Tuesday Teaser: Potatoes (it's weirder than last week)

There are some things I wish it was okay to say to the person you want to date but can't because it's just, you can't. Like talk some sort of gibberish about potatoes but still be on the same page and not appear weird and not appear obsessed with something like potatoes. Here's a monologue I've had with myself and my ideal potato-lover.

Do you like potatoes? I think potatoes are sexy and yum. Let's eat potatoes. I was driving, flying home from work today, thinking about buying grape tomatoes. Do you ever dream that you're on a boat, flying through cornfields? I really want to kiss you in a cornfield, but nothing rhymes with cornfield. So, sorry, we can't do that, because I can't write a poem about it. I should stop writing poetry then. Just kidding, I made you laugh. We can just settle for my back porch, because I have a hobbit door back there. We can laugh about it and pretend to be hobbits and miss those days when it was okay to pretend to be hobbits. Do you ever feel so small that you could slip right through the crack of my window where the cold air comes in? It freezes you before you make it here. Maybe that's not going to work. I don't want you to feel small. You're the biggest thing in the world to me right now, and I don't care that you can't fit through by back door. No, you're not fat. You're heart is SO FAT. Does my dirty cornflower blond hair bother you? Do you want it to be brighter, cleaner, softer, leaner? I can make that happen. Remember when you called that one time you didn't know how to write something important down? I was twirling my hair the whole time. I hope you wrote something down. Don't feel down. Get you a pick-me-up. Pick me up with your biceps, that'd be magical, don't you think? Your smarty girl, artsy, trying-to-be-hipster. What if I were to ever call you mister? Would that bother you, because people have these weird complexes where they don't want to be treated proper but instead in a more creative but sometimes toxic way. Kind of how the notion of the original hipster has been so tainted. I don't want that. And here you're letting me talk to myself without listening. As if you were listening to music you only think and say you listen to. Let's listen to Drake. He sings about good girls. Do you think he means it? I fancy myself one of them, in the world, doing good, being a girl. But only fancy. Don't be fancy. Let's go home and grow in the dirt.

Somehow, today's bit was inspired by Ted Kooser's "New Potato" as well as Drake. Ask me how and why they relate sometime, and I'll make something up, because I have no idea. But there's nobody here to tell me it's ridiculous or this is ridiculous. But if you're answering, I'm listening, you sexy potato, you.

This is just one of the leathery eggs
the scuffed-up, dirty turtle of the moon
buried early in spring, her eyes like stars
fixed on the future, and, inside its red skin,
whiteness, like all of the moons to come,
and marvelous, buttered with light.
- from Ted Kooser's Valentines

Pterodactyl Tuesday

I've decided that I'm going to start writing on Tuesdays, unleash my creative juices into this blog. That sounds weird doesn't it? I won't release juices. How about we say, rather, that I'm opening my palms, letting the creative meat flow from my fingers, onto the keyboard, and into this space. Okay, I'll work on metaphors...see why I need to start writing regularly again? Juice and meat metaphors.

What do I call this special, weird Tuesday? Tantalizing, twisted, tactual, telling, teeming...tilapia? I can't think of anything not stupid.

Tentative Tuesday.

Terminal Tuesday. No.

Textual Tuesday? That's dumb.

It could be Tipsy Tuesday.

Tolerable Tuesday.

What would happen if we named it Pterodactyl Tuesday...because, did you know? That word is derived from the Greek word "teron," which means "wing" and "daktylos" which refers to the way the wing is supported by a large finger. Yeah that's awkward, maybe, but it makes me think of how my fingers have wings when I'm writing all this junk. And, since I rarely make complete sense of these definition-blogs, it's okay that the P conflicts with the T in the alliteration. If you have other suggestions, I'm open to them.

This comic is from Drew over at Left-Handed Toons

Here's a first writing installment for this Tuesday series.

