The Weight of Love

I like the feel of being by myself, whether I’m calm or angry or sad.

I like being in a room and letting my emotion bounce off the walls in waves of heat. 

I like the feeling of wrapping my arms around myself, as if I’m holding myself together.

I like cracking the window open to listen to the rain, and letting myself cool off.

I like the cool of the sheets when I crawl into bed,
         and I like heating them up with friction by swishing my legs back and forth.

I like the simple things, like flowers, and fallen leaves.  

I like holding a pillow close, to sooth my aching heart.

I like painting and writing poetry, and tearing out pages from gaudy magazines to make crafts.

I like cleaning out my fishbowl,
         and I like the feeling I get when my fish swirls his fins in the new water afterwards. 

I like swinging at the park, and taking walks alone.

I like making toast and the crunchy sound it makes when I eat it.

I like the feel of a warm sweater, right as I pull it from the dryer.

I like sipping hot chocolate while my nose is cold and red from the chill of snow.

I like pumpkin pie, but only on Thanksgiving.

I like brushing my long hair to make it feel soft and smooth.

I like writing thank you notes, and sending letters in the mail.

I like dipping my toes in the pool, while deciding whether or not I’ll jump in.

I like hiking to the top of a mountain, and soaking up the view.

And by saying I “like” these things, instead of love,

(No matter how great they are)

The weight of the word LOVE is greater

And saved from being marred.  

It's About Time I Told You Why...

This is my 100^th blog post.  To be honest, I had no idea I would make it this far.  When I started it, I never gave an explanation as to why I was blogging.  I felt as if I didn’t need one.  In a way I thought it was partially self-explanatory as to why you would start a blog and I wasn’t about to waste my words on that when I had a story to tell.  My very first blog post, My Room Wants to Eat Me now has 123 page views and 6 Hours holds second place with 115.

I think it’s fitting that I explain now why I’m writing, whom I am writing to, and what I’m trying to accomplish.  I suppose it all comes in the form of a story, as do most of the things I write about.  This one starts a really long time ago.

When I was young my Mom couldn’t keep the house supplied with enough paper, scissors, and tape.  I was often taking paper, cutting it up, and taping it back together in various forms.  Then I would color it or do with it what I pleased.  Most of the time I made little books and drew pictures in them.  During one instance I invested a day into copying an edition of Martha Speaks into a cut-and-taped paperback book that I had created.  I loved that fact that I could flip through something I had made and read the words I had written down.  It didn’t matter to me that the work wasn’t actually my own, I was proud of it. 

A few years later in elementary school I was part of Beat Street, the program that my school ran for kids that wanted to “publish” their own books.  I wrote and illustrated two during my first few years.  I don’t remember what they were called but I vividly remember the pictures.  One was about a rainbow, and the other was about my zebra beanie baby getting lost at a circus.  

In 5^th grade we were required to make an Autobiography, and in 6^th grade we wrote and illustrated a children’s book.  On the side, I wrote in my journal fairly consistently and often wrote poetry.  It seemed like I was writing all the time.  I was good at math and understood science well enough, but I loved to write.  English wasn’t necessarily my favorite subject (I think P.E. was in middle school, but that was everyone’s favorite) but I knew how to write.  In 7^th grade I won an in class competition for who could write the best patriotic poem. 

Middle school finished, and I entered the local high school.  My English class was dominated by technology.  We had fishbowl discussions by commenting on a blog and we were required to have a blog of our own, of which I’ve long since deleted.  The transition from paper to word document never appealed to me, and I continued to journal in a notebook.  Junior year I compiled a collection of my favorite writings from the year.  The project was a requirement and a lot of work, but every once and a while I enjoy going back through my binder and reading everything I wrote. 

My favorite things to write were the things I made up, or got creative control over.  I’ve always been a thorough essay writer, but my biggest passion was creative writing, which is why it has become my intended major.  When I was younger I wanted to be a waitress, a major league baseball player, a teacher, a vet, an astronaut… a lot of different things that didn’t pertain to writing.  Yet, here I am attempting to get a creative writing degree. 

Some of you are probably thinking this doesn’t have anything to do with why she started the blog.  I promise, it does.

This past summer before I left for school I was a nanny for Tricia, the widowed mother of two darling boys.  I learned a lot of things that summer, including the fact that I wanted to be able to write like Tricia someday.  She had a blog of her own and I read it every single day.  (Her current blog is The Thoughts and Writings of Tricia Lott Williford.  You should read it, she's going to be an author someday.)  Not once did it cross my mind that I should start my own blog.  Blogging had always been something I was required to do throughout high school, and I found it miserable that entire time. 

The week I was leaving for school my family invited Tricia and the boys over for dinner.  I wanted to be able to spend time with the three of them and my family before I left. 

After the boys and some of my younger siblings left the table, my parents and I began to talk to Tricia about her life and how the writing process for her book had been.  She had ideas for one and was starting to put it into form, and I was extremely curious how everything was going. 

The conversation shifted slightly and I found that Tricia’s next comment pertained directly to me.  “If you want someone to pick you up as a writer someday, you need to be writing every day and they need to see that.  Elisabeth, I highly suggest that you start a blog.” 

