untitled. also hey here’s some laura gilpin !!

I recently moved back to my hometown after a decade-long battle with the aftermath of the recession that tore me from it. It’s a new home, fresh paint and all. We have no neighbors, though I expect that to change rapidly within the next six months. Around seven (???) other families decided to begin building houses on the nearby sections of land at the same time. Great. Just great. There goes my tranquility.

I’ve decided to adopt the hobby of flower pressing. I do not possess a fancy pressing machine, but instead my trusty green journal I call Dickinson. What? Huh? You don’t assign names to your journals? Well, you certainly should. It makes them feel life-like. More real. Go ahead, name them. Now you are destined to become a hoarder because you are emotionally attached to your journal.

I know what you’re thinking; “Rebekah, it’s a dumb notebook! Why did you name it after a deceased poet? You are a silly goose!”

Okay, yes, I named my sketchbook/notebook/journal/leather-bound therapy session after The Great™️ Emily Dickinson. I love her. I’ve placed a small, obscure picture of her in my bedroom window. We also share the same birthday, although she was maybe born 200 years earlier. I say “maybe” because I don’t know how math works and I can’t remember the year she was born. Or the year I was born, for that matter. Also, yes, I am a silly goose.

I haven’t written a post such as this one on my blog in a very long time. It’s become rather rambly, don’t you agree? I don’t know how to end this, so I assume it is best for me to leave you with some Laura Gilpin brilliance and whimsy:

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.

That is all. I hope you feel a little more human tonight. I sure as heck do.

my brain is a wasteland, although filled with orwellian literature and florence + the machine lyricism

Let the dust settle before you begin to ricochet between certainties and doubts. It’s time to begin anew. We are going to learn to take the rain as it comes. We’re taught to fear the storm, now we must embrace it. The world is so very small, almost indifferent. Your head is filled with the strangest thoughts fueled by genuine goodness. Your existence is a collapsing immortality, a facade of normality, and a ghost full of sorrowful noise. The saudade you feel is deemed otherworldly.

a collection of writing better left unpublished

“we’re going home”

Bare skeleton frames resemble the halls I used to roam as a child. I can’t help but be reminded of the life I once lived. Gone are the days when my only worries revolved around what shoes I would wear the next day. I used to stand at the end of my gravel driveway and attempt to hail the passing school buses. Little did I know that the buses didn’t pick up homeschoolers like me. That’s not how it worked.

“you’ll be great, kid”

I am a child wandering about an endless cave filled with various sorts of memories that should be kept in the past. Things I would rather forget. Things I would like to cast away in the wind. I am going to retrieve each one, only to bottle them up and keep them for myself. Am I allowed to forget the past now? The earth has been quiet lately. Most of my days are now spent sleeping in far too late and staying up until the sun begins to rise. My evenings are consumed by a ritual of reading the books I’ve soaked up several times before. I know every word. It sort of hurts to live. I miss the people I once saw everyday and the hugs they would give. When I look into the once crowded streets, I see the ghost of humanity.

“and if I ruled a kingdom”

Feed me butterflies, stars, poetry, glitter, music, and flowers. Tell me all the secrets of the universe that have been passed down your bloodline for generations. This is meant to sound as ominous and threatening as possible. Is it working?

“in awe”

In poetry, madness, beauty, and pain I shall love the earth forever. The crashing waves and the ever-present stars guide me wherever I go. The beauty I behold in the presence of God is such a gift, therefore I shall never trade it for the world.


worn and made from clay

formed by the magnificent hands

of a brilliant master

I trust Him

for He is the artist molding me

I am illuminated from within

tensions and defeat

pulling at my flesh

haunted and holy humanity

I am your glorious creation

the color of death

“I am sorry the world has come to this”, my mother utters between sobs while hunched over the kitchen table, each cry of agonizing sadness melting her further into the furniture. “I hate how everything has ended before you were truly able to experience it all”.

Existence is certainly heavy now, and I have seen the color of death. It’s an orange-ish hue, much like the setting of a sun that won’t return for quite some time.

the laundromat

I entered the building and was immediately greeted by the melodramatic hazy vibe that one might refer to as the ambiance. The thirty-something clerk acknowledged me by glancing up from his thin tabloid magazine filled with worn wispy pages that peeked out from the four corners. The dude looked creepy; kinda wiry and the left lens of his glasses frame had cracked into a shape that resembled a spider web. I will admit he appeared pretty cool. He would be the intoxicated and controversially opinionated uncle at Thanksgiving. This man child is the sort of guy that might believe in the Bermuda Triangle and obscure conspiracy theories that involve the U.S. Government and, I don’t know, maybe Dolly Parton? Quite the party animal.

I pierced the wall of social anxiety set before me and shuffled over to the washing machine that strayed furthest from the other customers. From where I was standing I could view whatever random soap opera was being played on the obnoxiously large old-school television that hung above the heads of the other patrons far across the room.

Suddenly, a weird green object on the floor catches my eye. It is a turtle. There is a turtle literally breakdancing in a fit of angst and unbridled teenage reptile rage on the linoleum. Weird stuff happens at the laundromat, man.

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