Blink 182

You blinked at me 182 times
I counted, because that's what
I learned to do at some point
count actions, count joints

You looked at my lips 17 times
when we were at the dive bar
and you ordered only whiskey
then you just melted into me

You said sorry for doing that
But you probably weren't
I said it was fine, it's okay
since that's just what I say

Then came the 182nd blink
and the room ripped open
me one way, you the other
your drink-mix, your lover

Though I like your beard
your hard liquor knowledge
I can't stand those eye cows,
your Travis Barker eyebrows.


(Sorry, Travis). I guess we'll see if this Tuesday routine will actually work, but you can hold me to it. It's always nice to write with you. Happy Tuesday, goofs.

We can laugh about YOLO

It's the new year! That means it's also time for the 3rd Annual Year of Light photo collection. You can check out 2011's Year of Light, about friends and new beginnings in Chicago, and 2012's Beans, where I make terrible chili metaphors. If you're new to this annual event, it's essentially a photo essay about the previous year, through my eyes, should you care to see the world that way for a few minutes.

Some months from this past year have two photos and some have one, which is mostly because I didn't take many photos in 2013. I did, however, write about these moments almost every day. So, this year, I'm accompanying each photograph with a never-before-seen !! selection from my journal. Whoa, yeah, I have one, and you're probably in it. I hope 2013 brought you something as cool as, if not cooler than, what it brought me.

   J A N U A R Y   

This is my little cousin and Goddaughter, Ashlynn, who brings a fresh, adorable joy to the extended Auten family. She is the first girl, on the Auten side, to come into this world since me. Obviously, she's bringing back the awesome, too. This moment was captured by my mom, while Ashlynn was showing us some fresh and clean dance moves. She was also baptized last January.

Monday, January 7

"The peace of home and holding baby Ashlynn and laughing."

   F E B R U A R Y   

This snapshot is from "Don't Fret: Love in the Time of Online Dating," an art exhibition by a street artist named Don't Fret. It was one of my favorites in Chicago. The Pepsi piece is brilliant and did a great job of satirizing our "first world problems" while opening our mind to why we're all so ridiculously in need of love and discovery and humor. Around this time, I also realized how blessed I was to have my artsy, smartsy, creative and funny friends around me. Later in the spring, these Chicago friends even threw me a surprise going away party - I was very moved and very grateful. Also, that mustache. Chicago is full of miraculous mustaches.

Friday, February 8

"'Don't Fret: Love in the Time of Online Dating' was wonderful. And funny. Hanging out with Ziyuan, John and Nicole was also wonderful."

While in Chicago, I received some of these delicious cookies for Valentine's Day. That little heart marks the approximate location of Sullivan Hills, near Lodgepole, Nebraska, where a large chunk of my real heart will always be. The people that sent this cookie are the some of the hardest working, most loving, funniest and most hospitable I've ever met.

Thursday, February 14

"And maybe the accumulation of love (as if it can be accumulated) for my friends and family and innumerable blessings have something to do with joy. I want to shout, dance or paint it to the world..."

   M A R C H   

During a memorable girls' day out in Chicago this past year, my friend Leah snapped this photo of Tazer and me celebrating (and foreshadowing) the Blackhawks' 2013 Stanley Cup victory. Yes, my predictions were correct.

This is another moment from that same day. It's one of my favorites, because it foreshadows something even better - a new, close friendship that would expand into this new year, thank the Lord. 

Sunday, March 17

"...when you lose track of time and it doesn't matter where you are as long as you're laughing with great friends ... we shut down Navy Pier, then Dark Horse, then Trace, then the pizza place of which I was too drunk to catch the name."

   A P R I L   

In Chicago, I took some very long walks. On one of them, I came to this series of paintings on the underside of a highway. On one huge concrete slab, it read, "THE CHICAGO GALLERY 1973." They're called the Hubbard Street Murals and they exist in a place northwest of downtown where people hardly see them. They're weathered, though many have been repaired and others have been added. The original murals were the project of Ricardo Alonzo, a graduate of the Art Institute of Chicago. Over an eight year period, they painted along the mile-long stretch until they ran out of funding in 1979. I miss seeing the evidence of such driven art in Chicago, seeking out the unseen. 

