#drafts #realrealtalk #moretocome

Hey peeps. So here is literally all of the things I tried to spit out during the 4 hours it took me to try writing this post. I had been thinking about what to say all weekend but I just couldn't keep it together today. I think the pressure of making it count is what got me. It ended up I couldn't think of anything more real than this at the moment. Anyways, enjoy the realness. Don't worry. I'll post something better later ;) 


   My Mom told me once that I am a creature of connection. That my heart was actually made of silver and that whenever I connected to someone I shone like the moon. Not obvious, but subtle, steady, and beautiful. Not obvious, but alive.
My Dad somehow used to tell me that I was responsible for everyone but myself. 
My sister tells me I am a blessing.
My fear tells me that I'll never stand out. That these 3 precious hours could have been used for sleep.
And my heart tells me to tell you whatever is on my mind. I'm not sure what real talk looks like and I may just post this for the credit.
all this talk about me,

Real talk looks like a long drive in the rain, just so we can hear her voice again.

Real talk looks like not minding no make-up but wearing it anyway, fear of the fake looks or no looks at all. Only the things her eyes would see.

Real talk looks like 5 beautiful blondes, and one average brunette. 

"Hi. I'm Katy. I wrote this poem last night, is it okay if I read it to you? And I'm sorry if it sucks, its only my 1st draft."
"Hi. I'm Katy. I'm the 7th of 9 kids. Don't worry, I'm the only one who acts like this."
"Hi. I'm Katy. Nice to meet you. Do you want to hang out with me and my sister this Saturday? Don't panic, its only to be nice." (its mainly for her, just to be nice)(ends with saying that apologizing sucks, don't apologize for your 1st drafts thats stupid)

I heard a quote once that said "Around everyone's neck hangs a sign that says 'make me feel important.'"
Make me feel whole
Make me shine
Make me feel seen
Help me
Help me. 
There used to be a saying in my house that said "Every right implies a responsibility, every opportunity an obligation, every possession a duty." 
My Dad used to tell me that I was responsible for everyone but myself.
My Mom told me once that I am a creature of connection and that my heart was actually made of silver. Calm, subtle, steady. And that whenever I connected to someone I shone like the moon. Not obvious, but alive.
And my sister told me once that I wear my heart on my sleeve and I am a walking sponge, absorbing every unsaid word, every tear, every cry in the night. 
She told me it wasn't affecting me for the better, but true to her words, I took it to heart. 
On my first day of high school

But even real talk couldn't tell you how many times I had to change scenery, take a break or rewrite something completely different, just for this little prompt. Real talk looks like poetic words and churning depths, but stress on paper. just keeping it simple. Real talk looks like me still hoping to post on this blog when the stress of standing out dies down

Real talk looks like the too-intense desire to be meaningful and different actually make her words meaningless (like it always does)

Real talk looks like the burning desire to make her last words her most meaningful. But maybe thats why this post was the hardest because I freeze up at the thought of goodbyes. I'm not ready to say goodbye to Paris just yet. No, not for me. I may not have creative writing 2 next semester, but I'll be back. 

Never Look Away

Whenever something sad happens to me it has always been instinct for me to look away. My fear of that image being seared into my brain as memory too big for compassion.

  I remember the time my heart stopped as I watched Death do what it does best on the steaming asphalt, under the spotlight of our cars brights. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. I looked away.
  I remember the time I saw the one and only tear come down Stonefaces' cheek. It can't be real. It would never be what it seemed. I looked away.
  I remember my heart skipping a beat as you passed me in the hall. You didn't look my way, so I pushed on, stinging words swirling in my mind. I was never worthy of that anyway. 
  I remember his calm voice, yet intense eyes that deliver the message: don't feel, don't feel, don't feel. I  managed to look away.
But now I'm standing in the midst of this silent blizzard and suddenly I need my eyes. And I 

can't.

look.

away.

  I remember when I felt a strange, sticky feeling suddenly cling in my chest. People tell me the real definition was "grief". 
And it won't go away.
  I remember going through old photographs and feeling like a mystery no one cared to solve.
And my eyes are glued to her face.

  I remember when Stoneface Jr. suddenly lost her nickname. Mascara still stains my shirt.
As much as I appreciate it, I wish it would wash away. 

  I remember swallowing "irrational" or "petty" tears because now I'm the one who has to carry in the heavy stuff from the car, fix too many broken things, or kill that spider while girls squeal and run for cover. This wasn't always my job. 
And they won't go away.

  I remember seeing him put a gun to her head with his words. But that bullet hit me and her both.
And this gaping hole won't go away. 

  Now I have these images seared in my brain and I remember how I've always wanted to run. To look away, never knowing any different. 

