She felt like a classy, new, fun, fabulous version of herself. It had been years of simply doing the same old thing, but now after a slight revamp this little miss was ready to go out on the prowl. She was bubbly and full of personality, and interested in finding someone who would go ahead and just drink her up.
It was cold in her house, and even with her practically brand spanking new exterior, she couldn't help but slip on another layer as she waited for that lovely someone she had met at the grocery store earlier to pick her up.
Eventually he did come by, scooped her up with his massive hands, and held her closely for a time enjoying all she had to offer. They went back to his kitchen. She was sitting on his counter, feeling a sort of half fullness. He was staring at her, debating on whether to continue this courtship, if you can even call it that.
And after what seemed like no time at all, he walked away from her, went somewhere else, and found something else to satisfy him.
She was left there alone wondering how it could have all fizzled away so fast.
But there was still some of her left, there always is, it seems, just barely enough to remind herself of what she was: A Diet Coke can.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
not ironic.
"I'm not this," Taylor Albrecht said to herself.
She was walking home from some guy's house. It was 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning. The night before she went to a party at a friend's house. She went home with another friend of hers. They messed around. She regretted it instantly. He couldn't have cared less...not necessarily about her, but about the other things.
"People fool around in their twenties," he would later say over the phone when he called to be vaguely chivalrous. "Yeah, people like Penny Marshall in the '70s," she'd answer.
She was supposed to feel good about the fact that he called her. She didn't feel good.
"I'm not this," Taylor said again to herself.
For as long as she could remember she had been in serious relationships with people she could picture a future with. And now, on the corner of Mesirow and Ronalds Street in front of Thai Thai Thai restaurant she found herself searching for a cab to take her home and away from this life she somehow walked into —four-inch heels and all.
A white Jeep drove by. She thought of the OJ trial. It had happened when she was in fourth grade. Talking out loud, wrapping her arms around her torso, "What was that, 1995, '96?" She was in Miss Devlin's class then. The week was a blur to her now, but she remembered watching that car chase and thinking how slowly everything was happening. That same year the Olympic Torch toured the US via train. It had stopped in her town. Everyone's parents took them out of school to watch as it pulled up to the train station, except her parents. Her parents had forgotten it was happening, so Taylor spent the day with Miss Devlin and Ke Xao, the new student from China.
As more cars drove by Taylor's memory was jogged until finally a yellow cab headed toward her. She unwrapped her arms to wave it down, but the cabbie missed her and went for a woman wearing appropriate clothes for a brisk fall day. Taylor didn't look like a harlot or anything, but she was missing the crucial element known as a jacket and should have been wearing flats at this hour. The woman, on the other hand, was obviously out for groceries or to run some sort of errand, maybe stop at TJ Maxx for some pre-Black Friday Christmas shopping. Taylor looked back at the scene and laughed, then said, "This is not ironic."
She was the person she thought she'd never become. Sure, she was experiencing this momentous 'walking home in the wrong outfit at the wrong hour in the wrong shoes' occasion six years after she was supposed to experience it as a freshman at the University of Wisconsin, but nevertheless there she was. The notion of better late than never passed through her mind. She judged it harshly. "God," she said out loud to no one but herself. "Some things shouldn't be late, they should just never arrive."
Her four-inch heels clicked on the sidewalk as she turned away from the cab. She started to take a step in the direction of her apartment, a mile from there.
"Hey!" It was the grocery-store-errand-lady. "Hey!"
Taylor turned, correctly assuming that the only other person on the street was in fact speaking to her.
"Who me?" Yes, of course you, she thought.
"Yeah, you need this." The woman had dark brown eyes and blonde eyelashes. She wore a pink hat and a green puffer coat. She looked like a teacher. Everyone looks like teachers when they're running errands — something about the frantic state one gets in when checking things off lists.
"Are you sure?" Taylor asked, clicking toward the woman.
"Please," the woman said. "You need this."
The woman smiled, understanding that Taylor wasn't a woman of the night and perhaps just found herself in a situation she hadn't foreseen the night before. This woman got it. She probably was Taylor at one point.
"Really?" Taylor stood in the street between the cab door and the seat.
"For sure," said the woman.
As Taylor sat down and closed the door, the woman waved to her. Taylor waved back and mouthed "Thank you."
