Maybe this time I won’t forget.

Been awhile.

My heart has been broken again. It’s been a while since I let someone in like that. It’s easy to get lost in the idea of someone. Had me confessing feelings in my diary. I always have hopeful wishing, especially in matters of the heart. Maybe it’s my tendency as a writer, but I plot out what will happen and act surprised when it doesn’t go to plan. Ooooo– twist ending!!

But is it? I saw this coming miles ahead. I couldn’t have placed the foreshadows better myself.

Why do we ignore the signs?

Ooookay, we say as we drive carelessly on.

Maybe it’s because I was raised a girl and since then my main fantasy has included boys. Do little boys have pretend girlfriends, too? I meet someone I’m drawn to and automatically wonder if they could…
what? fill this role? this hole in my life? Are we dependant and obsessed with romance because we’re unhappy with ourselves?
So we call people and use them like trash just so we don’t have to spend a night alone.

We’re still kids, afraid of being left alone in the dark.

I’m over it. Or… I’m getting over it. My heart still sinks at the thought of him. But that’s the clumsy body stumbling after my mind and determination. It’s a little slow but it’ll catch up,
(Lindsey, read that again. I know you’ll read through your words probably tomorrow and tomorrow morning you’ll need to be reminded.)

I write these things so I don’t forget.

Tonight I took a tab of ecstasy and was so depressed that it leveled me out to my usual chipper attitude. I’m riding the last of it now, sitting in my car after dancing, texting to my blog instead of dumb boys.


Writing practice

People drink alcohol to heal their wounds.

My mother told me that.

She’s never drank before. At least that’s what I was lead to believe. For a long time I remember thinking my mother and father were virgins until their marriage night; I found out from my brother that my father had slipped.

I wonder why they would hide that from me.

My great grandmother died in a hospital bed. Her fiery red hair had faded to white and her skin was deflated over her cheekbones like a sunken balloon fallen on tree branches. But her fiery spirit remained. She fiercely witnessed to all the nurses, warning them, and going as far as to pray with some of them. I remember holding her boney hand, she shook it vigorously and said, “No drinkin’, no smokin’, and no dancin’.” These are the way the devil gets you.

I have broken all three of my great grandmother’s rules. All three in one night.

The first time I got drunk I was a sophomore in college. I was at a fraternity formal. My best friend was dating a Kappa Sigma and I went with his roommate. I turned to her and whispered, “I think I’m ready.” Everywhere around me people were drunk. It was my first experience with it.  I took two shots of peppermint schnapps with a chaser of chocolate syrup. The following day I woke up feeling horrible, but not from a hangover. I was wrecked with guilt.

Years later, I’m sneaking shots of bourbon and blue moons from the host tab at a banquet party.

If I have wounds, I don’t know where they’re from. And I wouldn’t waste my beer to pour over it. I don’t drink because I’m hurt. I drink because I’m bored at work and don’t want to drive home.

Ease my cares with front porch swings and rocking chairs

“You’re marked.” He told me very confidently. He even slapped his knee. Sitting there on my front porch swing. “I’ve seen you in action, you’re anointed.”

This praise elates me and I grin. You really think so? He complements my poetry. Old spoken word pieces I’d recite by memory in the pulpit. I watched a video the other day and I was striking. But it was hard to view. I couldn’t help but cringe at my words. But I was passionate and reverent. I noticed how my eyes avoided the crowd and the camera. I would close them or look above and I thought, oh wow, I really believed

But I was good. I had no idea. Because when I was complemented I’d shrug and say, well, it’s all God.

Faith astounds me. It’s strange.

My cousin confronted me on my front porch swing. Earlier we were picking through my late pop’s books (like he has vegetables) and he picked up one and said, “These are interesting answers.”

He’s a theology major. Also a music major. Has perfect pitch and leads a choir.

He was holding a study Bible. Old. His. Yes, but are they good?

“That’s when I knew I could talk to you. You’re a thinker. You’re smart. But I’m telling you that there are answers.”

Consider Christ, my cousin challenged me. And see what happens.

Old church of god is long winded. He presented his case of the Nazarene so well that he cried.

“Even though it’s intellectual. You can’t deny the experiential.”

Oh. Not this. Not this.

It is something I block from my brain like a traumatic child.

But in order to get where I’m going I’m gonna have to smash them. I believe in going in, digging deep. Into this. Into Life. Into me. And you. And that it will be good.

So yes, I’ll consider. I’ll consider it all.


The hot Georgia heat seeps into your skin. The air here is so thick it traps you. It is 97 with a heat index of 110 and everybody walks a little slower, chasing shadows and breezes.

People complain in the heat. When you visit you will wear a streaming layer of sweat and your clothes will soak through.

Man, it’s hot. Tempers rise. Tourists stumble into my bar slouching. They all comment and stare off and fan themselves. I don’t wait to make them a glass of water. I smile and tell them to take a look. I’ll get you started.

Thank you! That’s what I need. It’s so hot.

