
"I don't want no cream and sugar
'cause I got you now darlin',
but just let me enjoy,
help me enjoy
this good time that we'll have."- Otis Redding
I've known it.
Maybe, for at least a decade now?
This soul is an old soul.
The feel good tunes of older eras,
they nourish my carefree spirit.
(My little feet dance innocently/wildly to
My Girl The Way You Look Tonight Ain't No Mountain
High Enough I Got You Babe Uptight [Everything is
Alright] Do You Love Me? Sugar, Sugar)
All it takes is two seconds.
Whole body,
whole soul,
overcome with joy.
The heart knows what it wants.
The heart gets what it wants.
It thumps louder
to the reverberating beats.
It's why "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner."
Ya know?
'Cause you can't control contentment.
It's not be bottled.
Not to be stopped.
The loophole?
To redirect the contentment.
Bring care-free action to thought-full reflection
The reflective tunes of older eras,
they nourish my hopeless romantic spirit.
(Bookends Try a Little Tenderness All I
Have to Do is Dream At Last The Man That Got
Away Don't Worry Baby Fire and Rain,
their gentle sounds whoosh over me.)
It's 'cause I love falling for surroundings,
not just romance itself.
My heart breaks in the process,
but I've felt the world upon me!
That's why these tunes are so significant.
They don't just get to me.
They drown me in bittersweet sorrow
as I consume the human experience.
And nothing, NOBODY
can compete with Mr. Redding.
Otis, you had me at
That's How Strong My Love Is.
I was only 13 years old!
How was a 13 year-old girl
supposed to handle that melodic rasp?
I dreamt of a love that might also
"wrap me in it's colors and keep me warm."
Nowadays,
I'm quite fond of Cigarettes and Coffee,
but still, I search.
Even made a promise to myself:
Otis Redding will be a part of my wedding day
'cause the man I marry?
He'll get it.
London Fog
October 19, 2014
In preparation for NaNoWriMo, here's an original piece.
October's frenzy had finally died down. Instead of feeling enlightened, Liz's delightful demeanor was long gone. With every interaction, came an opposite and snippy reaction. Her friends knew something was awry, but strangers didn't know any better. Craig was her oldest and closest confidant. Thinking this had gone long enough, he decided to set something up with Liz on the eve of Halloween. The two of them agreed to meet at Cederberg, their go-to tea spot in Queen Anne.
Craig had nothing better to do that day so he took his time getting around. He hopped onto the bus by 1:50, expecting Liz to be late. It wasn't her MO, but she would be meeting him there after her dance class in Capitol Hill. The second Craig tapped on, he was enveloped by the scent of weed. It wasn't uncommon, and he was almost comforted by the smell. Seattle's wild character was it's charm, and it was everything his hometown wasn't. A gentle smile crept up on him. Two seconds later, he was lost in thought about how to bring up the sore subject Liz had been ignoring for months.
Across town, Liz was rushed for time. Class was a thrill, but her body was glistened with a smelly sweat. She gulped the water left in her plastic bottle, grabbed up her tote, and pushed past the group to claim one of the big stalls in the bathroom. After changing without any consideration for the others in the space, Liz made the counter her own. With a flick of her wrist, she released her tight bun from the very top of her head. Her long locks hit her shoulders long enough for her to smell the hair product. Determined but still a hectic mess, she twisted her highlights into a loose, fishtail braid and topped off her orange outfit with a bright yellow hat. Out the door she ran. Fumbling for her keys was the only thing slowing her down. After she unlocked her Camry, she was confronted by an album she had been hypnotized by as of late. It was City and Colour'sThe MySpace Transmissions, circa 2008. The acoustics calmed her mind until she was stuck in god awful traffic on Steward. She weaved and turned turns to get away from the chaos, then parked rather abruptly near Kerry Park. There was no time to spare, so she didn't bother sneaking a peak.
Ding! went the bell on the door. As if she wasn't flustered just two minutes ago, she was genuinely enlightened to see Craig. s. It's like her walls broke down around him, and in giving into the instant relief she felt, she sauntered over to the love seat he was hogging. With a playful nudge of her own body, she managed to nuzzle her butt near his. "Scouch!"
