Tuesday, July 9, 2019

Shell

I ought to quit guessing, I guess.
Find a truer side of me,
one that doesn't change a favorite color every minute from pink to green.
It's hard though, for me,
to decide between being a cowboy or just a girl in skinny jeans.
I used to be so strong in things to say,
but I've had a bitten tongue as of late.
I suppose my thoughts have no taste.
I have too many things calling my name,
every other distraction coming my way.
It would be smart to cull the bad ones,
but they've become a vice I just can't seem to let fade.
Drank too much and still didn't say enough.
I used to think that maybe somewhere deep inside I was tough.
Maybe I am but the hole's too dark for me to find a bottom.
Guess we'll never know.
There I go guessing again.
I suppose you must not mind if you're still reading here towards the end.
Bless your heart.
I don't have much left now,
truth is I've been hunting inside myself for the words.
Something that didn't used to be so hard to find.
I think I'm afraid..
No, I know I'm afraid.
And worse yet, I'm not fighting it.
I'd rather lay down and take it.
That scares me too, that's not the grit I used to have.
But where did it go?
I'm sure I could find somebody to blame.
Call them something that all but used the word 'hate' in their name.
Not much good it's done,
besides make me cuss and cry and broke my fun.
I'm mad I can't shake it.
Ashamed at how little my wrecking ball was.
I guess I didn't quite fall.
Not with someone holding me up, drowning in my heaviness,
taking the kick of my gun.
I'll find it again,
the fearless streak inside me.
And I'll have grown a harder shell to defend myself in.
This isn't just my story, it's a shred of yours too.
So tack your name on it as a promise to yourself,
to kill whatever is ailing you and get back to your truer self.

Xoxo, Gussie



Thursday, January 31, 2019

Entry One

Entry One
It's 43 degrees outside right now, which is strangely pleasant, beautiful really.
I'm missing summertime, early mornings, deep blue skies.
And tank tops.

I've been drowned in horses and everything that comes with them for the last few years.
The new year has given me a chance to gulp some air and try to regain vision.
I had no idea it would be this refreshing.

For so long all I could write about was horses, and when that's all my life involved I didn't have anything to say.
I guess I've just been thinking and forgot to leave any scribbles.
Actually, to be truthful, I had nothing good to say.

I forgot that I love them.
I fall asleep at night thinking about horses, dwelling on them, daydreaming about them.
A simple bad day just about breaks my heart sometimes.
I guess they scare me because I feel they might be the sole reason of my existence, or at least vital part of it.
That probably sounds silly but somewhere inside me I believe that.

I told myself a handful of times that I couldn't do it anymore, it was more than I could handle and some things really were.
So I eased off for a minute.
I came to realize that I didn't hate the horses or the hours or being tired or sore.
What was making me miserable were the voices.
The negative ones both in my head and out, I'm going to be more careful who I keep around. 

I thought about 19 year old me yesterday, she didn't know where to even start with a colt.
She hadn't yet peeked her head through a window to see the world she was about to jump into with both feet.
Which goes to show she was braver than she thought she was.
I don't know if I would have guts for that now.

I'm in awe of how much of a mind game training horses is...and how crucial your health can be.
The world belongs to the strong they say. That means mentally too.
My goals are inked out on brown paper next to a prayer journal and a cup of coffee.
Three very important things to me. 

If in three years I can change, for better and for worse, grow and dream bigger now than I ever thought I was capable, I suppose the next three years ought to be one hell of an adventure too. 

None of this really points in any direction, it just seems that I've sort of used this page as a journal in the past, so here goes Entry One of 2019. 

Dream really big. Like bigger than you think you ought to.

Smile hard, the kind the aches in your cheeks.

Drink a good whisky drink, a hot cup of coffee and whatever else healthy B12 shit you got to, and get shit done. 

XOXO, 
your forever discombobulated, Gussie



Friday, November 30, 2018

Your Voice

I find myself in and out of little bouts of pain. Empathy rather.
Where I hurt so bad for someone knowing there's really nothing I can do.
You can't help someone that won't help themselves, right?

And I am kind of hurt by the fact that we are not stronger and more willing to defend ourselves.
How easy it has become to hide behind a phone screen.
Let an entire world living behind glass in a sparkly case manhandle our lives.
I'm not even accusing, I'm guilty.

Something I feel is far overlooked is how much our people love us.
How much hurt we cause when we let people hurt us.
Every time we let, for lack of a better term, an asshole run or manipulate our life we agonize everyone that wants the best for us.

In my awkward round about way I guess what I'm getting at is that strength has been frowned upon and overlooked.
Standing up for yourself somehow became "bitchy".
Having standards deemed you a prude.
Being generous and big-hearted made you a push over.

And all of these qualities that you cultivated to create a beautiful version of yourself have been turned on you.
Doing your best got you used.
Then half-assing something that would never be appreciated made you "lazy".
And being young must mean you know nothing.
"You're not old enough to know what love or pain is."

But I want you to find your voice.
In this unfair bullshit little world I want you to scream.
Tell them how you feel, get what you want.

Put your middle finger as high as you need.
In the most cliche` way, be who you are.
Wear your hair ratted and wild with colorful words on your lips.
Take their shit with a thick skin.
You have one awesome life to live, there's no sense letting it get walked on.