Sunday, April 21

"And the city really is beautiful. Partly home now, which I hadn't anticipated. But here we are, friendship, art, music, culture, new things to do, good people to meet, food to try, community to build and appreciate."

In March, I attended a staff meeting at Time Out Chicago, where I was doing my spring internship. In a quiet, crowded room that overlooks the downtown skyline, the editor in chief announced that Time Out Chicago would cease as a print magazine and would be letting go of most of the staff. It was like the room caved in from the initial heartbreak. The people I met there are some of the coolest, most passionate writers, designers, photographers and advocates of print journalism, and I learned a great deal from them. In this crappy mobile phone photo are some of the front cover thumbnails of each Time Out Chicago issue since its birth in 2005. It certainly doesn't do the magazine justice. I took this photo post-layoffs in late April, as a lot of the print and layout schedules and plans were still hanging in the cubicles.

Monday, March 18

"... we had a few birthday cake vodka shots in the office ... one thing that has come of this is seeing the really inspirational passion and care these people have for Time Out Chicago and one another."

Tuesday, April 23

"Yesterday, I went back to Time Out. It was so quiet, so sparse, but so good to be back. The spirit of the place is still intact."

   M A Y   

I graduated from the School of the Art Institute in 2013, with a Masters in New Arts Journalism. I still don't quite know exactly what that means. But I do know the place made me a better writer and person. The rest of that day was complete chaos because I was leaving Chicago, not knowing if I would ever be back. I am so blessed to have attended such a raucous, vibrant, innovative, weird art school with equally brilliant people. Thanks to Simone for capturing this precious moment.

Saturday, May 18

"It's mayhem in a few sentences. Graduation. Goodbyes. Moving procrastination, moving mayhem: apartment ripped asunder, car towed ... Some tears ... worrying about the future, having to say big goodbyes to big, familiar things. Gone away from Chicago tomorrow already. Keep moving, moving."

   J U N E   

This isn't a photo, and it isn't mine (cred goes to Braeden and the self-timer on his camera), but it was one of the best moments of the year, after we'd seen a double rainbow on our way back from Denver. I could watch this all day and still be laughing.

Saturday June 15

"... the Sully family...I think we're family now."

Just after the Blackhawks defeated the Boston Bruins in the final round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. I listened to the final online, catching bits and pieces because of the patchy Internet connection at camp, but I sure did hear the end when Andrew Shaw swore on national radio/television. Celebrating by yourself in a small office is a special kind of joy.

Monday, June 24

"And the Blackhawks win the CUUUUUUUP!!!"

And like I said, my predictions were correct.

   J U L Y   

This is my favorite candid of the summer, when some friends drove all the way from Carol Joy Holling Camp to Sullivan Hills. I love these people, and I love this photo because I captured them mid-laugh, each in their own genuine, hilarious splendor.

Friday, July 12

"Week 6 done, and the more resounding thing to write is that I'm so thankful ... Cami, Erin and Alyssa are coming to visit! ... up on Shepherd's Lookout for hours together."

   A U G U S T   

This impromptu photo took place outside of a church in Omaha, where a lovely couple - Josh in the red and Erin in the green - was throwing a fundraiser for their year-long adventure in Argentina. See all the wonderful things they're doing in love and for the Grand Bourg community here. Do it!

Sunday, August 4

"I wish them the best and I pray they spread the love of Christ in Argentina ... We took an excessive amount of photos in the parking lot."

Me and my cousin Annalise, as we shopped in downtown Breckenridge, Colorado, during a family galpal trip. "Look, I'm 2 Chainz!" said Annalise. You guys, I have some really cool cousins.

Friday, August 9
"I have also loved laughing and making jokes with Annalise, us two peas in a pod, a weird pod. We laugh at our moms a lot, because they're goofy."