"Well aren't you chipper," retorted Craig sarcastically.
"Thanks for noticing! Can't say I've been like this all day. Guess it's just your unmistakable charm, huh?" The two of them had an easy banter. It made their lives comical though no one else understood.
"While I agree with you on the charming bit, I've noticed you've been..." Craig paused as he choose his words carefully,
"--been what?" Liz prompted.
"Nothing. How 'bout we get drinks first? My treat. I'll even buy some of that 'crack cake' you seem to love," he was sweet talking her, sure, but Craig honestly wanted to see Liz happy. Her eyes lit up, and he knew he had her hooked.
"Sure! But in exchange for the crack, you've gotta tell me at least one good dating story. God knows my dating life is non-existent!" With that comment came a dampened energy. Craig knew Liz was trying to joke this off, but it was easy to see how annoyed she was with how stagnant things had been for her.
"Deal," Craig shortly replied, relieved that he was next in line. "Can we get two grande Caramel Lattes and Malva Pudding?" Before it was too late, Liz chimed in. She directed her attention to Carrie the Barista. With a smug attitude, she claimed the order proudly. "Actually, I need a London Fog. And make it a Vinti!"
"Oh, no problem," Carrie the Barista politely added with a very plastered smile on her face. Craig could tell she had to deal with snobby customers like this all the time. Liz was oblivious, and fell back onto the love seat as Craig forked over the money. No, it wasn't a lot, but Liz was being ungrateful. This wasn't going to be easy.
"Since when did you start drinking London Fogs?" Craig inquired.
"I drink them every now and then," Liz clipped.
"Wow. Someone's a bit on edge. What happened to that charm of mine that made you so chipper just seconds ago?"
"On edge, huh?" Liz already seemed peeved. "Oh darlin'! Whatever do you mean!?" she exclaimed with a Southern accent. She also placed her left hand on her chest.
"A Caramel Latte, a London Fog, and Malva Pudding!" Carrie the Barista called out. Craig didn't want to disrupt Liz's comfort, so he got up and picked up the order. He wanted to change the subject. Craig didn't want to pick a fight so he tried to start the pleasant part of their conversation back up again.
"So...my dating life is g--" but he got cut off by Liz's resiliency
"Don't change the subject, Craig. Why did you make that comment?" she demanded.
"What comment?" he tired playing dumb, but he knew it wouldn't work. Liz glared at him. "Oh, you mean the comment about being on edge?"
"Ding, ding, ding!" Liz said sarcastically.
"Well...I mean...can I be frank?" Craig looked uptight now, not wanting this to end in a disastrous turn of events.
"Aren't you already being frank?" she pointed out.
"Point, Liz. Okay then. Well...you've been pretty sharp since he left town, ya know?" his voice tapered off as he was hoping she would know exactly who he was referring to.
"Who?" Of course she knew he was talking about, but she pretended like she didn't.
"Jason, Liz. I mean Jason." Craig whispered with exhaustion. "You're not over it. I can tell. Have you even cried?" he looked worried, and Liz picked up on that, but she was more concerned with the assumption he had made about her. How dare he think she wasn't over it or even bring this up!
"I just want to leave well enough alone, Craig. Can you understand that? He did a shitty thing. He's not a shitty person. I'm moving on. End of story." This was the mantra she had been telling herself daily. 'He did a shitty thing, he's NOT a shitty person.' It was easier that way. She could forgive a shitty thing, but she refused to confront the way Jason had left her at the train station on that hot July day. Truth was, she couldn't even be around Mount Baker station without getting tongue-tied or nostalgic.
"Look, I get it. I really do." Craig reached for her hand as Liz glanced down into her lap, ashamed and scared to confront all of this--the lump in her throat, her best friend telling her she didn't have to be strong. It was real, and it was everything she had been avoiding. "Hey, would you just look at me?" Their eyes locked and Craig continued.
"Liz, I've never seen you like this. Do you hear yourself? You're trying to convince yourself that you don't have be angry with him while everyone else in your life is getting cut off. And must I remind you that everyone else lives here, and he lives a time zone away?"