But as I gaze in the mirror, I realize that all I want to do now is look. As gruesome as they are, these memories intrigue me. Who is this girl? What has disregarding her emotion cost her? Are her eyes really as weary as they feel? All those late nights in the mountains, naps in the grass, waves and waves of people, or awe-striking stars tell me that I have never been more alive. Somehow they tell me that these eyes see more than the "general idea". They record the details. And they remember them. 

When I look into those eyes, I remember everything. The good, the bad, and the ugly. This is my life, these things make me who I am. And never again will I look away from anything that has played a piece in creating me. Even if it means dealing with pain. Because facing the truth has taught me what it feels like to live without sight and looking away has taught me what life would be like without a heart. And I don't know about you but my heart has always been something I can't bear to lose.

The human death dance(film festival)

Here is the video that me, Thom Sonny Green, Buggy, and Cloudwatcher put together!
 Special thanks to Colby Barton for slamming for us.

Paint your culture

This screams reminders. 


Katy, you're in charge of your life.
Katy, don't let him define you. Don't give him what his brain yearns for.
Katy, don't forget to soak your hands in paint. 
Katy, let the wild horses of your heart run free, dragging all the yucky with them. Leave the gate open. Leave it. Don't let it slam closed by the smallest winds. 
Katy, don't forget to write...and write...and write.
Katy, wash the black paint out of your color palette. You don't need any more black for your masterpiece, no matter what your siblings say.
Writer, don't let math lock you up in your brain.
Be the change. 
Writer, don't let society numb you. Add some color to this world.
Create your spunk. Only you can define who you are. 
Katy, choose your reaction.

Take control of your life. Paint your culture. And freaking create your future, McClain.

Who knew that I'd get all the answers with just a few words and a sharpie? 

Dear listening ear

Dear listening ear, 

 People say that soft and subtleness is beautiful in a woman. but to me it has always been my fear; because this world has never been fond of soft things, and its never had the eye for subtleness. 

it's never had the eye for me. 

my biggest fear has always been that no one would ever see me. that no one would see when I was trying to share a laugh with someone, that no one would pick up on when I was trying to express myself, or that no one would see when i just wanted to feel loved. making me feel that my message didn't matter. that i didn't matter.
 And like you've probably guessed, this class has been one of the those painful things. From day 1, I decided that my fears would probably be that I would blend in. That my blog would be "one of those blogs". That my heart would be, oh you know, "one of those hearts". So I detached myself from my self. 
 If I didn't get any comments, then it was Ricochet's fault, not mine.
 If my writing lacked confidence, then I could say it wasn't me. 
If anyone had to be invisible, please let it be her. Not me.
For most of this class, I created Ricochet. I made her the person that I feared I was....And I never even knew her. And now I have to let her go. 
 Most of the "heart" you saw on here was hers. It was the kind that is half muscle and blood, half grinning-and-bearing-it. It was Ricochet's. Because I condemned her to that. I could've made her amazing, but I didn't. 
 It wasn't until around the time when we talked about fear in class and we wrote down everything we didn't want, that I realized Ricochet Greyson was everything that was spilled on my paper.
And that was when we became one. That was when I made her visible. It was there that I created her with experiences around the campfire, made a map of our heart, or an album of my life. That was when I decided that I loved Ricochet Greyson. 
 It was a short bout, a great last ride together. I could've made her amazing, but instead I chose to make her a imperfect. My masterpiece. 
And now here I am trying to write her away. 
But I don't think I can do it. 
 Before that time she would've had you believe that she was depressed, but still remarkably pushing through. She would have you believe that she had all of the confidence and hope in the world. 
 But now she would have you believe that I am alive and that I know I am different even though my subtle self makes it hard to see. She would try to make you see that I have had my share of crisis and heartbreak. I may be awkward or average, or that person that always makes babies cry. I may be that quiet or "really nice" girl in B6, but if Ricochet had the chance to show you she'd tell you that I have an insanely feisty opinion and I am definitely not who I appear to be. I may not be sassy or I may not be drop dead gorgeous but if Ricochet really knew herself, you'd know that it doesn't matter. 
 Anywho. Maybe this hasn't been super clear, but I hope that these 
past few weeks you've been able to see her heart for what it really is. I may have a blog that a lot of people see, but not very many people read, or in other words, you may see me around a lot, but not truly "see" me. But Ricochet Greyson would have you believe that she is okay with that. She would have you believe that she doesn't need that to feel loved or understood any more. Anyways, thanks for listening. 
              
             This is me checking out from Ricochet Greyson,

    Yours truly, 
               Katy(freaking)McClain




                                     

album title: The Iceberg Analogy

The Iceburg Analogy
Album description: a chance to lower the water a bit.
Description of the tracks: 

Track 1, (published Jan. 30, 1999)
Here marks my 1st year in life. Everything is astonishing and even though I experienced so much to get to this point, I still couldn't blow out that one candle. I didn't mind.

