Monday, September 26, 2011

i am having a hard time

And every time I see you* now, I feel like yelling at you.**

*And no matter who you are, if you're reading this***, this probably isn't about you****. You are not who you think you are. Unless you're more perceptive than I give you credit for. In which case, I'm sorry, I know that I underestimate you.

**Even though I don't have permission to yell at you, even though I don't have the right to yell to at you anymore. You make me feel like yelling, or at least grinding my teeth.

***You probably might actually read this. I don't know anymore. I don't know if will or won't, because I almost don't know you.*****

****Like, if you're blond, this probably isn't about you.

*****And now more than ever.******

******But I'm still Avery, I think.*******

*******This post is almost as cryptic and angsty as one of Kaitlyn's. Cool!********

********I'm done with the star-footnotes now.*********

*********JKLOL, for reals.

-Avery Jalaine

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Avery: Should I blog something?

Satan: No, read this book instead.

Avery: 'Kay, good idea.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

if i could have friends on paper

Maybe you would like me better if our conversations were you speaking words and me sliding my spiral-bound notebook across the void in lieu of one of my butchered, stumbly, cut-up, scatterbrained responses. I wouldn't say a word, except this, these. These little symbols and rules and the structure of the English language I learned in grade school, where I can talk and, I swear, I never stutter when I write it down.

I sound better on paper.

I know how to speak with pencils and pens and typewriters and those word magnets on refrigerator doors and you can never find the word that you were looking for, but I can. I find the words that I was looking for everywhere, except for inside of my own mouth. I speak a foreign language out loud. And still, I talk too much. I write too much, and I speak too much, and I think too much, but that's just another way of me saying that I talk too much. I have too many words inside of me. They gush out gruesomely, like blood out of battle wounds, like vomit, like a torrential downpour and I drown myself a little bit. Words come of me when I try to keep them in and when I don't try to keep them in it's like I'm yelling even when I whisper. 

I can't keep myself quiet, even on paper. Even right now, typing this blog post, I'm trying to shut myself up but I feel like there's one more thing (and then one more thing after that) that I need to tell you, but really I'm just talking myself in circles, saying the same thing: I talk too much I talk too much I talk too much. I don't think I'd stop talking if I car hit me.

"The rain is not coming here. Not today. For today the gods welcome one of their own back home."
-Avery Jalaine

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

space dementia

It wasn't hard to find my way to the sun; it wasn't hard to burn.

The problem was coming back down -- no gravity -- and re-learning how to breathe air.

I'll tell you later.
-Avery Jalaine

Friday, September 9, 2011

ant farm


What You Are
by an ant

You are tall. You are full to the ribs with jealousy, and you stoop low to avoid hitting your head on the sky. You are shaped like something God made, but you are not God; you are shaped like Man, but you are not a man. When you breathe, you take more oxygen than you need. You are tired, heavy on your feet and I would know. You are loud and destructive and you are not afraid of the rain, except for sometimes when it rains very much and you wonder idly from inside your warm woolen wooden house if somehow this is God's way of punishing you and the rain isn't going to stop at all. You are terrified of the dark, big strong brave, and afraid of the dark. You are angry. You stomp. You lie so much but all you want is the truth, you swear, all you want is the truth. No, you can't handle the truth; you just want something that looks like the truth. You are a cannibal, a hypocrite, and you have a lovely way of opening your mouth and saying the right thing. You are lovely and you are unrighteous and you are divine. You are gorgeous, full of light and soft breathing sounds and bare feet across wood floors. You are thoughtful if you remember to be. You are co-dependent in a good way. You are manipulative. You are good. And above all, you are very, very tall. Tall enough to do something that might be good for the rest of us. Tall enough to stand up straight.

A Poem About Ants
by a man

You are small.
And easy to squish.

What I Meant to Say
by an ant

I meant to say that you're cruel. But you look good doing it. You always think that you are the exception.
You're not.

What You Are Not
by an ant

Oh, and you are not unsympathetic. At least, you try not to be.

Sometimes I am like an ant: unnerved by my own strength.
-Avery Jalaine

Thursday, September 1, 2011

this is my life

hey addy. look. it's matthew gray gubler.

Hey Addy. Something happened today.

And since you're not here in Journalism with me and Em and Kaitlyn, you missed this (!!!!!) moment today:

See him? Oh, and that's a CAT he's high-fiving. Yes, yes. It was a good time. We wish you were here.

-Avery Jalaine