"That's not--" out of defense, Liz went to defend her case, but Craig did the cutting off this time.
"Fair? Yeah, neither is the attitude. I love ya Liz, but it's been hard to be your friend. It was fair to think he might apologize after you sent him that letter, but it's been three months. If he really, truly cared, he'd come back or at least apologize."
"He has apologized," Liz softly replied.
"When?" Craig asked.
"Last weekend. I mean, He said he meant to reach out to me several times, but he didn't want to have THE conversation."
"Hmmm..."
"Hmmm what?" Liz looked annoyed again.
"I just don't see how that's an apology. Jason's taken the easy way out every single time you were brave enough to bring up the obvious issues." It was true, and Liz knew it. The trust she had established with Jason was abolished. Even if they worked all of this out, they could never be friends again. She loved him, and that tugged at her heart even stronger than anything she'd ever known before. Suddenly, a flashback invaded her thoughts.
It was three-ish years ago. Liz was in Chicago for a conference. She sipped on her drink and held her hands to the cup when "every now and then" used to be an always thing. London Fog was her drink of choice back then. She was softer. More naive. The Fog gave her a great comfort, and from that day forward, she would subconsciously associate the spice of the tea with Jason. It was the fourth day of the conference, and her eyes skimmed the room. They landed on Jason after she finished slurping the not-so-satisfying grit that had settled in the cup.
"What'cha drinkin there? Looks yummy!" Jason teased, noticing Liz's disgusted face.
In four days, they had already established a recognizable banter. Jason and her would go back and forth like her and Craig had for years, but it was different with Jason. There was an obvious attraction, but she shoved it down--harshly. She was with someone else; so was he. There was no need to make things messy. They just happened to have the same kind of humor. That was all.
"It was a delicious London Fog. Until I got to the bottom of it, that is!" Liz reported with a giggle and a soft snort.
"Ah, the bottom of it, huh? So the drink's just as much of a mystery as you are," Jason winked. He caught her of guard, and she was blushing. Liz didn't know where this was headed, but for the very first time, she felt alright with not knowing.
October's frenzy had finally died down. Instead of feeling enlightened, Liz's delightful demeanor was long gone. With every interaction, came an opposite and snippy reaction. Her friends knew something was awry, but strangers didn't know any better. Craig was her oldest and closest confidant. Thinking this had gone long enough, he decided to set something up with Liz on the eve of Halloween. The two of them agreed to meet at Cederberg, their go-to tea spot in Queen Anne.
Craig had nothing better to do that day so he took his time getting around. He hopped onto the bus by 1:50, expecting Liz to be late. It wasn't her MO, but she would be meeting him there after her dance class in Capitol Hill. The second Craig tapped on, he was enveloped by the scent of weed. It wasn't uncommon, and he was almost comforted by the smell. Seattle's wild character was it's charm, and it was everything his hometown wasn't. A gentle smile crept up on him. Two seconds later, he was lost in thought about how to bring up the sore subject Liz had been ignoring for months.
Across town, Liz was rushed for time. Class was a thrill, but her body was glistened with a smelly sweat. She gulped the water left in her plastic bottle, grabbed up her tote, and pushed past the group to claim one of the big stalls in the bathroom. After changing without any consideration for the others in the space, Liz made the counter her own. With a flick of her wrist, she released her tight bun from the very top of her head. Her long locks hit her shoulders long enough for her to smell the hair product. Determined but still a hectic mess, she twisted her highlights into a loose, fishtail braid and topped off her orange outfit with a bright yellow hat. Out the door she ran. Fumbling for her keys was the only thing slowing her down. After she unlocked her Camry, she was confronted by an album she had been hypnotized by as of late. It was City and Colour'sThe MySpace Transmissions, circa 2008. The acoustics calmed her mind until she was stuck in god awful traffic on Steward. She weaved and turned turns to get away from the chaos, then parked rather abruptly near Kerry Park. There was no time to spare, so she didn't bother sneaking a peak.
Ding! went the bell on the door. As if she wasn't flustered just two minutes ago, she was genuinely enlightened to see Craig. s. It's like her walls broke down around him, and in giving into the instant relief she felt, she sauntered over to the love seat he was hogging. With a playful nudge of her own body, she managed to nuzzle her butt near his. "Scouch!"