Track 2, (published Jan. 30, 2000)
Two candles are smoking and I'm starting to find my place in the hubbub. Everything is still astonishing. Who knew that that big black thing in the kitchen held so many fun things to create? #eggslimeonthetile

Track 3, (published 2001)
Mommy and Daddy are back. There are now 3 new people to add to the 8 in the frame on the wall. My oldest sisters aren't smiling and I fended for myself.

Track 4, (published 2002)
2 of them got on the plane, much to Mommy's tragic relief and Daddy's disdain. There are cracks in our house now. But it's okay because someone planned came to us. A light containing smiles and cute Oshkosh overalls.

Track 5, (published 2003)
Our pain is mostly gone, but the cracks are still there. The trampoline, my stuffed animals, and imaginary creatures are my best friends.

Track 6, (published March 1, 2004)
Another one. She looks just like you, they said. I'd never been more flattered.

Track 7, (published Summer of 2005)
My best friend and I are still cleaning the dirt from under our finger nails. I'd never had so many adventures.

Track 8, (published Feb. 2006)
I feel so old, but beautiful. A pretty white dress hangs in my closet.

Track 9, (published Jan. 2007)
We left our safe haven. Where the crap am I? Why are there so many fields? Where are the mountains? So many new faces. And those 48
hour shifts damaged more than just his health.

Track 10, (published Jan. 2008)
We left again. We found even more fields and there are no mountains to be seen. And I could hopefully get used to the smell. More new friends?

Track 11, (published 2009) 
*scratched* 

Track 12, (published 2010)
Too many vacations to Disneyland, instead of the trip to his heart. The trip we all needed. My fist is crammed in my mouth. The crack continues to trickle to the roof, regardless of the new house.

Track 13, (published 2011)
My brother and sister left for a time. They must have somehow known we'd need the help of their black name tags. 

Track 14, (published April, 2012)
The crack reached the top. Our house split in two, as well as her heart. The sun left us and too many doors closed when they should've opened. I fended for myself.

Track 15, (published Aug. 2013)
We found the sun. Tears of joy followed its rays, but I was the only one who bothered to check the forecast. Something is not right. We're living in the quiet before the storm. Be caref-

Track 16, (published Oct. 2014)
The storm. A storm I told myself would never rage, is here. And I am devastated. And sickened. And in pain...so much pain. Caught in a deathly silent blizzard trying to find a pocket knife
to cut bonds that I didn't even know I was born with. Some of us are back in our safe haven, but it doesn't compensate for much. Someone please see me.

Track 17, (published Sept. 2015)
The storm still rages, but it's okay because I found my pocket knife. And I don't know how,
but I can see color through the flurry of snowflakes now. That wind thinks it's pretty
strong, but it still can't blow faster than my heart. I am no longer, and never will be the
girl drenched from the snow.

Track 18, (to be released, Jan. 30, 2016)
It's almost here. And I'm not ready.
God, please let me still be a kid, or at least stay 17...
I've never felt so alive, so right, just the way I am, just the way things are.

But I don't love writing?

I made a map of my heart 

with hopes to help me find just where my it beats in my chest.
To find just what is flowing through my veins.

I printed many tender, simple things on my heart that day. 
Like, 

my family, Disneyland, fall time, fireflies, airplanes, or "The Newsies"
But something happened that I didn't expect.

Poetry was not among them. 

When people ask me what I want to be when I get older,

I've always told them a writer.
I long for that to be a passion,

but I don't love writing. 
I'm not one who waits and waits all day to get out a piece of paper and spill her guts on it. I'm not one who writes to feel alive.
Besides, Poetry left me a long time ago. 

Maybe I'm a tourist, but I couldn't lie to my heart.

 I am very interested in Poetry and I believe it has the 
exhilarating potential to help me stay alive.

But not enough to make it a piece of me...yet. 
Is it weird that I want to be a writer someday 
but am still teaching myself how to love it? 
writing is so hard.
It has the capacity to make you lose sleep at night. 
Like an angry itch lingering somewhere you can't reach.
It is an idea that constantly hovers over you,
 showing you potential poetry in anything 
from an empty room to a rusted nail.
It takes up all of your thoughts and paper.
In fact, writing thrives and feasts on your paper, brain...and heart.
Like a hungry, nagging child that is so hard to please.
If you really think about it, to most that would be a blessing, 
but to me its a curse because of my inability to embrace it for what it is.
I attempt to pour my heart into everything I write, but it comes out looking like my brain. Making me feel as though my ideas and words are brilliant, but after I get them on paper it smells like wasted potential. 
Writing deceives my heart sometimes. And it hurts. 
But.
That doesn't stop me from striving to love it. To call Poetry to come back.
From yearning to be anxiously engaged in spilling my guts on the page.
I may not love writing enough to print it on my heart,
but for now I'll sit back and read, and write,
and do scary things,
and observe,
and read and write some more.
Anxiously waiting, teaching
my blood to pulse a little faster through out me,
Yearning
For the day when I can print Poetry on my 
heart.