She got that phone call from that guy. It played out as she thought it would. She told her roommates about her night. They all laughed about it like girls who didn't know what else to do. When telling the story later she'd say things like, "We're nothing but our experiences, right?" Then Taylor would remember that woman out running errands early on a Saturday morning and hope she might be her eventually.
She was walking home from some guy's house. It was 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning. The night before she went to a party at a friend's house. She went home with another friend of hers. They messed around. She regretted it instantly. He couldn't have cared less...not necessarily about her, but about the other things.
"People fool around in their twenties," he would later say over the phone when he called to be vaguely chivalrous. "Yeah, people like Penny Marshall in the '70s," she'd answer.
She was supposed to feel good about the fact that he called her. She didn't feel good.
"I'm not this," Taylor said again to herself.
For as long as she could remember she had been in serious relationships with people she could picture a future with. And now, on the corner of Mesirow and Ronalds Street in front of Thai Thai Thai restaurant she found herself searching for a cab to take her home and away from this life she somehow walked into —four-inch heels and all.
A white Jeep drove by. She thought of the OJ trial. It had happened when she was in fourth grade. Talking out loud, wrapping her arms around her torso, "What was that, 1995, '96?" She was in Miss Devlin's class then. The week was a blur to her now, but she remembered watching that car chase and thinking how slowly everything was happening. That same year the Olympic Torch toured the US via train. It had stopped in her town. Everyone's parents took them out of school to watch as it pulled up to the train station, except her parents. Her parents had forgotten it was happening, so Taylor spent the day with Miss Devlin and Ke Xao, the new student from China.
As more cars drove by Taylor's memory was jogged until finally a yellow cab headed toward her. She unwrapped her arms to wave it down, but the cabbie missed her and went for a woman wearing appropriate clothes for a brisk fall day. Taylor didn't look like a harlot or anything, but she was missing the crucial element known as a jacket and should have been wearing flats at this hour. The woman, on the other hand, was obviously out for groceries or to run some sort of errand, maybe stop at TJ Maxx for some pre-Black Friday Christmas shopping. Taylor looked back at the scene and laughed, then said, "This is not ironic."
She was the person she thought she'd never become. Sure, she was experiencing this momentous 'walking home in the wrong outfit at the wrong hour in the wrong shoes' occasion six years after she was supposed to experience it as a freshman at the University of Wisconsin, but nevertheless there she was. The notion of better late than never passed through her mind. She judged it harshly. "God," she said out loud to no one but herself. "Some things shouldn't be late, they should just never arrive."
Her four-inch heels clicked on the sidewalk as she turned away from the cab. She started to take a step in the direction of her apartment, a mile from there.
"Hey!" It was the grocery-store-errand-lady. "Hey!"
Taylor turned, correctly assuming that the only other person on the street was in fact speaking to her.
"Who me?" Yes, of course you, she thought.
"Yeah, you need this." The woman had dark brown eyes and blonde eyelashes. She wore a pink hat and a green puffer coat. She looked like a teacher. Everyone looks like teachers when they're running errands — something about the frantic state one gets in when checking things off lists.
"Are you sure?" Taylor asked, clicking toward the woman.
"Please," the woman said. "You need this."
The woman smiled, understanding that Taylor wasn't a woman of the night and perhaps just found herself in a situation she hadn't foreseen the night before. This woman got it. She probably was Taylor at one point.
"Really?" Taylor stood in the street between the cab door and the seat.
"For sure," said the woman.
As Taylor sat down and closed the door, the woman waved to her. Taylor waved back and mouthed "Thank you."
She got that phone call from that guy. It played out as she thought it would. She told her roommates about her night. They all laughed about it like girls who didn't know what else to do. When telling the story later she'd say things like, "We're nothing but our experiences, right?" Then Taylor would remember that woman out running errands early on a Saturday morning and hope she might be her eventually.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
dancing with my own shadow
The lights go out, I am all alone
All the trees outside are buried in the snow
I spend my night dancing with my own shadow
And it holds me and it never lets me go
-Of Monsters & Men
All the trees outside are buried in the snow
I spend my night dancing with my own shadow
And it holds me and it never lets me go
-Of Monsters & Men
For most of my life I have lived as an atypical righteous good girl. Judgmental, sure. From a good place, always. It's only as an adult that I now live in shades of grey, though not quite fifty. I'm unsure of my life choices, unsure if there's a master plan, unsure if any of this matters in any way at all. One of my life friends (a friend I will retain for life) refers to himself as a nihilist and lives as such. He lives for today. Lives abroad. Cares about others. At times dresses in a style that would make a stranger wonder if he were homeless.