   S E P T E M B E R   

This is my Dad and my parents' new puppy, Boaz, who's a bit older now, and tearing everything apart. A rare moment of some sort of bonding. Nice stink face, Dad.

Wednesday, September 25

"PUPPY!"

   O C T O B E R   

Our friend Lisa moved waaaaaaay up north to Marquette, Michigan to start a new job. Here is a visual of how fun her going away party was. Lisa, we love and miss you very much.

Saturday, October 12
"Lisa deserves so much love."

This photo documents the first time I had visitors in my new apartment here in Lincoln! We ate spaghetti, giggled and took this all-too-functional photo. Someone said the other day that "this photo makes us look way more functional than we actually are." But, no matter, I love these ladies and fellow, even when they're dysfunctional. Because I am, too. Ain't that the truth.

Monday, October 21
"Then there I was, alone for the first time in a very, very long time. But something wonderful and comforting happened last night when Jason, Alyssa and Lisa came over for spaghetti. I remembered that they're my good friends, who pray at the dinner table and make jokes and love to eat ice cream."

   N O V E M B E R   

My Mom came to visit, and we had coffee. Isn't she radiant? I'm grateful for my parents and their generosity, love and examples of integrity. This coffee shop is also a new favorite of mine, as it's right across the street from the University of Nebraska Press, where I am proud to say I work now...at a big girl job...with really neat people.

Saturday, November 9
"but God is so good."

   D E C E M B E R   

The night I took this photo, I had been out stargazing for over 2 hours. I decided, "Hey, ain't nobody taking away my photography inspiration mojo" (which is lacking in this post). So I did some light painting. This "word" fit really well in the frame,  even though I really loathe acronyms. But in some moments they make sense, when you're willing to be present where you are, a sense of humor in tow. 

If you're not in any of these photos or words, I still love you. And as per new year cliches...if there's any advice I can give you in the new year, it's this, and it's simple: don't settle, don't wait, write, take photos and be yourself. Thank you for reading!

Sunday, January 5

"It's the new year. Time to fill it up with words and wonder. I hope 2014 will be chock full of lovely, meaningful, weird, crazy moments, too."

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Oh, stop it. I know you've been waiting for this. 

And of this, I will defend myself no more. 

Cheers to more laughing at/with boy bands and each other in 

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But really, we don't have to live once. 

"Show me, O Lord, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath. Selah. Man is a mere phantom as he goes to and fro: He bustles about, but only in vain; he heaps up wealth, not knowing who will get it. But now, Lord, what do I look for? 

My hope is in you." - Psalm 39: 4-7

   HAPPY, HAPPY NEW YEAR!   

Your inner, lonely fangirl

Cards on the table. I've lately had the wishing-you-were-someone-else-that-was-somewhere-else-syndrome. It's new and strange, because I've never wanted to be anyone else before. I've often been quite happy with the way God made me. Not until I entered my 20s, lived in and left Chicago, started living alone, started getting sucked into social media, started watching 20-somethings take over the world, did I want to be something/someone else.

The Internet isn't the source of our problems. Our choice to let the Internet absorb us is the source of this particular problem. And loneliness has always existed. Like the following (beautifully designed) video suggests, the Western world sanctions individuality... measured by personal achievements and SELF IMAGE. You and I know this already, but it's good to be reminded of its sting once in a while.

The Innovation of Loneliness from Shimi Cohen on Vimeo.

Facebook profile pictures, tweets, restaurant we attend, followers we have. The video talks about a self-actualization ideal that, once it hits, "more and more people define themselves as lonely, and thus loneliness has become the most common ailment of the modern world."