"Well aren't you chipper," retorted Craig sarcastically.
"Thanks for noticing! Can't say I've been like this all day. Guess it's just your unmistakable charm, huh?" The two of them had an easy banter. It made their lives comical though no one else understood.
"While I agree with you on the charming bit, I've noticed you've been..." Craig paused as he choose his words carefully,
"--been what?" Liz prompted.
"Nothing. How 'bout we get drinks first? My treat. I'll even buy some of that 'crack cake' you seem to love," he was sweet talking her, sure, but Craig honestly wanted to see Liz happy. Her eyes lit up, and he knew he had her hooked.
"Sure! But in exchange for the crack, you've gotta tell me at least one good dating story. God knows my dating life is non-existent!" With that comment came a dampened energy. Craig knew Liz was trying to joke this off, but it was easy to see how annoyed she was with how stagnant things had been for her.
"Deal," Craig shortly replied, relieved that he was next in line. "Can we get two grande Caramel Lattes and Malva Pudding?" Before it was too late, Liz chimed in. She directed her attention to Carrie the Barista. With a smug attitude, she claimed the order proudly. "Actually, I need a London Fog. And make it a Vinti!"
"Oh, no problem," Carrie the Barista politely added with a very plastered smile on her face. Craig could tell she had to deal with snobby customers like this all the time. Liz was oblivious, and fell back onto the love seat as Craig forked over the money. No, it wasn't a lot, but Liz was being ungrateful. This wasn't going to be easy.
"Since when did you start drinking London Fogs?" Craig inquired.
"I drink them every now and then," Liz clipped.
"Wow. Someone's a bit on edge. What happened to that charm of mine that made you so chipper just seconds ago?"
"On edge, huh?" Liz already seemed peeved. "Oh darlin'! Whatever do you mean!?" she exclaimed with a Southern accent. She also placed her left hand on her chest.
"A Caramel Latte, a London Fog, and Malva Pudding!" Carrie the Barista called out. Craig didn't want to disrupt Liz's comfort, so he got up and picked up the order. He wanted to change the subject. Craig didn't want to pick a fight so he tried to start the pleasant part of their conversation back up again.
"So...my dating life is g--" but he got cut off by Liz's resiliency
"Don't change the subject, Craig. Why did you make that comment?" she demanded.
"What comment?" he tired playing dumb, but he knew it wouldn't work. Liz glared at him. "Oh, you mean the comment about being on edge?"
"Ding, ding, ding!" Liz said sarcastically.
"Well...I mean...can I be frank?" Craig looked uptight now, not wanting this to end in a disastrous turn of events.
"Aren't you already being frank?" she pointed out.
"Point, Liz. Okay then. Well...you've been pretty sharp since he left town, ya know?" his voice tapered off as he was hoping she would know exactly who he was referring to.
"Who?" Of course she knew he was talking about, but she pretended like she didn't.
"Jason, Liz. I mean Jason." Craig whispered with exhaustion. "You're not over it. I can tell. Have you even cried?" he looked worried, and Liz picked up on that, but she was more concerned with the assumption he had made about her. How dare he think she wasn't over it or even bring this up!
"I just want to leave well enough alone, Craig. Can you understand that? He did a shitty thing. He's not a shitty person. I'm moving on. End of story." This was the mantra she had been telling herself daily. 'He did a shitty thing, he's NOT a shitty person.' It was easier that way. She could forgive a shitty thing, but she refused to confront the way Jason had left her at the train station on that hot July day. Truth was, she couldn't even be around Mount Baker station without getting tongue-tied or nostalgic.
"Look, I get it. I really do." Craig reached for her hand as Liz glanced down into her lap, ashamed and scared to confront all of this--the lump in her throat, her best friend telling her she didn't have to be strong. It was real, and it was everything she had been avoiding. "Hey, would you just look at me?" Their eyes locked and Craig continued.
"Liz, I've never seen you like this. Do you hear yourself? You're trying to convince yourself that you don't have be angry with him while everyone else in your life is getting cut off. And must I remind you that everyone else lives here, and he lives a time zone away?"