In a way that sort of nothingness is both freeing and emptying. If nothing matters than we're free to live without expectation, aside from the ones we may still decide to give ourselves. My friend has given himself the expectation that he will always aspire to learn about the world, himself and others, while abiding by the basic principle that his freewill should not affect or diminish that of another in a negative manner.
Honestly, I don't think a lot matters. Not to any serious point, at least. Is that sad? Probably. For me, I think that what matters is what you do in the moment and whether that will color the decisions you make thereafter positively. What matters is, if you can go to sleep and feel like you had a day worth living.
I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments
-Oriah, "The Invitation"
I've made choices. I've made choices that I once would have deemed poor, but now having made them, I don't feel badly because the terrible things that I assumed would come simply didn't. My fears weren't justified. What is that? How can I have been so convicted, so convinced, in other words, so sure? And this is where I am. In the middle of a sea of grey. Empty and full at the same time.
All I want to do is live in a way that won't fade away from memory. No words have ever rang more true than these:
"Everything in life is about being seen, or not seen, and eventually, everything IS seen."
-Brooke, "Other Desert Cities"
Maybe I'm not a nihilist. And maybe I don't know what happens when we die, but I know that for now, what I do on a day-to-day basis can be found reflected in this notion of being seen. It's likely the reason I love to perform. You don't feel alone when you perform. Even when you're on stage solo. There's a crowd. And there's a bond, and even if it's fleeting, you remember it. Those moments.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
ducks
Cherry trees lined the edge of the river that ran through campus. Beautiful, sweet blossoms cascaded down from their branches, creating a light rose tinted pathway where couples would walk together after some dumb date. They'd hold hands and look at each other, laugh maybe, and they would be real laughs.
Greg and Sharon were on a good date. They had met freshmen year in a Post-Colonial literature class, bonded over doing crappy impressions of their German teacher's accent and ended up being the sort of friends to each other whom one calls when they can't sleep. Eventually they decided the other was attractive enough to kiss at this party they went to on Burlington Street during Spring break their senior year. All their other friends went home or to Panama City or to some other random warm place. From there it just seemed to make sense to transition their silly friendship into a romantic one.
"But if you couldn't ever watch Bridget Jones again," started Greg, grabbing Sharon's hand, "Then what lady comedy would you watch on repeat?"
Clasping his hand with both of hers, she smiled, thought for probably too long in regards to her movie preference and settled on Clueless.
"Clueless?" He poked her in the side, kidding.
"Yeah. It's a classic," she said, attempting legitimate justification. "It's a classic nineties film."
Unconvinced, he held her hand again, and they walked, looking ahead, and then to one another. Sharon blushed, and Greg liked it. Sharon had green eyes and light skin; her liquid foundation was Bobby Brown Porcelain. She was thin without being skinny and had soft features, which went against the grain of her, at times, cheeky attitude. The Burt's Bees Rhubarb tinted lip balm she wore daily was the pop of sass that showed her character.
"Paul Rudd's in it!" She couldn't let it go. She really wanted that justification. "Who doesn't love Paul Rudd?"
The answer is of course, no one, because everyone loves Paul Rudd. That smile — his wavy hair, and just enough crows feet to make him look less like a little boy than like a man.
"That's fair," answered Greg. He laughed as he said it. Sharon was so earnest in her hope to convince him of the merits of Clueless. "Everyone does love Paul Rudd, oh and that dude from Scrubs."
"Turk?" she questioned.
"Yeah," he responded. "Turk."
Greg smiled a no-teeth-smile, tightened his hand around Sharon's, then winked at her; the left side of his face scrunched, his mouth opened, and his jaw askew. He had light brown hair, parted to the side, and a beauty mark to the left of his left eye, between his hair line and eyelashes. Five-eleven, and of Scottish and Spanish descent, he had freckles along with a sort of olive complexion.
"I know, and this is why that film is a classic," Sharon explained, "Solid early twenties actors, a clever script, and a weird high school, college, step-brother/step-sister dynamic." She always used her hands to explain, which was hard when holding hands, but she just pretended as if Greg's hand was part of hers, and moved it as if its connection to Greg's arm was natural. "Oh! And the classic nod to Shakespeare's Emma."
