How to Lockpick

I tried to teach my dad how to pick a lock once. He was curious about it; he thought it was a lost art, like knitting, and figured that if anyone could learn how to do it, he could.

So I gave him a lock, gave him a pick (a snake pick to be exact), and gave him these instructions:

1. You have no eyes inside the lock. It must be done with feeling.

2. If you get too tense, you will never open it.

3. The art of picking a lock is best learned with familiarity, and with watching others.

My dad nodded, pretending to listen.

"Now you listen here, young man, " I wanted  to say, "I've already been there. I know what you're going to do; you're gonna force it to open. That's how you handle everything." But I held my tongue.

And he went to work. He tried and tried and tried. After four hours, he looked at me with a pained expression, as if the lock had slapped him.

"What am I doing wrong?"

I took the lock in my hands. It was warm to the touch--too warm. I slid the pick in to feel the pins, and they complained with every movement, aching from the abuse they had just gone through.

"You didn't listen." I said, and proceeded to open the lock so he could see. "I'm disappointed in you."

My dad's strength had finally failed him.

I too had learned the hard way. With tears in my eyes, I asked why. Why wasn't this working? I tried my best and learned all I could, so why was this happening?

And then, when my mind was focused on the voices in the other room, when my guard was down, something clicked. The lock opened as easily as if I was using a key. I stared at the lock, trying to comprehend what just happened. After that moment, I tried it again and again with success. I've been opening locks ever since.

Truth

Freedom! 

Seriously, though. I felt more limited by trying to keep secretive. There were a lot of times where I wanted to post something, but it would've given something away about who I was. Now it doesn't matter. Even though I'm feeling a little shaky, I've felt shakier. 

So, Hello. My name is Ryan. My pen name is Percival T. Honeybee, and I chose a boy name because...well, for the obvious reasons. And the name is special to me. (If you have a boy name and you're a girl, you're automatically my bro. Or sis. Whatever.)

I play violin (hello Heather), and I love music. 

I'm a fan of electro swing and the 1920's, and I'm loyal to my obsessions. I'm into art as well.

I want to be a novelist when I grow up, and it was a miracle that I got into this class (it's actually a funny story, but I'll leave that for another time).

I'm so pleased to meet you all. I promise I won't judge you—just keep being yourself.

Sad Chairs

Christmas was a long time ago.

The baby grew up.

Jealousy

Darling, did you know that a blue whale has a heart the size of a car?

This is without a doubt the best love poem I've ever heard. This is the kind of poem you listen to over and over, and you never get tired of it. It takes more than one sitting to absorb it.

Whenever I hear this poem, I get reminded that the human race has a lot more to it than what my mom says. Or at least I hope it does. I'm collecting hope in jars, and this is definitely going in the collection.

I love this poem because it reminds me of that part of a song, the part that gets you. The part where the harmonies combine and there's a crescendo, and it's so sweet you want it to last forever. It leaves you whispering poetic things in your head about everything. Suddenly your bedroom wall has a purpose.

I listen to this and cross my fingers that someday I'll be able to create things that tug at the heartstrings.

Pressing Leaves

A glass vase hides under a blanket so that no one will find her, smash her--take her in their bare hands and crush her because they like the the feeling of the jagged edges cutting their hands. It's a gruesome image, but it's the truth of the matter and it scares me to death.

Once again, the light is filtering through the windows. It makes me want to bite my lower lip; I want to sit there all day and watch the light fade. But in a moment my eyes are downcast, because if all good things were meant to last, then why does the light fade? 

It will be there tomorrow are the words I say to console myself. I give myself a fake smile in the mirror and wish upon the stars that it'll be real soon, because it's hard to keep a sunny disposition when it's night and all you want to do is hide in that cave that took so long to carve.

Don't worry about me, though. I keep some fireflies in a bottle, and so far the glass has done its job. Those fireflies and dreams are like those leaves I picked in the mountains all those years ago--the ones that should've shriveled and died, but I learned a long time ago that you can put those leaves in a book and press them down, smash them, and abandon them. When you come back in a few weeks, they look just as they did when they were alive, only this time they'll never fade, and they're more fragile than glass. 

I collected heaps upon heaps of these artifacts from nature. The hard part was keeping them from crumpling into dust. I hid them, protected them like relics of the past, like the Declaration of Independence. They were the last pieces of Autumn, and the first pieces of me. 

I sit in the water longer than I need to, because sometimes it feels so good just to hear things simplified. To breathe life into my corners again. Nothing matters except the pounding water that's trickling down your scalp; they're raindrops in a more domestic setting.

Brush off the sticky notes with a flick of your wrist, because they'll still be there when you get back, and you don't need them attached to you. You don't need to be attached to them.