"That's not--" out of defense, Liz went to defend her case, but Craig did the cutting off this time.
"Fair? Yeah, neither is the attitude. I love ya Liz, but it's been hard to be your friend. It was fair to think he might apologize after you sent him that letter, but it's been three months. If he really, truly cared, he'd come back or at least apologize."
"He has apologized," Liz softly replied.
"When?" Craig asked.
"Last weekend. I mean, He said he meant to reach out to me several times, but he didn't want to have THE conversation."
"Hmmm..."
"Hmmm what?" Liz looked annoyed again.
"I just don't see how that's an apology. Jason's taken the easy way out every single time you were brave enough to bring up the obvious issues." It was true, and Liz knew it. The trust she had established with Jason was abolished. Even if they worked all of this out, they could never be friends again. She loved him, and that tugged at her heart even stronger than anything she'd ever known before. Suddenly, a flashback invaded her thoughts.
It was three-ish years ago. Liz was in Chicago for a conference. She sipped on her drink and held her hands to the cup when "every now and then" used to be an always thing. London Fog was her drink of choice back then. She was softer. More naive. The Fog gave her a great comfort, and from that day forward, she would subconsciously associate the spice of the tea with Jason. It was the fourth day of the conference, and her eyes skimmed the room. They landed on Jason after she finished slurping the not-so-satisfying grit that had settled in the cup.
"What'cha drinkin there? Looks yummy!" Jason teased, noticing Liz's disgusted face.
In four days, they had already established a recognizable banter. Jason and her would go back and forth like her and Craig had for years, but it was different with Jason. There was an obvious attraction, but she shoved it down--harshly. She was with someone else; so was he. There was no need to make things messy. They just happened to have the same kind of humor. That was all.
"It was a delicious London Fog. Until I got to the bottom of it, that is!" Liz reported with a giggle and a soft snort.
"Ah, the bottom of it, huh? So the drink's just as much of a mystery as you are," Jason winked. He caught her of guard, and she was blushing. Liz didn't know where this was headed, but for the very first time, she felt alright with not knowing.
Adorable Puddles
September 5, 2014
original poem by eden.celeste
That hazy May rain- it sprinkled, then poured.
The hood of my jacket was drenched.
My shoes, soggy.
I normally felt inclined to huff and puff, but not in that moment.
Not with you on my mind.
The droplets didn't just smell fresh.
They soaked through like new beginnings.
You know the scent.
It's an epiphany mixed with the fearful unknown.
You're scared and calm all at the same time.
The heart beats just a little bit faster.
It's on the verge of claiming something as it's own.
Halfway up the Madison hill,
I pulled my hood off with a tilt of my head-
this is pure ecstasy.
A giddy smile was exposed for all of Seattle to see, and I?
I was the fool who wasn't worried.
Words I couldn't give to you were on the tip of my tongue.
I gave them away to the mist.
Then, a great big puddle caught my eye.
I pounced.
The water splattered halfway up my pant leg.
A big squeal came out- what a youthful release!
With key in hand, I was dazed but not confused.
As soon as the lock clicked, I bolted for the shower.
Shimming out of my clothes didn't work.
I peeled them off instead.
To feel the instant gratification of heat on my skin,
I flicked on the fan and blasted hot water.
The heat on my chilled skin just about scolded my course
goosebumps until I ran my hands over them.
Friction to the touch that shocked me.
Like the words you said earlier that day.
You said I made you so happy.
I felt important, enlightened-
the exact opposite of hazy and misty.
Suddenly, I wanted to dry off.
I bundled up in my light blue towel.
(The one you used when you visited.)
Before I even had a chance to brush my hair,
my little fingers were telling you about my puddle-jumping adventure.
Your reply was perfect,
simple as replies come:
:) You're adorable.
That energy is what I like about you.
I miss you so much.
Funny how my words still belong to the mist.
I never had the chance to give them away.
Truth is, puddles aren't adorable if they can't survive the ripple effect.
And that puddle was what adorable meant before everything went to shit.
That hazy May rain- it sprinkled, then poured.