Xoxo, Gussie




Sunday, October 28, 2018

Love and Fire

Two Feet told me love is a bitch and I suppose they knew their shit. 
But isn’t that what life lives on? Love...
After all that’s why you shuffle your frazzled, coffee buzzed self out the door every morning, right?
To conquer whatever it is that sets your soul on fire. 
Out of love. 
Lord I pray you do it all for something you love. 
If it were smudged on canvas it might look like you got ahold of some finger paints and tripped..twice. 
That’s ok, me too. 
But it’s beautiful when it all comes together, love and fire. 
Fight your battles with grit teeth, just don’t let a battle become your war. 
When your heart catches a warm breeze, rest easy and breathe that moment in deep. 
Let love spark your fire instead of pain. 
And when flames are soldering your knuckles and splitting your lips, grin as the blood drips. 
This world belongs to the strong they say.
Irony giggles at these words coming from mine of all lips. 
Get tough, tears when you must. 
White knuckles of a curled fist, keep your guard up. 
Find your heart and give it away. 
At your most frightened moment, jump. 
Breathe and bleed. 

That’s all life really is isn’t it? Love.. and what makes you do it. 

XoXo, Gussie

Saturday, September 29, 2018

Blue Ink

Cold toes curled up in wet socks and the smell of horse sweat and leather. 
Yellow moon shining down on something that was supposed to ring true. 
Like the sound of rain drops on my tin roof. 
My braid damp from the mornings frost still smelled like branding fire smoke. 
Your number was written on my wrist in blue ink. 
Funny how when time passed that ink turned like bruises and faded from my arm. 
I had my fingernails colored with chipped red paint and a look of 3 nights bedroll sleep. 
No it really wasn't romantic. 
We were spur rowels and rap music. 
Our porch was drunken laughter and the prettiest sunsets in the world. 
We were young hearts telling old stories with toothy, white grins. 
I sat on old wooden corrals and watched good horses work in bad dirt. 
The best old soul advice I could muster was delivered with a beer in one hand and a bible in the other. 
We were drifting, our minds and moods. 
With hands sunburned and hearts sort of lost. 
It seemed like bad luck and poor decisions were awfully familiar. 
We fell in love with waving grass and mountain air. 
Our fingers were glassed over with calluses and ripped up, gnarly spots, we were so bloody miserable some days. 
We drank too much, cussed too much and laughed it all off. 

I think maybe that’s where I found the most of me. 
Xoxo, Gussie

Friday, August 17, 2018

Like Whisky on an Empty Stomach

I rolled the blister on my thumb, watched the blood swell in the full moon glow through aluminum trailer slats. 
I said ‘You don’t scare me. You loving me scares me.’
He told me I was stubborn. 
I told him that was the only way I knew to be strong. 
I never used to talk about the weather, sweet peas or wild clover.  
Someone once wrote that it all comes and goes in waves. 
Maybe like every other cliche, this too shall pass. 
My hands were supposed to be soft, dainty and feminine but they wear calluses and bruises, scars over tanned skin. 
I was supposed to stay fearless. 
Like I was when I was little, fingers in black mane and a smiling face. 
I used to hike to Escalante’s cross to pray, I don’t even know where to hike to these days.
I need something.
To find something. Someone. 
A safe place. Somewhere. 
Maybe I’ll get a tattoo and dye my hair blue. 
Maybe I already did. 
But what would you have to say?
And would it even matter anyway?
I always wanted to fight. Or learn to cuz it never was in me. 
I’ve gained no war but feel like I’ve lost a part of myself. 
A peaceful quietness given up in exchange for strength. 
The barbed wire I strung around me grew like weeds. 
Only the ones that liked blood could stay it seems. 
They were double tough and callused, I suppose the reason they caught my eye. 
And then I just became some broken person in a bar with tears on the brim of my eyelids. 
Because I’ve always been trying to be everything and I have become nothing. 
Yet somehow I created this, this chaos. 
Someone’s yelling and it’s so loud I hear silence, see lips moving. 
Peeled myself off the floor this morning. 
Tear drops and flakes of mascara on a sunburned wrist. 
Asked myself who the hell I was as I stared at exhausted eyes in a wavy mirror. 
Ratted mess of hair somehow reminded me of all these paths in my life. 
They’re all leading me different ways. 
But I have to pick one. 
I have to decide what I am, who, where.. why.
Why I am.
Hitting me like whisky on my empty stomach.
Why am I? 
XoXo, Gussie

Sunday, June 3, 2018

The Dream

I could write something about living the dream. 
About the romance, the passion, the goal. 
I could write that the world is out there waiting for you, could tell you all you have to do is grab it. 
I guess those are fair points. 
There’s truth living in their syllables. 
But I think bloody knuckles and tired eyes make up more of the dream than anything. 
Anxiety, losing sleep. 
Split lips, sunburned wrists, long ass days and rope burns. 
The dream isn’t all the dreamy. 
It’s more like wearing glass shards for diamonds and blood for lipstick. 
Calloused up fingers, handshake like a man. 
Dues to be paid, money made. 
It’s not just a quote about following your heart. 
There’s a lot more blood in it than that.  
Inner war. 
Asking yourself every question that ever creeped through your conscience. 
Your eyes straining for sleep with your mind still screaming. 
‘Is this what you really want?’ 
‘Can you do it?’ 
And yet I have no earthly idea of what’s ahead of me. 
These are just my young, naƬve ramblings. 
About things I haven’t earned the right to preach. 
But if I could tell you something and you’d believe it, I’d tell you to feel.
Don’t neglect to rest. 
I’d tell you to love, breathe, run. 
See the world. 
Get what you want. 
That’s life. 
No agendas or plans. 
Teach yourself to live without criteria. 
You’ll become the person you were destined to be. 
Scars like wounds earned in battle, worn with a sort of pride. 
They stayed with you to tell their story. 
Don’t you owe that to yourself? 
To hang with it long enough to tell your story?

Xoxo, Gussie