I am used to this heat. I used to complain. Sit in the AC. Worry about my makeup running or my hair coming out of place. Now I embrace the disheveled look of a survivor of the sun.

My sunny demeanor warms them and the beer cools them. All the patrons are windswept and sunbeat, they have melted and sit and sip quietly.

They are soft and manipulative. Smile and banter. They open up. Bar stories are a real thing. People get sad, they get mad, they get happy. I work in a tourist town. I meet people from all over, hear their stories. I see so much and sometimes I’m elated and sometimes it makes me sad.

But I am used to it. I can’t complain.
I like this Georgia heat
Because when I cry it joins with streams of sweat on my cheek.

While my guitar gently weeps

They say that Insanity defined is doing the same thing and expecting different results. It is a saying I recall my father saying, my pastor saying, a people saying. So try something different.

And I know what they mean. And I know they mean well, these people passing me. Good Samaritans all who stop on their way to call, Come on! Hurry up! Looking down on me like I’m in a rut,

But I’m not.

Lindsey, are you on drugs? My mother asked me very calmly holding her iphone on the other side of the couch.
I considered her for a moment.
No, I’m not.
My brother is on drugs. Cracked out, coked up, but I smoke natural green. We are the two sides, he and I, and she and I, the perfect one who took a puff and her cheeks reddened with her eyes and she cried.
It’s like you were raised by a different family.
She says this calmly, too.
Yeah, like by one of your siblings. Her siblings. She picked up a new name proudly. My last name.
You don’t act like them.

I reach up and scratch my head proudly. There are two patches of poofy, dark hair protruding from my underarms. It disgusts her and it amuses me.
Lindsey, my hippy.
She hugs me.
We both realize I am more like her, like her side, than the others, and that probably produces bizarre feelings in her.

But I’ve got them in them. Me. Them. My roots. My kin. My crazy family.
One side big and loud and boisterous, goofy and loving, spreading hugs and kisses to everyone,
The other quiet and small and with lots of problems,
But they’re both family. They’re both me. I’m this mixed up hybrid and am okay with it.

Do I look okay? I ask my friend.
You look like Lindsey.
Yeah, but is that okay?
It’s you. So yeah.

Good Samaritans, all helping me. But by god! I am crazy! And I am me!
Embracing my roots and growing.
They say keep moving,
Try something different.
They move their whole lives, looking, wandering… seeking but not finding because they don’t look long enough,
Because it won’t load fast enough,
I’ll sit and wait here by the dust,
Into the dirt.
Just a little bit farther and I might strike gold.

It’s just paper

I could drive home, but twenty minutes outside of town just to turn back to commute to work seems like a waste of time.
I’m not saying that my time is valuable. Instead I’ve decided to waste it but wondering around town. Today I have visited two coffee shops and walked to the park and sat in the grass for a moment and now I find myself sitting in an empty bar at 3pm waiting for four o clock to roll around.
Then I’ll go to work and make some money. Then I go back to a bar and spend the money I made.
After PA I was broke, walking around defiantly with a few bucks in my pocket, purchasing PBRs and cigarettes.
For a few days I was so broke I couldn’t even buy that and my dependency on my vices made me laugh.
I’m still broke, I shouldn’t be, but I am. I spend instead of save because I earned that hundred dollars and now I’m going to celebrate.
All I need is some money for food and beer and cigarettes and weed. I have a cute boy who is broke too and nothing makes me happier than pulling out my last twenty to pay for our tab. He feels so bad and I laugh at him saying, you know it’s just paper, right?
Funny thing is if I keep clocking in I keep making money.
I made a hundred and spent half on an eighth and everything felt okay in the world.
I’m going to work in an hour. This morning I rushed out of his house because he has jokes he needs to write for a show. Tonight I’ll make some more money. I had twenty five in my wallet and now only fifteen because I bought two blue moons at noon and you should always tip your bartender well.
My notebook is out and I’m filling pages with thoughts and not stopping myself to think that it might be bad.

It’s not all that bad.

Girl, go home and get some rest

Sunday afternoon. I’ve arrived at my back porch–finally! Coffee brewed, cigarette lit (I’m lit), journals out. I had four hours of sleep last night. Five the night before. Been up since 730am. (I see so many sunrises and sunsets, so close… I’m not sure what day it is.) I’m wide awake.

I haven’t been home in two weeks. Stayed in PA, I dropped my luggage off her without unpacking and took a nap, then drove off to see… someone. (Oh, someone!) And since Monday had been in hiding with him.
So… You wanna hang?
Sure. It’s the answer every time. But after a week I feel week. I’m amazed at my physical body. How can it keep up with me? (I barely can.) I don’t feed it or give it enough water.

I feel like a nomad. Like a dirty dirty hobo. Sleeping in beds that aren’t mine. And my beatup 2002 Hyundai my trusty steed.
(Aren’t we a sight?)

But I’m finally here. Back home. In my favorite spot on my favorite day. It is Sunday, June (wait, lemme check…) 26th.