Crease

Edges, outlines, shadows, walls. These things contain us. Every fibre of our being has an edge -  a malleable, pliable edge.  Crooked, jagged, soft, torn - like stitches on a toddler's teddybear, they are stretched to welcome us, to allow our imperfections, our fragility, our assets. The fleshy bits in the middle are what determine that which we are made of, our "recipe," our scarred map from birth until now. You only get one map and eventually the bricks run out, the expressway closes for repairs. Make the most of the getting there. Expand and fold and leap and fly and run on like this sentence and you will have licked the plate clean. Sure no longer. Gone astray. Must begin again. Edges are Lady Gaga, edges are the Grand Canyon, they are the scary place, they are the turning point, they are a falling off point, a 13th birthday, a 30th birthday, a parade in a snowstorm, a perforated divorce settlement, the hook in "Whole Lotta Love," the excess, the stuff that rots, the stuff you keep around. Edges are deceivingly easy to identify. You are bound by nothing. Let nothing house you, let nobody strap you to a sticking point. Take the edge off. Massage yourself. Smoke reefer. Go for a walk. Talk to God. Grow and bend in a way that only putty can. Remind yourself what you are capable of and go get it. Talk yourself out of quitting. Holy fucking motivational rant. These are overrated. Just headbang it out, or sleep it off or whatever works. Stop taking that candy from the jar and replenish it with...wait, like candy, you are sweet! You are everything someone else longs to be. Say I love you and I will have my love requited. Say I love you and I will no longer need to sing lullabies.

Jump Right In

"Jump right into my pickle jar," said the Devil. What does it take? Courage? Desperation? Stupidity? Liquor? A push. Don't look back to thank them, just fall and glide over the abyss and try to land as softly as possible when you touch down. Be the insect, form part of a cloud, escape into - what is it they call that - the atmosphere. Of course you don't have to jump to shift your perspective on things. You can fall instead and fall hard at that. Bruised knees, a bruised ego. When you jump right into humiliation, it is how you treat that moment that defines you. My advice? Laugh as loud as you can at yourself and mean it. Laugh at your human condition. Write something real starting NOW, Jenni. This is tired rambling. Jumping is an exciting thought. Jump up, jump up and get down. Jump around. A smoky, sweaty dance hall pleads for you to surrender to the beat. Sex drives the crowd to madness. Neon lights pour over you and you are showered in light. You see dust and then glitter in the dust. For an instant, you're happy - you're God. Why must the words God and Devil begin with capital letters? Who decided that it had to be that way? Why can't the word "it" begin with a capital I? Someone, somewhere, makes all the rules, crosses all the t's, makes phoney laws that mindless sheep baaaaaaaa to. BAaaaaaaa. bAAAAAaaaa. Watch this! jUMpRIGHtINTomYPICkLEjar. How's that for rebellion?? What about if I use the digit key "0" as the letter "O" to form a sentence: "Payph0nes should not cost money." Looks like copyrighting is out of the question. I just fucked with the English language. It is so fun to break the rules. Speaking of which, never mind.

Nancy Kerrigan

Freestyle. Free flow. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom is driving down a country road with no idea where you're headed. Freedom is also growing up privileged and spoiled. Freedom can lead to guilt - irrational guilt. You hear other people's stories and they rip a hole through you. The things they survived and came through make you want to stand at attention and salute them. You think, what have I endured that can help me relate, help me empathize? The answer is nothing, so you nod and pat their back and sound patronizing. So there's that. Guilt's a funny thing. It's a waste of an emotion or maybe it's what instills morality. Apparently some human beings don't experience guilt and they are called sociopaths. Now that's some scary shit. Convicts, murderers hustlers. For those who aren't sociopaths, why repeat the same mistakes? Is it a need for punishment? Lack of intelligence? Selfishness? Yes, no, maybe so.

Freestyle. Skating. Nancy Kerrigan. In 1994, Tonya Harding had someone attack Kerrigan in order to win.  Coward. Crazy girl. Monster. What becomes of these cowardly monsters, ostracized by the media and society? Maybe they stay home and drink to forget. Maybe they find Jesus. Maybe they edit their wikipedia page. Maybe they turn their evil to good and helps others. Do they walk with their shoulders hunched, ashamed and victim-like? Or do they walk tall and unafraid, with the knowledge that the worst has already happened to them and the rest is uphill. Does Tonya still skate? Does Nancy? I hope so. I hope they both do.

Freestyle. Style and freedom. Burqas are said by some to be neither. What about the woman who wears one proudly and of her own volition? That is freedom too. Freedom to express her devotion and don her faith. Freedom comes in many different forms. Maybe the cage bird wants to be caged because it's familiar and it doesn't know how to fly. Maybe the bird finds solace in the familiar. There's a quote about a camel that goes something like, "Don't free the camel from the burden of his hump; you may be freeing him from being a camel." That kinda sums it up.

Deep Down

Sink into my love. This is what admiration and respect looks like. It’s like when you hear the perfect song in the perfect moment. It feels like warm waves on your back and warm breath on your neck. There’s a foggy bathroom mirror on which I write, “I love you” on the steam over and over until you believe me. Trust my voice. It won’t take you away; it will bring you back. It feels like crawling out of a spool of yarn and it feels like the childhood fort you climbed in when you needed to feel safe. See my love for you – see it like you see your favorite film, your favorite memory, like you see your imperfections. By the way, I should tell you that you are perfectly imperfect. I used to think that was a line some hero made up but now I see that it’s true in your crooked smile, in the scar on your chin, in your adorable neurosis. These are all the reasons I love you, these are the reasons you heal me. This is turning into a conversation that I wasn’t expecting to have tonight, but these words came spilling out of me like black on white, like wine on tongues. Rearrange the words anyway you want. It will still tell the story of my love for you. A love that sweats and bleeds in the spaces that matter. It’s clear that you don’t know the impression you’ve made or how much you matter. My prayer is that these letters bewitch you and cast authentic happiness upon you, deep down in you. My prayer is that you love me in return. I’ll wait.