The hood of my jacket was drenched.
My shoes, soggy.
I normally felt inclined to huff and puff, but not in that moment.
Not with you on my mind.
The droplets didn't just smell fresh.
They soaked through like new beginnings.
You know the scent.
It's an epiphany mixed with the fearful unknown.
You're scared and calm all at the same time.
The heart beats just a little bit faster.
It's on the verge of claiming something as it's own.
Halfway up the Madison hill,
I pulled my hood off with a tilt of my head-
this is pure ecstasy.
A giddy smile was exposed for all of Seattle to see, and I?
I was the fool who wasn't worried.
Words I couldn't give to you were on the tip of my tongue.
I gave them away to the mist.
Then, a great big puddle caught my eye.
I pounced.
The water splattered halfway up my pant leg.
A big squeal came out- what a youthful release!
With key in hand, I was dazed but not confused.
As soon as the lock clicked, I bolted for the shower.
Shimming out of my clothes didn't work.
I peeled them off instead.
To feel the instant gratification of heat on my skin,
I flicked on the fan and blasted hot water.
The heat on my chilled skin just about scolded my course
goosebumps until I ran my hands over them.
Friction to the touch that shocked me.
Like the words you said earlier that day.
You said I made you so happy.
I felt important, enlightened-
the exact opposite of hazy and misty.
Suddenly, I wanted to dry off.
I bundled up in my light blue towel.
(The one you used when you visited.)
Before I even had a chance to brush my hair,
my little fingers were telling you about my puddle-jumping adventure.
Your reply was perfect,
simple as replies come:
:) You're adorable.
That energy is what I like about you.
I miss you so much.
Funny how my words still belong to the mist.
I never had the chance to give them away.
Truth is, puddles aren't adorable if they can't survive the ripple effect.
And that puddle was what adorable meant before everything went to shit.
Something. Someone.
May 5, 2014
original poem by eden.celeste
It's dirty and loud and overwhelming and...real.
Every person is a person with infinite problems and joys.
Isn't that the tragic beauty of it all?
We're just here, passing one another by.
Surrounded. We can feel lonely or taken aback.
Remember this. This is...good.
The feelings feeling alive forces you to keep.
You swell...pump...bleed.
You need. Anything. Anyone.
Excessive repetition.
We do it everyday-
wake, work, love, hurt, worry...feel.
That's why I sprint towards chaos.
I wake, work, love, hurt and worry.
I'm eager to invite it in:
Something. Someone.
I'm intrigued. Amazed.
I'm me because of it.
I'm this-right now- because of it.
Keep it coming.
I could live off of it for days and days.
It enthralls me.
It wraps me up in it's warmth.
Yes, that's a blanket I never want to toss off my skin.
Something. Someone.
Gotta keep it all in suspense to build
upon the person I was one second ago.
Remember this. This is...good.
It's dirty and loud and overwhelming and...real.
Every person is a person with infinite problems and joys.
Isn't that the tragic beauty of it all?
We're just here, passing one another by.
Surrounded. We can feel lonely or taken aback.
Remember this. This is...good.
The feelings feeling alive forces you to keep.
You swell...pump...bleed.
You need. Anything. Anyone.
Excessive repetition.
We do it everyday-
wake, work, love, hurt, worry...feel.
That's why I sprint towards chaos.
I wake, work, love, hurt and worry.
I'm eager to invite it in:
Something. Someone.
I'm intrigued. Amazed.
I'm me because of it.
I'm this-right now- because of it.
Keep it coming.
I could live off of it for days and days.
It enthralls me.
It wraps me up in it's warmth.
Yes, that's a blanket I never want to toss off my skin.
Something. Someone.
Gotta keep it all in suspense to build
upon the person I was one second ago.
Remember this. This is...good.