If I was going to listen to anyone about such a matter, it was Tricia.  I admired her, and still do, in more ways than I can count.  That night I created No Mercy for Mosquitoes and wrote my first blog post.  I felt silly writing something the whole world could see since I had no idea how anyone would react.  It’s amazing how far I’ve come.  It’s natural.  It’s a habit. 

And I’m writing my hundredth post… wow.  I have 18 followers and will hopefully gain more.  People from more than 30 different countries have read my blog and I have more than 7,000 page views in total.  This had gone way further than I ever thought it would.

I want to keep writing.  (I know that I will.)    

I really hope that I write something long enough to be called a book someday.

So that is why I’m blogging.  It’s practice.  And I love it.  

Spoken Word in Written Form

Lately, spoken word has been the biggest fad,

Where you talk pretty quickly and sometimes rather fast,

Spewing thoughts and witty words

And being all poetic. 

But for me, it’s more like a rap

With a rhythm I can’t track.

It suits me, and I can relax when I find

A pattern of words to convey

And give meaning. 

It is not my strong point, if fact it’s my weakest

Rhyming during poetry I often consider form,   

And form for me means “cold” not “warm”. 

I like my words to flow smoothly, full of emotion,

Flowing like water and finding a way

To travel and embrace, to hold and give grace.

Often they don’t have much beat— 

Which seems to be rather unique,

And rhyming… it’s never been my cup of tea.

Ironic, since that’s all this poem seems to be.

But sometimes I like to be caught in the moment,

Thrown into words, for my pure enjoyment

And when they swell like the ocean,

They become a sea, and all I see are words

And me.    

I’ll let you in on a secret,

I’ve never tried this before.

I’ve written poems before, but not rap,

That’s for sure.

I’ve always been about breaking the mold

But spoken word is more than mere poetry,

It’s bold, 

like the letters that stand out in a text

Like memories that we’ll never regret.

WORDS are all I need.

That, and a bit of rhyming poetry.  

-e.carlson

The Sound of Snow

This is the kind of weather that I love.

It’s the kind that allows me to drink hot chocolate,

Or build a snowman.

It’s the kind that lets me snowboard

Or sit by a welcoming fireplace.

It’s the kind that lets me catch a snowflake

On my tongue—and it’s the life in me

That makes it melt. 

It’s the kind that gives me the opportunity

To pave a completely fresh path on my own,

And it’s the kind that makes me feel

Anything but alone.

It’s also the kind that takes hardly an effort to paint,

And the kind that doesn’t have much color,

But it’s also the kind that makes the world

Look a little softer. 

It’s the kind that makes it wonderful

To put on a heavy winter coat,

A pair of mittens, boots and snow pants,

(and maybe a scarf)

To take a nice winter walk

Before it’s dark.

And if I’m lucky, and not too cold,

I’ll take some time to sit in the snow

—and listen—

Then on my way home, I’ll hum a few notes

And wish that the world was this peaceful.  

That Familiar Blanket of Cold

A beautiful

fall day.

it seems i’ll take a walk

on my own—

and breathe

the fresh air.

no one is here

to tell me

where to go.

so I go,

alone.

The air tastes of

Christmas,

suddenly it’s changed

since a few

days ago.

and all I want is

snow.

that familiar blanket

of cold, but warming

for my soul.

I’ll dream,

in Seattle.

but I won’t kid myself.

When the snow does come

It will be

in Colorado.

An Unspoken "No Thank You"

This morning I almost didn’t go to English class.  I wanted to go back to my room and sleep—it’s dreary out and I wasn’t in the mood to sit and listen.  But a student here once said, “If you don’t go to a class, it’s like tearing up a $100 bill in your professors face.” 

I know he’s right, so I went.  In a completely unexpected way, it turned out to be one of the most productive class periods I’ve had so far.

My professor, while speaking of Ulysses, said, “You must read this book before you die,” and those words alone gave me a bad case of word vomit.  I wrote a single idea in my 3x5 notebook that became a flood of thought, and before I knew it I had written an entire poem and hadn’t heard a word the professor said. 

Writing and not being able to stop creates an adrenaline similar to being in a dangerous situation.  It’s incredibly hard to explain, but it’s almost as if time has no meaning.  Once my pen met the surface of the paper nothing else existed.

Asking the Question: Why? 

Why eat to live?

Why dream to fly?

Why count the hours as time flies by?

Why smell a rose on a summer day,

Why take a chance and walk astray?

Why read a book for pure enjoyment,

Why find yourself in the moment? 

Why dream, or wish, or seek to find

When death awaits down the line?

For life will turn, and run along

And those of us, who think we’re strong,

            will perish.

The body does not realize

What it truly means to die

            (For asked in any given moment to prepare

            one will refuse to despair

            or accept the given outcome.)

So I, with wings fastened to me,

heading toward the end

will live—as I intend.

Teacher, you may say,

            “Read this book before you die.”

But I say,

            “I’d rather not.

            Not I.”

It seems I’ll set that book aside.

If I want to live,

            before I die. 

