The Blues are Still Blue

So much to say.

And this time, it's true.

And I'm going to say all of it.

First, something stupid.

Don't you think it'd be fun to drive a taxi?

I think it'd be a lovely occupation.

Taxis have some sort of whimsical element to them,

Don't you see it?

Or is it just some stupid part of me that believes in taxi-whimsy?

Driving people around in a little car, at night, in the city.

That sounds splendid.

But I'll never drive a taxi.

And something happened this week,

That I failed to mention,

Partially because I was quite upset over it,

And partially because I forgot after a while...

And so.

I am quite bothered when my family reads my poetry,

For some reason, it puts me on edge,

Makes me very nervous and upset.

What is even worse than my mother going and printing poems of mine without asking is by what means she was trying to attain them.

I could be crazy, but I think that

Going onto my blog

On my blog account

And reading through my posts

And searching for poems

Is crossing a boundary.

Is it crazy to think so?

And then she stands and hovers over my shoulder as I sit writing a poem last night,

I told her simply that in poetry, there are boundaries.

I never told her that I figured out that she was on my blog account.

Because she doesn't know that I know.

It was done in secret.

She doesn't know that it wounded my trust,

And made me upset.

She'll never know.

But I felt viciously violated,

Poetry is something you don't just go and...

Do whatever she did to it.

It doesn't bother me when total strangers read my poems,

Or certain teachers,

But my family,

No.

That is where the boundary falls.

It was a slightly jarring experience

In some way.

Here's another stupid instance of Bothersome Things My Family Does.

I think it's symbolic of the fact that they don't really know who I am.

Every time there is pizza eaten at my house I am asked if I want pepperoni.

Every time.

And every time I say

"No, you know I don't like it."

I've said this for two years.

And I am still asked

Every time.

It's a minor detail in the grand scheme of things,

But I find it to be something that, as I said, is symbolic.

Everyone says this, so I'm just jumping on the bandwagon,

My parents don't know who I am.

We were talking about college today in the car,

A very typical topic if you happen to be me,

And I haven't yet found the strength to admit to them

That I will disappoint them.

I feel like my choice of college and a major will destroy them.

It will break them down and make them acknowledge that I am failure when it comes to practical, sensible life choices.

I won't be a dental hygienist, or an accountant, or even a taxi driver.

I will be something silly.

Something that doesn't so much matter.

Some occupation that the world doesn't need.

And I can't find it in me to tell them

And shatter whatever hopes they had for me.

I haven't ever verbally communicated to someone the amounts of stress this puts on me.

It seems rather foolish,

But goodness, it scares me, and throws me into a tizz.

On the bright side,

At least I'm not a druggie, pregnant teenager, who has no future.

Things could be so much worse.

Have I mentioned my lovely paint chips?

I don't believe I have.

Somehow, they make me quite pleased,

the 23 of them that I gathered up at the hardware store.

All of the perfectly mixed colors with their little names in tiny silver, shimmering font.

I'm to be working with color symbolism with them,

But I'm currently just enjoying looking at them

Looking at their names.

Enjoying how pleasing colors are.

Loving how perfect they are.

Faded Seafoam

It's my favourite.

If I was color,

I'd be that one.

I like Hazel Woods too,

It's a grey-green type,

It looks like a wood in the middle of a very ethereal morning mist

In late September.

That is what Hazel Woods is like.

And I quite like it.

It was lovely idea, really,

As I hadn't really though to use paint chips for anything other than looking pretty.

I really wanted to say "My english teacher suggested it."

But this one isn't my english teacher anymore.

He's my video production teacher

And poetry-reader/mentor/type-thing.

That's a really concise title, now isn't it?

I'm pondering what he would call himself in this instance?

Apparently this poem-reader/teacher/type-man

Is a fan of my poems.

I have fans.

I'm trying to think of a noise to go with "I have fans"

To embody how it would sound if I actually said it.

It's not quite working.

I've been working with my poetry a lot recently,

And that's awesome

And somehow it seems sinful,

Like the art form should be very secretive and quiet,

Unshared and under wraps.

If you could call what I write "art".

It's like infant art,

Or even

Art-in-the-womb.

It isn't there yet.

And hopefully it doesn't get miscarried.

I feel like that would be more unfortunate than an actual miscarriage of a baby.

That's probably because I'm not exactly fond of children.

In any of their forms.

I think I've said what needed to be said.

Oh,

Today you were all "I was thinking about that while I was driving this morning."

"That" being what we conversed over yesterday.

Does that mean you think about what we talk about

Or do you think of me?

Or both?

I like the option of both.

Maybe you do too.

And so,

I've stated what needed to be said,

What didn't need to be said,

And what I should probably redact from this post.

Is there anything any of you out there

Feel like saying?

If not,

Goodnight and farewell,

Sleep tight.

I love you.

(Cliche!)

*Painting credit to German artist Mioke.