Listen- These Albums Tell Stories
July 16, 2013
|
original poem by eden.celeste
Doorstop delivery. These ears listened for 3 weeks straight. What a rough patch. How confusing indeed. Looking back, my heart was not beating pretty. "Jumpstart my Kaleidoscope Heart- it may not make sense but it sure as hell makes me." But that music...that music made me believe in words again and soul and magical sounds of a record I could not and would not put down. Then that intimate concert of yours? I stood in line, stood up right next to you. Cried a little, danced a lot. Things...things were somehow better after that and I can't explain it or justify why. If I had to guess, I'd guess it was the "He's not a magic man, or a perfect fit- he had a steady hand and I got used to it." Vulnerability, authenticity. "Let the rain come down- make a brand new ground." I was suddenly grounded in strength. The strength of not another, but myself and the Lord. I needed others, but I needed me and my passion and His love even more. What had dictated my heart before, didn't dictate it anymore. I stood up for this. Fought hard. Felt better. History, though- it has a tendency of repeating itself, doesn't it? Cycles, highs, and lows. I'm ready to press play, listen intently, and repeat again since there's a stirring inside of me that has everything to do with my own Blessed Unrest. Blessings are abound, but it's 2 AM, and I'm up scribbling these words. "Maybe there's a way out of the cage where you live. Maybe one of these days you can let the light in." Maybe. Or maybe the light's in, and I just can't be comforted by it right now? Nobody said I have to stand strong and be tall every day. That's vulnerability and authenticity. Admitting I'm faulted. I'm human. There's un- rest in that. It's gonna keep me marching, when I march again 'cause "Life in Eden changed- no way to make the pain play fair or make it disappear just because you say it isn't there." I'm slow for the count- not down. I'm gonna get back up in my own time and pace, with my own talent and grace. Yes, life in me will change and be changed if I cling to my vitality. My story told through albums. My story told through life unfolding, wrapping me up in it's complications, it's cycles, it's highs, and it's lows. Listen. I tell a story. |
|
Speck
August 22, 2012
original poem by eden.celeste
It's fall in the city of Makeyourmark.
Here comes Speck's
defining moment, that which gives her a
fighting chance to be someone.
The noisy traffic bustles and
leaves float down to the ground.
Both remind her of how tiny she is
in comparison to every other
wonderful thing in this world.
She's a dot, a grain...
one in a MILLION.
Thousands of faces, many races.
Then there's lil' bitty her.
Flash forward.
Splotches of winter flurries
cover the pavement of the place
Speck now calls home.
On the outside she is
freezing but internally Speck pulses.
Now a more durable
version of herself, she can
fight off diminshing thoughts which
defined her before.
Speck braves the cold
and cherishes her charmed life.
Her new outlook?
She's one in a million!
She gets to play the part of
herself in a world
full of dots and grains.
How organic.
Fleeting but stronger than
anything else she's known.
Intensifying...gradually
for a period of time.
Speck won't purposefully
forget what this feels like.
She'll try to hold on tight,
but other moments will take over,
other moments will override.
So Speck observes.
And she comes close to capturing
what she can of this moment by
transforming her thoughts into
words that will someday
remind her of
brimming Speck--
the version of her that was on the
edge of a defining moment.
It's fall in the city of Makeyourmark.
Here comes Speck's
defining moment, that which gives her a
fighting chance to be someone.
The noisy traffic bustles and
leaves float down to the ground.
Both remind her of how tiny she is
in comparison to every other
wonderful thing in this world.
She's a dot, a grain...
one in a MILLION.
Thousands of faces, many races.
Then there's lil' bitty her.
Flash forward.
Splotches of winter flurries
cover the pavement of the place
Speck now calls home.
On the outside she is
freezing but internally Speck pulses.
Now a more durable
version of herself, she can
fight off diminshing thoughts which
defined her before.
Speck braves the cold
and cherishes her charmed life.
Her new outlook?
She's one in a million!
She gets to play the part of
herself in a world
full of dots and grains.
How organic.
Fleeting but stronger than
anything else she's known.
Intensifying...gradually
for a period of time.
Speck won't purposefully
forget what this feels like.
She'll try to hold on tight,
but other moments will take over,
other moments will override.
So Speck observes.
And she comes close to capturing
what she can of this moment by
transforming her thoughts into
words that will someday
remind her of
brimming Speck--
the version of her that was on the
edge of a defining moment.
My Favorite Holiday: It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Thanks-Mas?
