it's a lot harder than you think.

you have to be from the South, like me
or the North, like I want to be
or somewhere entirely more interesting than Dallas
and you have to have the ginger gene
(because there's no way I'm having
blonde children)
and you have to like aquariums
specifically the seahorses

don't wear too much cologne or
pastels and don't ever smell like
frat parties, barbecue, or beer
and DON'T ever say that ballet is stupid.

you have to ask before we choose
the restaurant because I don't eat Italian
or Thai or Greek or Subway
and you have to hold the door open for me
even if we're in my own room.

listen to my monologues for class
and rattled-off to-do lists
as you lazily push the basket
and I grab it from you because you're going too slow
and mockingly call you a princess

know that I am busy, VERY busy
in fact so busy that I may not see you
because I am an independent woman
and there are stories to be built, dragons to be slayed,
and there are things my hands must finish
before I can start on holding yours

make fun of my Crocs
and the way I hiccup out of nowhere
and the days that I don't have time to eat breakfast
so I bring a Fuzzy's cup to class
full of off-brand Cap'n Crunch
shoving handfuls into my mouth between
snide remarks about Morrison
while you laugh inside your eyes
about what a cynic I pretend to be

hate me when I tell you
that I don't need a hug
and that I'd rather be dating Hemingway
or that I have rehearsal
painting cities, building histories

ignore my comments about you needing to shave
or on how I think I'd rather I'd never get married
and live the rest of my days writing stories
with organic vegetables and rainy days and
walks in the Carolinas

call me a ***** when I'm being one
(because I know I am about 97% of the time)
and tell me you would help me
if I would ever let you
whether it be Christmas lights or
physics lab or the gnawing pain
of lonely lonely lonely

let me read my books, propped up on
my pillows and nestled into a glaze
and let me have my expectations
of Rochesters and Darcys
even though I say I don't
and when I have to sew a blanket for class
and I say the stitching looks awful
tell me no, it doesn't
because I desperately want you
to know that my favorite color is lavender
and I love watermelon and stationery and
online shopping at 2 am
and I desperately want to know
your elementary school, your favorite song,
your middle name
even though I pretend I don't

and sometimes when I say I'm right
and you know that I know I'm wrong
just pick up your spirals and turn to leave,
then stop and say
"my favorite book is Gatsby, too."

and smile and call me crazy.

it's a lot easier than you think.

James Sebastian Middlemarch was a prodigy.
No other way to say it in truth,
And those who knew him and his gift
Were in agreement that he was destined to reach
The apogee of the musical world,
Though he, even at a very young age, discouraged such talk,
Sometimes offhandedly, but at other times
Quite insistently indeed, for, even then,
He had the constant, gnawing suspicion
That there was a disconnect between the harmonies
(Mad, excruciating, yet unspeakably lovely)
Which scampered unfettered around his head
And those he could bring forth on the piano or viola.  
Nonetheless, his aptitude pulled him along
Through longitude and latitude,
To Julliard, then Paris and Vienn, maixing with others
Marked by their provincial peers as The Next One.  

Through all this time,
The sonatas, concertos, and full-blown symphonies
Danced on in his mind without restraint or retreat
Yet, when he tried to corral them onto paper,
They kicked and bucked and spit out the bit
In spurious sixteenths and turgid quarters
Which cantered along in pedestrian time signatures.  
These pieces (the “sad imitations”, as he called them)
Were performed on more than the odd occasion,
But on smaller stages by undistinguished orchestras,
And those freelancers dispatched by features editors
In the Rochesters and Pensacolas of the world
(Small-timers themselves, yet wholly without sympathy)
Would cluck and sigh dismissively in their reviews
That the works were derivative,
With easily discernible bits of Strauss and Schumann
(Clara Schumann, according to one acerbic small-town wit)
Scattered here and there,
And they were unanimous in their belief and opinion
As to the minor nature of his presence on the musical landscape.

After some years, he stopped publishing his works
Which made him even less of an afterthought
Than he had been at his low-slung zenith.  
He continued to play with some regional symphonies,
Where he was deeply loved by his colleagues,
As he was modest in the face of praise,
But never sparing in dispensing kindness in return,
And to all appearances the frenzied siren airs
Which had ridden roughshod over his psyche for so many decades
Had ceased at last, but after his death, one of his sons discovered,
Squatting surreptitiously under a mound of ancient antimacassars,
Several trunks containing untold scores of sheet music,
(Updated versions of earlier work,
New pieces abandoned in exasperation)
Which sat in mute testament to the difficult labor
Of unfastening onself from the yoke of being ordinary.

I.

I’ve always formed an instant bond
with eccentric people
the ones scorned for being weird
by a society focused on coloring between the lines
but I love the unconventional
the oddballs the misfits
minds that are bottomless wells
of inspiration, innovation, creativity
of dreams turned into reality
it doesn’t surprise me
why misunderstood people
prefer to live as hermits
ain’t no use playing piano to cows

II.

take my girl, ms. emily d.
an introvert poet who lived in isolation
she probably preferred
the friendships of her ghosts
the companionship of her thoughts
than to waste time with people
who underestimated her because she was quiet
no use convincing them QUIET doesn’t mean SHY
but then I wonder
if she ever regretted
not falling in love?
did she even try?
or was she so afraid of falling
of failing
she never let herself jump

III.

stop dwelling on the negative
be positive, they say
like you can control your feelings
an on off switch
so I try not to bother them with my emotions
because they’re always annoyed if I’m not smiling
not pretending to be the light giving energy others need
but last summer I visited the moors
following the footsteps of the Brontes
it rained all day
the land shrouded in ghosts of gray
so contrary to my California Sun
and being quarantined now
I empathize
how one can lose sight of hope
it’s hard to keep smiling
when day and night intermingle
until you lose sense of time and meaning
and you get lost in loneliness
lost in your thoughts
lost in their fascination of turbulent men
so lost
it’s terrifying
will I ever see the sunlight again?
will I ever feel love on my skin?
did they wonder if they could tame
the rochesters and the heathcliffs
of unrequited love
did charlotte finally panic?
was that why she settled for something less?
what if I die loveless and unhappy at 38?

IV.

in fourth grade I read
the works of a Canadian darling
dear Maud
so began my love
for Anne and her imagination and romantic
lyrical prose
and the longing to find kindred spirits
who understand
my brand of weird
on my 31st birthday I traveled to the island
for a chance to breathe her air
Maud Montgomery also gave up
on romantic love eventually
his name’s not important but I believe she loved
a man her family deemed not good enough
and he died soon after
no wonder she deemed love tragical
she settled too
when she finally married
at 37
I’m getting there
dearest Heavenly Father, you do realize I’m getting there, don’t you?
but nothing could live up to the ideals of a romantic dreamer
I’m afraid

V.

I’m afraid
falling could mean failure
all my creative heroes died depressed and alone
never discovering the love they craved
the touch they desired
logic says if p then q
or something like that
I’ve never been good with math and logic and that rational ****
but if
they are my kindred spirits
then
am I doomed to share the same fate?