No me interesa

I, in this moment, believe....

The point of life is making meaningful contact with humanity. 

You mean something. What does your name mean? What's in a name? 

The words are not important but the human experience that each of our names holds is our weight in this world. He has seen God; She has seen war; He has killed; She has lost her love; He has climbed mountains; She has run away; He has died; She has died; They both, with all their little and large moments in life, have meant something to someone. This meaning is the ash that is left behind. 

As you walk to class, to work, to the store, to China, wherever, realize every once in a while that the person that just walked by in that tacky sequined shirt and ridiculously high-waisted shorts means something to someone just as you do, and this recognition in that moment causes him or her to mean something to you. 

You and Tacky McGee have something that bonds you together so closely and indestructibly: you both want to mean something and both go throughout your whole lives seeking ways to achieve that. There is no room for hate once you understand this is true for all races, religions, and lifestyles. 

I want someone to say my name, say my name; you actin' kinda shady; ain't callin' me baby...

sorry.

Really, though, I want someone to say my name with acknowledgment of my hard times, my favorite things, my most embarrassing moments, my fears, my obsession with Gatorade, and what my real true smile looks like. 

This blog is the beginning of my slow walk towards revealing my real self in the real world. 

Right now, that is what I mean.

What do you mean?

KATLYN*************

"...Humanity i love you because you 

are perpetually putting the secret

of life in your pants and forgetting

 it's there and sitting down

on it

and because you are 

forever making poems in the lap

of death Humanity

I hate you."

e. e. cummings*******

The tension in intension floods the throat until the back reverberates against the grass and I sing to the one that soil breathes for tune breaks my cushioned back but it feels like plucking the string of damaged guitar life with a whole new arrangement of its spine to lay out on the grass absorbing the vibrations of its own celebration of your faceless warmth. i sit up and the stains on my back give me false hope. 

L.