November 22, 2011
original poem by eden.celeste
If the Tree is the
icon for Christmas,
let the Table be the
icon for Thanksgiving.
Cause it's that warmth
of being in the kitchen
all day and THEN
eating till you can't
fit into those pants that
have to last you just...one...
more...year...
Yes, it's beginning to look a lot like
Thanksgiving but with a lot of
Christmas shook into the mix
so excuse me if I get confused
because Thanks-mas,
I mean Thanksgiving,
often gets trumped by
the holiday after
since it's got presents,
Santa, and misle
-toe...HO HO HO!
But Turkey Day is about the
food and
thanks and man,
do I love pum
-kin pie, rolls, and grave-y
with turkey and
that tryptophan.
Because a girl like me
can never be
hungry or
sleepy enough so
bring on the bird!
(Did I mention how thank
-full I am for all of that?)
If the Tree is the
icon for Christmas,
let the Table be the
icon for Thanksgiving.
Cause it's that warmth
of being in the kitchen
all day and THEN
eating till you can't
fit into those pants that
have to last you just...one...
more...year...
Yes, it's beginning to look a lot like
Thanksgiving but with a lot of
Christmas shook into the mix
so excuse me if I get confused
because Thanks-mas,
I mean Thanksgiving,
often gets trumped by
the holiday after
since it's got presents,
Santa, and misle
-toe...HO HO HO!
But Turkey Day is about the
food and
thanks and man,
do I love pum
-kin pie, rolls, and grave-y
with turkey and
that tryptophan.
Because a girl like me
can never be
hungry or
sleepy enough so
bring on the bird!
(Did I mention how thank
-full I am for all of that?)
Terminal 55
November 12, 2010
original poem by eden.celeste
A young man and woman stand awkwardly at terminal 55:
SEATTLE
He's leaving today.
Getting on a plane and flying 400 miles away.
It's the last thing his heart wants to do
but she didn't tell him she wanted to go, too.
She didn't tell him that taking this step
could be a step for the both of them.
She didn't tell him to factor her in,
plan on making plans together
since she wasn't the type to do so.
She wasn't the type to pick a fight
over future things that were not clear
nor was she the type to let someone factor her in
when she wasn't sure she could reciprocate.
300 miles away and she thinks,
Will I ever see him again?
She and he together made them,
but her here
and him there
made two distinct beings.
And they had been a pair for 5 years.
Learned things about the other that no one else knew.
The relationship wasn't useless,
but that information was
and this frustrated her.
It was helping him though.
Helping him move on.
Because he was somewhat relieved she didn't tell
him all those things because now,
there were no attachments.
He wanted to be a distinct being
for the first time in a long time.
He would just be him, living out this next step
with everything open and unplanned.
So he boldly walks through the terminal,
this time being the one disclosing.
He wasn't the type to do so but maybe
there was no better time than the present
to be everything he hadn't ever been.
LAST CALL FOR SEATTLE PASSENGERS
A young man and woman stand awkwardly at terminal 55:
SEATTLE
He's leaving today.
Getting on a plane and flying 400 miles away.
It's the last thing his heart wants to do
but she didn't tell him she wanted to go, too.
She didn't tell him that taking this step
could be a step for the both of them.
She didn't tell him to factor her in,
plan on making plans together
since she wasn't the type to do so.
She wasn't the type to pick a fight
over future things that were not clear
nor was she the type to let someone factor her in
when she wasn't sure she could reciprocate.
300 miles away and she thinks,
Will I ever see him again?
She and he together made them,
but her here
and him there
made two distinct beings.
And they had been a pair for 5 years.
Learned things about the other that no one else knew.
The relationship wasn't useless,
but that information was
and this frustrated her.
It was helping him though.
Helping him move on.
Because he was somewhat relieved she didn't tell
him all those things because now,
there were no attachments.
He wanted to be a distinct being
for the first time in a long time.
He would just be him, living out this next step
with everything open and unplanned.
So he boldly walks through the terminal,
this time being the one disclosing.
He wasn't the type to do so but maybe
there was no better time than the present
to be everything he hadn't ever been.
LAST CALL FOR SEATTLE PASSENGERS