"BUT WHY HAVE WE LET THIS HAAAAAPEN?" I groan. Why do we have to "effectively" manage our social lives, wherein conversation becomes greater than connection, instead of genuinely caring for our friends and friendships in real time. We get to edit, and we get to delete parts of ourselves. I've always been an editor that edits not only writing but conversations and comments and even thoughts, relationships, other people...this blog. We edit ourselves everyday. We edit ourselves out, letting our edited selves become ourselves. Hey, maybe I do more than you and maybe you're not so worried about it. But you have other ways, I know you do, you stinker, you.

Maybe we've completely warped the brilliance of what technology can do. Advances in technology certainly have positives. Look at people turning their efforts and hearts outward via social media, launching efforts to help others via Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Youtube (I will not and will never include online dating here). And, yes, I finally admit that creativity can come in the form of Instagram "photography." I've denied that for so long...just like I've denied this all-too-common syndrome. And I probably will deny it again tomorrow.

We have a choice to use our tech-suaveness for really great things that have nothing to do with the stigma the above video presents.

In principle, being an individual is imperative to a colorful, continuously interesting, amazingly beautiful world full of creative and unique individuals, which is why the world -- of art and film and people -- is so lovely. But, individuality can be skewed depending on that choice I mentioned earlier, about the Internet...that choice we have to either absorb into ourselves--in this case, via technology--or to open ourselves up.

When I lived in Chicago, I faced decisions every day in which I could either help someone or pass them by. With a higher saturation of people, there are more obvious opportunities to help someone in need. In the recent rural areas I've been briefly, I haven't come face to face in the same way with these kinds of decisions. I suppose, in a way, the idea that these opportunities have to be obvious for us to seize them is complete dog shit. There are always ways to be there for others. I don't think social media is the best one of them. It makes us think we know people. I mean look at these poor girls:



I don't like acronyms, but, you know, WTF. But, I suppose there's also this from the WSJ:

...scientists now have a better understanding of why teens--girls in particular--become so passionate about some musicians, and the recording industry is far more adept at exploiting the phenomenon. Parents of star-struck "Bieliebers"--as fans are sometimes known--can be assured, experts say, that what looks like mass hysteria is a harmless stage in adolescent development. Long before the Beatles, Elvis and Frank Sinatra, frenzied female fans threw their clothing at 19th century pianist and composer Franz Liszt and fought over locks of his hair...

I would add that social media has joined the recording industry in its exploitations. But so, we've always been lonely. And we've always been fangirls/boys.

And, I suppose before I urge you to do something, I have to do something myself--that whole deciding against two hours of Internet. This means I have to stop being a social media fangirl and wishing that I could meet/salivate over Jack and Finn Harries, because I think I know them. (background: I showed up to subscribe to their Youtube channel, support their philanthropist efforts, wanting to get their attention, to know them, for my name to be on the list of their 3 million followers, because maybe somehow if I'm cool enough Finn will want to invite me to London to date him, then talk about beautiful design, then have deep conversations about existential issues. (How embarrassing my life can be right now, at 25, delusional, single, a disingenuous poser.)

I can do the latter two with you! Maybe the first depending on your gender. This is one of many examples that is evidence of our narcissistic millennial generation (just going to put it out there), absorbed by the Internet's corrupt tendencies to give us our inner fangirl...while we're the ones corrupting it. I also didn't come across this video about loneliness until I visited JacksGap.

In conclusion, don't be so hard on yourself, but do make the right decisions to meet old friends and make new ones in REAL LIFE. Because it's even more dog shit still thinking the opportunities aren't there in our tech-savvy world.

Just a reminder to 180 the lens, see the world differently, outwardly. What makes technology cool is how much we can use it to show others the world outside ourselves, to project some kind of difference or education to other human beings about the human condition, how to help others, how to support important causes, or how to explore perspectives. But, even greater than all of that is YOU and the things that happen before or after the lens clicks or before or after the browser window closes. So, don't wish you were someone else, somewhere else with Finn Harries (sorry, Finn). Be present where you are, even while you're "alone," with others. "If we are not able to be alone, we're only going to know how to be lonely."

Who You Are, and you are not the fox.

