just pull me down hard, and drown me in love.

i wanted to write you a letter
but i lacked the words to say

maybe i’ll just send you a postcard
no return address
feel like that would be easier
less hassle, less mess
so i’ll just dot my eyes and cross my lips
seal it with a weighted kiss
and hope it finds you well

or maybe i’ll send you a valentine
awkwardly written, without any rhyme
it may find its way to you
two months long overdue
on red construction paper
perfumed with stale cigarettes and tinted with wine

but rainy days melt paper hearts
the few words i’ve found just run apart
in punctuated rivers and narrative streams
flower petal wishes and faded blue jeans
i needed to write you a letter
but i lacked the words to say
here’s hoping you know what i meant to say,
anyway

i’m falling apart to acoustic love songs
unbuttoning at the slightest sigh
every hand held reminds me of you
yet the words won’t come out right
trying in vain to form the letters
forgetting fumbling fingers on worn-out sweaters
how do you say i love you in felt-tip pen?

because rainy days melt paper hearts
the few words i’ve found just run apart
in punctuated rivers and narrative streams
flower petal wishes and faded blue jeans
i needed to write you a letter
but i lacked the words to say
here’s hoping you know what i meant to say,
anyway

there was a time when i thought you could read my mind
can’t we just go backwards to that place and time?

because
rainy days
melt paper hearts
and the words i’ve got are only a start
the punctuated rivers and narrative streams
the flower petal wishes and faded blue jeans
i tried to write you a letter
but the words wouldn’t come out right
here’s hoping you knew
here’s hoping you know
what i mean to say, anyway

and it comes and goes, like fitz and dizzyspells.

sometimes, you can just taste the ball of frustration and anger.

it lives in that place right behind your sternum; too big to fit in your throat, but close enough to it that you feel pressing against your lungs every time you breathe and swallow.

it doesn’t happen often – ususally, you’re good at hiding it, or pretending it isn’t there. putting on a facade, ignoring it, pushing it down.

but sometimes, you can’t.

sometimes, it’s a huge build-up of things, and the ball gets stuck there until you’re forced to take deep, calculated breaths to ease around it.

and even then, you have to wear sunglasses on the walk home, despite the fact that it’s overcast and stormy and you probably don’t need them on.

but you wear them so that no one sees the rare occasion when you can’t pretend everything is all right. no one notices the tired half-squint, no one notices the threat of tears.

all they can kind of see is the rhythmic tensing of your jawline, which is also offset by the long cigarette drags and desperate sips of coffee.

but you’re listening to the same song over and over again on your ipod – it’s not set to repeat, but every 4 minutes your fingers slip down into your pocket to hit the back button. sometimes, it only gets 1 minute in before you restart it.

something about the familiarity of it.

maybe it’s the acoustic guitar, the lyrics, the blending of instruments, the melody, the wandering bass line.

maybe it’s a combination of everything.

all you know is that when you turn up the volume of that song loud enough to drown out the sea of city strangers, that ball of frustration starts to melt away.

sometimes, it takes three full plays of the song to get it right.

sometimes, you can feel your body begin to relax as soon as the familiar notes pour into your ears.

the heavy sighs become softer, the nicotine drags less frequent, the tension in your shoulders oozes out through your fingertips.

like magic.

and you get home; the apartment is dark – lit in a murky grey by the the rainy rolling sunday skies.

it smells wet and fresh – the rain perfuming the hardwood floors from the window you left cracked before you ventured out this morning.

bags are thrown down, earplugs removed, shoes kicked off, soggy blue jean bottoms scuff half-hearted circles around bare feet.

tired fingers find worn out strings.

melodies emerge from fingertips.

eyes close as the body of the guitar hums against your chest, urging the last of the pressure behind your sternum to dissolve and fade away.

like magic.

and you play until your fingers hurt – cracked knuckles from hours of washing and pulling espresso become stiff and sore.

yet, it feels good.

like magic.

the well-weathered acoustic nestles back into its resting place as you shrug under covers, lulled into sweet sleep by the soft patter of spring rain promises against the window pane.

bad days breed creativity – especially when it’s storming.

tell me, are you single yet; my heart’s as big as texas.

well, alright.

it’s about fucking time for an update, no?

first, points of possible interest:

- my parents came to see my last show (in which i played an alcoholic nymphomaniac) and haven’t disowned me yet. score.

- i graduate in one month. score.

- there is a pigeon living in the ash bucket on our back porch. she’s expecting two babies. alex has named her shirley. score.

- my roommate claims he’s ovulating. i told him the tampons were in the bathroom cupboard, but he said he likes to just “let it run free.” um, score…?

- i’m pretty sure my mono has decided to move on. i mean, we were pretty close there for a while, but i can’t say i’m sad to see it go. score.

- i’ve been playing guitar so much that i have awkward little calluses on my fingertips. but they make me feel like a badass, so: score.

- it’s 72 today. um, hi spring/summer. i’ve been waiting for you. score.

- the hypocrites announced their 2009/2010 season: mary shelley’s “frankenstein,” sartre’s “no exit,” and “cabaret.” score. except, i probably won’t get cast. not-so-score. but i’ll audition anyway. score.

- last night was my first night off in a long time. score. i went to a loft party, got drunk, hung out with some good friends, met some awesome new people, and participated in a drunken game of foosball (on an uneven table.) overall: score.

alright, well, i suppose i should write something intellectual now. or, maybe not.

i don’t know.

i’ve been pretty blue for a while now, and while i still can’t quite put my finger on why, i think it has something to do with stress, over-working myself, being sick, etc etc. but the end of my stress is in sight, and it was significantly lifted yesterday when i turned in my BFA portfolio; now, all i have left in order to graduate is performance-based finals. this makes for a very happy lindsey, and an equally as happy social life.

what? you mean i actually have time now to see people? to hang out? to not have to offer up apologies for being swallowed up by my work/college obligations? hot damn.

in other news, i’m thinking about possibly recording some of my music on my handy dandy little macbook. not that anyone would listen to it, but now that i have some free time, i feel like i should do something productive with it.

what you need is a shot in the arm.

hi.

i’m alive, i promise.

i’ve just been fighting mono, doing a show, trying to graduate, etc etc etc.

life has been crazy as of late, but i’ll write a real journal entry soon – i swear.