Ghosts Don’t Touch the Ground

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Alive

Running through mesquites,

sun on my shoulders,

fighting

for sandpaper breaths.

never approaching fast.

it was awful.

it was awesome.

*

Rhythms that matched my pulse,

handing glowsticks down the row

shouting the chorus

with the man on stage,

with the crowd,

united.

*

Sketching my newborn cousin

in our grandmother’s arms

rubbing his silky hair

holding his tiny hand

in mine.

*

Throwing snow at my brother,

or water balloons,

or socks,

or paper airplanes,

or fallen leaves.

*

The first time I drew a mermaid,

eleven and gangly and wrapped up

in stories

that guided my lines.

the mermaid I painted a decade later,

with

a shark’s tail

a steady gaze

only the vaguest idea

what I was doing.

*

Dancing

in a garden at night,

on a stage, wearing glitter,

in a kitchen,

or a dream,

or a studio,

or a quiet warehouse.

sandpaper breaths are an old friend,

and so’s the burn between my shoulder blades.

I jumped more

when I was young,

but the dance has the same heart.

*

A Gila monster

sighted at dusk

on the side of a dirt road.

a peacock

wandering, gleaming,

in a zoo.

a tree, old and bent and strong.

ants on the sidewalk.

fish in a tank.

a coyote, half glimpsed in tall grass.

a heron at a river.

a dragon

that no one can touch.

*

Cutting

paper and fabric and soul

into bits,

reassembling

into something new,

*

Finding a story

that fills a space

I didn’t know my heart

was missing.

telling a story

to do the same

for a heart I can’t even see.

*

Standing in a thunderstorm

wet clothes

bare feet

just listening

to the pulse of the rain.

The University of Dreams

Welcome to the University,

where we trade in

memories.

Ever been to Tir an nOg?

No?

We had someone last week—

traded the memory of an afternoon there

in exchange for—

well. I can’t say.

confidentiality, you know.

but the memory’s for sale,

if you’re curious about the place.

so are lessons in

everything

from the physics of the waking world

to the craft of yarn-making.

What about you?

Got any memories worth sharing?

A sunrise in the waking world?

A battle? The story of that scar?

A forbidden kiss?

Those are always in demand.

Won’t hurt none—

well, maybe a little—

to sell it to us.

Ye’ll even still remember it!

just not as strong as before.

Not interested. Huh.

so why are you here?

everyone comes here wanting something.

a gift, really?

what kind?

celebration,

apology,

just because?

those all have different needs.

no—you don’t know

what you’re after.

tell me about your student,

I’ll figure it out.

As for payment—

oh. Yes,

yes,

that should do nicely.

What Art Is

What is art?

For me:

*

It’s sawdust in my hair

and ink on my hands

and clay on my clothes.

*

It’s pulling my feelings

into something more tangible

like an image on paper.

It’s the fear that comes when

I put those feelings

where others can see them.

*

It’s angry scribbles and

crumpled-up concepts and

weeks of hating

everything I make.

*

It’s scrubbing my hands

again and again and again

trying to feel my own skin.

*

It’s hard, and it’s wonderful.

It’s the delight from a project

finally coming together,

or a person

who says

I made something that helped them.

*

From the Outside of the House.

You can’t tell what’s going on from the outside of someone’s home, unless maybe they’re shouting. You can get clues.

The yard, if there is one, with its presence or lack of plants that aren’t supposed to be there, says something about who might be inside. If there are chalk drawings on the driveway or sidewalk nearby, that says something too. So does the state of any vehicles that might be parked in front, and how recently the building’s been painted, and anything you might glimpse through the window. During voting season, they might have signs in support of their preferred candidate posted.

But it doesn’t say as much as getting to know the people inside.

Generally, my current apartment has a huge flowerpot with no visible plant life in it on the windowsill. I’m told the plants are still growing, and there are a couple of tiny leaves if you look from directly above it, which you wouldn’t from the window. There’s also a bouquet of fake flowers, and if it’s night and the blinds are open, you might see my roommates and I watching a show together, or maybe someone cooking or studying.

Given that it’s a college apartment, some things about us are obvious. We’re college students. It’s a women-only building, so none of us have Y chromosomes.

But good luck guessing our areas of study, or where we’re from, or anything actually pertinent to figuring out the sort of people we are. All of that is only visible inside the apartment, where the talking happens and the studying and I occasionally cover the living room floor with paint supplies (I try not to do that when the others are home).

I think people are like that too. You can look at someone’s face and clothes and body language all you want, but the important stuff is happening inside their mind–and unless your name is Charles Xavier, you’re not getting in there. You have to piece it together from their words and actions, which aren’t visible all at once the way the state of their shoes is.

It might seem awfully inconvenient, having to invest time in someone in order to learn about them. Certainly makes trusting people you’ve just met tough. But it’s also good in a lot of ways. It means that any successful friendship was actively worked towards, that the people involved spent the necessary time to make it work, to learn each other, to respect one another as equals.

Being able to do all that at once might make those relationships feel unimportant, and they’re not.

Sand in my eyes

Send away

Thoughts of tomorrow;

How does a mind

Slow down?

Sleep.

Dream.

Yeah, that

Doesn’t happen soon.

*

My ancestor

Bleaches my hair,

Gives cryptic words.

Her name means wisdom.

When I wake,

I’ll wonder

Why I never told her:

Issalaamu alaykum.

May peace be upon you.

Perhaps it already is.

*

I hide in a box

Of fantasies and

Children’s toys,

All gray.

The fear is scarlet.

Color is strange,

In dreams,

In memories.

*

Wake.

Glare at the ceiling.

*

Sleep.

*

A wandering melody

Of yellow notes

Plays over me.

I run from monsters,

Faster than I’ve ever run,

Waiting for

Sandpaper breaths

That don’t come.

The monsters

Aren’t scary.

An endlessly shallow river

Is now deep and blue.

I catch a fractal glimpse–

*

Of nothing.

An alarm rings.

Colors fade to amber.

I clamber out of bed.

Constant Improvement

A lot of Internet advice in creative fields runs along the lines of “Practice. And then practice more.” While not inaccurate, this advice doesn’t specify much as to how one should practice–how often? What specific aspects of the work should be practiced most? What sort of improvement can be expected or hoped for?

Truth to tell, that’s because it’s different for everyone. But reading the advice to “practice” with no further elaboration can be discouraging, so I’m going to share my practice method for drawing.

Every morning, as soon as I wake up, I fill a page in my sketchbook. At the top of the page is written the area I need to work in for the day-whether it’s hands or faces or a specific character or flowers, anything I feel needs improving. I fill the page up with practice. They aren’t large pages, so truth to tell that isn’t a massive amount of practice per day, but it is consistent. That’s enough that I’ve seen vast improvement between my work at the beginning of the summer as opposed to the end.

Once the page is filled, I start with the breakfast and putting on socially acceptable clothes and the other things that have to be done for a day to be productive.

I also have a file on my tablet for a digital sketchbook, where I work on character designs and drawing things I see during my day and ideas. I draw in that one during church, pretty often. I’m not super great at sitting still and just listening.

Occasionally this means jotting down notes in between doodles, or allowing the friend next to me to write down the name of the Pokémon he thought I was drawing, but that’s all right.

Unfortunately, all this practice is easiest to accomplish during a summer of relatively few responsibilities. Hopefully I can maintain some of those habits when classes start again.