I just found out today what the fox says.
What is HAPPENING with that?

I've not always been super big on Youtube videos like the following, kind of really emotional and charismatic, in a way, but I'm beginning to understand what they're saying, in principle. I'm posting them because I love you. And you are worth it. We're funny in different ways, strong in different facets, talented in different arenas.

You are so worth it that Christ would die for you. God loves you that much, so far beyond Twitter wars and objects and name brands and location and hair color and relationship status and resumes and your body and the amount of throw pillows on your bed and Facebook likes and Twitter followers and musical taste and acne and drugs and alcohol and your apartment and your failures and that unrequited love you have sitting in the pit of your gut, weighing you down, and whatever the fox says.

How can we not be filled with joy upon this news? HOW CAN WE NOT WANT TO SHARE IT? It's not about telling yourself how awesome you are. It's about recognizing you and others were knit together some years ago, in the name of love. You guys, that's really cool. Not even the fox is that cool.

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
you works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
- Psalm 139:13-14

Welcome back, signature

I've had three blog posts in the works for two months now, but, for some reason, I haven't found them worthy of any reading. Also, I haven't written anything of substance (with the exception of a few genuine tweets) for a month. WUT. Writing, while it sucks, makes me happy, makes me smarter, gives me a channel for thinking and solving my trivial life problems. If you want to write and haven't done so for two months, DO IT NOW. If you've been coming back to me here for a while to find nothing, I apologize. Though I doubt any of you have. Plus, I'm not sure there's been anything big or loud or life-changing that I've been saying for anyone else but myself. Either way, welcome back.

Upon your return, and thanks for returning, here is a combination of thoughts that have been with me for some time. We can classify them as three short, selfish stories. "The Signature," "There is One Direction, and "Take me home," the story of that 2-hour walk when I let go of that one direction my life has recently taken and return to the fundamentals.

The Signature
Let me start with a dream I had a few nights ago. In this dream, I had created or written and submitted something to a panel, a room full of critics -- some of them artists and writers, I think -- and they were reviewing my work. Somewhere on the work, I had signed my name, my signature. At some moment after I stepped into the room, I realized that they all hated my work, but not because of the work. It was because my signature was so awful. As if my name was so boring and inartistic and unworthy of being put on a piece of art. I don't recall them saying anything specific. I only recall the profanities I said to them in return. It was clear they hated the signature that spelled out sloppily, "Lindsey Auten," I boiled over with rage rapidly and said, "What the f***? (loudly, too, then a long pause) What the f***?" I paused for another second, looked them over with disgust and said with such conviction, "You are all F***ING INSANE!" If you know me at all, I don't ever shout profanities to anyone, even when I'm full of rage. I have never felt so confident in a dream, aside from the ones where I run marathon races and that one lucid dream I had about dissolving windows and flying out of them. I have also never felt so confident upon waking up. When I think about the progression of this confidence, I liken it the following.

It's interesting that my subconscious reverted to using those words so loudly and boldly, but it reveals to me that the critics in the room were not other people I knew nor were they even other people that I didn't know. They were me.

There is One Direction
For six weeks I was unemployed and I loathed myself and I didn't know what to do with my time and all I could think to do was watch One Direction music and Youtube videos because their porcelain faces and candy pop music make me smile. Maybe you've been in a dark place such as this before. Surely, it was very dark. I still listen to them to remind me that I don't want to go back there. And you know I'm bluffing...because, seriously. All the people at Buzzfeed are in a similar boat. Now that I've dug myself an even deeper hole, all of this is evidence that I'm hyper-critical of my 25-year-old self and even deeper, of my 25-year-old self-loathing (i.e. a few attempted posts ago: "Like, is it okay to make a lunch out of ham, cheese, crackers, juice, and a Reese's peanut butter cup, because Lord knows there's no way I'm walking into the store and buying a Lunchable at 25 years old. Or, since I have a little free time right now, I'm going to sort my old, old CD collection that includes Backstreet Boys and Christina Aguilera, then listen to them and cry over the fact that I shouldn't be listening to them anymore and/or I shouldn't be listening to any One Direction anymore.")