-e.carlson

I guess the poem ended up being an unspoken “No Thank You” to my teachers assertion that we should all read Ulysses before death grabs a hold of us. 

I’d rather find other things to do instead.  

1

the echo of my soul is unpronounced

and muffled by the voices

i want to understand. 

there is so much air

for me to take in,

yet i only breathe small amounts—

even then my body only

uses part of it

and spits the rest out.

this is such a continuous cycle.

life begins,

the days repeat

life ends.

how then, do i break out of the mold,

explore on my own

and find the answers i want so much

to know.

i am restless and longing

for more, yet i have more than most.

such a paradox of emotion

caused by excessive sleeping

and not enough sun. 

oh seattle,

if anything will make crazy,

it’s you. 

New

The air is chilly, the time round noon

Alone I sit inside my room

Breathing the air of fall

Through a cracked-open window.

My homespun thoughts weave in my head

Thoughts of hope (and thoughts of dread)

Things I’d like release from my hand

And blow into the wind.

The falling leaves touch the ground

Hitting the pavement without a sound

And I watch them,

Dreaming of Colorado. 

Today is here, the sky is blue

A time of year when my feelings are new,

Yet the world is dying away

And preparing for winter.  

The Truth About Fire Trucks

There’s something about fire trucks that get children really excited.  Perhaps it’s the flashing lights or the blaring sirens, or the honking of the horn.  Maybe it’s just the color red that catches their attention.

My brother had a fire truck birthday party one year, which all of us thought was the greatest thing ever.  My Mom and Dad transformed a giant refrigerator box into a fire truck and we pretended to drive it around while screaming siren noises.  We became heroes in our own minds as we rescued people and put out fires.      

I don’t know if any child truly knows what a fire truck stands for, but I can remember the first time I realized what it was all about. 

My Dad, brother, and I were in the car one day driving through the neighborhood and I spotted smoke on the horizon.  “Daddy, there’s a fire,” I said.  He told me that, no, it wasn’t a fire, it was just smoke from a grill.  But I continued to insist that it was a fire and he drove us through the neighborhood until we reached a house that was engulfed in flames.

We got out of the car and stood along the other side of the street while we watched the house burn.  I can’t remember exactly how I felt but I did realize that there was no fire truck in sight.  My Dad and several other people were calling 911 and requesting help. 

I must have been 6 or so and I had never seen anything so real in my entire life.  The fire truck didn’t get there in time and there wasn’t much left of the house.  No one was hurt, but everything was gone. 

After that I went through a stage where I was paranoid about my house catching fire and burning to the ground.  I was most concerned about having my stuffed turtle, pet goldfish or dog get lost in the fire.  At some point it also crossed my mind that I could lose someone in my family…

If the fire truck doesn’t get there in time when someone is in the house, then what happens?  I started saying prayers whenever I heard sirens.  I wanted everyone to be ok.  It was still exciting to see a fire truck, but at the same time I knew what was on the other side.  Someone could be really hurt.  Whether it’s a car accident, a fire or other mishap, someone could die.

As soon as I started driving with a permit when I was 15 I would always get out of the way of a fire truck or ambulance as soon as I heard one.  Even if it was driving on the other side of the road I would pull over.  That’s what you were supposed to do, and everyone did it.  In Colorado it was fairly easy for emergency vehicles to get around quickly, and no matter where I was, no matter the time, the sound of sirens would diminish as soon as I heard them.

That’s not how it works here.  Once I hear sirens it seems like they go on forever.  This is partially due to the fact that the roads are small and hard to drive through in many places, but it is also due to the fact that people don’t get out of the way.  One of my friends was expressing her frustration at this the other day.  She told me, “People in Seattle don’t get out of the way like they should.  I can’t stand it.” 

I can’t either.  Granted, there is traffic because I live in a packed-in city but I want people to make the effort—there is someone on the other side that needs help. 

I would like to have a kids’ view of fire trucks again.  They see it as someone rushing to the rescue, which is true (I admire firemen greatly), but in the back of my mind I can’t help wondering who is hurt.  I want to believe that a fire truck always represents safety, but I can’t quite do that anymore.

This past summer when I was visiting Ohio I saw smoke on the horizon.

Here is what I wrote: 

Something is burning

On the horizon,

Black clouds of smoke

Permeate the blue

In sky, and I am

Sitting in my car

Watching through the

Window, from a distance

While someone is

Screaming—silently—

Surely someone is

Screaming, while

I watch (unfeeling)

The burning sky.

e.carlson

I might be doing ok, but there’s always someone who isn’t. 

This is reality.

And I just want to be the girl at the fire truck party.

The End of the Day

You can’t cry when tears won’t come,

but you can cry when the day is done—

Lying in bed amidst your own thoughts

Counting the things you thought not of

Until this moment with all its fears

And pulsating questions,

Trying to understand how quickly life

Is passing you by without a

Double take (or so much as a single glance)

As it continues to travel

Just out of reach, like a breath of air

In the galloping wind of autumn,

To winter,

To spring,

To summer,

To once more fall in line and continue

At the same pace as before,

Perhaps even faster.