Either way, when I listen to One Direction in the car, I first say aloud, "One Direction, you are all f***ing insane." Not in a rage, because it's a simple fact. Then I audibly tell myself, "You are f***ing insane. Embrace it. Get it, girl. Then listen to some jazz or Explosions in the Sky. By the way, the earth is not a cold dead place."

Take me home
Just a few days ago, post-signature dream breakdown, amidst pop culture obsessions (I'm talking about the Internet, okay), I dropped everything except my Bible and walked. I stopped at a place, "the stargazing deck," and stared at if for a while. I walked a few hundred feet more and planted myself on a hill, in nature, at camp, with myself. Just me and my critics. As the sun was setting, I sat, I stared. The book of Isaiah provided such clarity. So much that all the rest of this blog post can rest assured that it doesn't matter in the end. No matter how strange I am or how weird this post becomes to you (or me, really), I know I'll be able to run marathon dreams, tell self-criticism and even my written signature that they're insane and don't even matter, and kick teeny bopper music in the face (not literally and not directed at the teeny bopper musicians themselves - I still like them, sorry I'm not sorry.) We're tired of it all, but hey cronies! Don't you know?! In your weakest moments, your hopeless dreams, God is with you.

Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. - Isaiah 40:28-31

Cheers to being the child of God -- with a special signature -- that you were created to be.

Love,

Leafing the grass

I just had to share it with you. I believe, not just think, that you should read more Walt Whitman than you already do. I am currently leafing (ha) through the 1855 version of Leaves of Grass, and I cannot help but sound out a voice about it....because I don't really want to subject myself to voicing it on the bus ride home, because that would make lots of people uncomfortable, and since I love people, making them uncomfortable on a bus as opposed to a fairer place, isn't what I want to do.

Dearest you,

I still don’t quite understand….Walt Whitman’s use of….ellipses and the word soul, though I do understand why the word (I almost typed world, which is cool) soul is central to the poet. Though it’s much more than that, more timeless, more than I can write at this moment with the time and space I have. The wor(l)d deserves more.

The other night, I read “Song of Myself” out loud. The whole thing. I usually don’t read things out loud. I don’t talk a whole lot (at least in terms of understood, articulate speech). I have been mapping my conversation patterns (in my head, of course) lately. I listen and look….a lot. I just listen and move my body so as to say that I care. My close friends, though, always teach me how to talk, which is why they’re my close friends, and I love them. I love others, too, because Walt introduced me to equanimity.

Reading for hours was exhausting for my voice but entirely liberating for my soul. It’s ironic that this poem about “self” was read by my “self,” and that in reading it to my “self” I, maybe for the first time, actually gave my(self) a chance for a long conversation with inner boiling feelings and love for people. This conversation made me realize how much I want to say but also how much my voice doesn’t let me, or rather, what my accoucheur “potentialized” in me at birth – that I would articulate life, which now I realize is articulated in many ways.

But what an advocate for the POET! I don’t always consider my self one, but I think the salty liquid flowing out of my face when I read this collection of poems thinks otherwise, turns inward on its self.

So, anyway, I’m reading “Song of Myself” all the while thinking of what the song of my own self would sound like. Then I came to “It is you talking just as much as myself….I act as the tongue of you,/It was tied in your mouth….in mine it begins to be loosened.” Maybe you can imagine the swelling within me, but just then I read it over and over and listened to the sound of my own voice, and therefore understood the explosion….for a better word in me, the poet and his/her (seemingly) worthless miniscule leaves of grass that can become a collection of sorts, a book, or a conversation, or, my favorite, “the roughs and beards (!) and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves.”

Thanks for listening, my friend, whenever I keep talking about my self.

Forever your poet-hypocrite lover-of-our-souls,

Lindsey