"Even if Alicia Silverstone is in it?" Greg joked.
She paused, then responded, "Yes, even if Alicia is in it — Brittany Murphy cancels her out." It seemed as if she was done, but then she added, "And, well, Alicia isn't bad in this, it's everything after."
The pair continued to walk along the river path, and came to the waters edge. A couple of ducks were washing their feet, looking as if they weren't sure if they'd like to take a full dive in. Sharon saw them and wanted a closer look, so they moved to where the ground got marshy, and also ended up looking as if they were about to wash their feet.
"They're so cute," Sharon cooed, then pointing at the baby one said, "I just wanna pick that little boo up and take him home."
Greg smiled at her, thought of her taking care of a duck, then for a second thought of her taking care of a kid in the future, then he let that thought pass, tucking it away for a later date. They backed away from the edge of the river.
As they came upon on a weird plastic bench covered in cherry blossoms outside the university's art building, Sharon asked, "Is this art?" a twinge of disdain in her voice.
Greg followed after her, saying, "Yeah, I don't know if we're allowed to sit here."
"There's no sign." She paused, "Well, I guess I'm sitting here."
She sat down, crossed her legs toward him, looked up, and beckoned him toward her. "And, you too."
Greg and Sharon were on a good date. They had met freshmen year in a Post-Colonial literature class, bonded over doing crappy impressions of their German teacher's accent and ended up being the sort of friends to each other whom one calls when they can't sleep. Eventually they decided the other was attractive enough to kiss at this party they went to on Burlington Street during Spring break their senior year. All their other friends went home or to Panama City or to some other random warm place. From there it just seemed to make sense to transition their silly friendship into a romantic one.
"But if you couldn't ever watch Bridget Jones again," started Greg, grabbing Sharon's hand, "Then what lady comedy would you watch on repeat?"
Clasping his hand with both of hers, she smiled, thought for probably too long in regards to her movie preference and settled on Clueless.
"Clueless?" He poked her in the side, kidding.
"Yeah. It's a classic," she said, attempting legitimate justification. "It's a classic nineties film."
Unconvinced, he held her hand again, and they walked, looking ahead, and then to one another. Sharon blushed, and Greg liked it. Sharon had green eyes and light skin; her liquid foundation was Bobby Brown Porcelain. She was thin without being skinny and had soft features, which went against the grain of her, at times, cheeky attitude. The Burt's Bees Rhubarb tinted lip balm she wore daily was the pop of sass that showed her character.
"Paul Rudd's in it!" She couldn't let it go. She really wanted that justification. "Who doesn't love Paul Rudd?"
The answer is of course, no one, because everyone loves Paul Rudd. That smile — his wavy hair, and just enough crows feet to make him look less like a little boy than like a man.
"That's fair," answered Greg. He laughed as he said it. Sharon was so earnest in her hope to convince him of the merits of Clueless. "Everyone does love Paul Rudd, oh and that dude from Scrubs."
"Turk?" she questioned.
"Yeah," he responded. "Turk."
Greg smiled a no-teeth-smile, tightened his hand around Sharon's, then winked at her; the left side of his face scrunched, his mouth opened, and his jaw askew. He had light brown hair, parted to the side, and a beauty mark to the left of his left eye, between his hair line and eyelashes. Five-eleven, and of Scottish and Spanish descent, he had freckles along with a sort of olive complexion.
"I know, and this is why that film is a classic," Sharon explained, "Solid early twenties actors, a clever script, and a weird high school, college, step-brother/step-sister dynamic." She always used her hands to explain, which was hard when holding hands, but she just pretended as if Greg's hand was part of hers, and moved it as if its connection to Greg's arm was natural. "Oh! And the classic nod to Shakespeare's Emma."
"Even if Alicia Silverstone is in it?" Greg joked.
She paused, then responded, "Yes, even if Alicia is in it — Brittany Murphy cancels her out." It seemed as if she was done, but then she added, "And, well, Alicia isn't bad in this, it's everything after."
The pair continued to walk along the river path, and came to the waters edge. A couple of ducks were washing their feet, looking as if they weren't sure if they'd like to take a full dive in. Sharon saw them and wanted a closer look, so they moved to where the ground got marshy, and also ended up looking as if they were about to wash their feet.
"They're so cute," Sharon cooed, then pointing at the baby one said, "I just wanna pick that little boo up and take him home."
Greg smiled at her, thought of her taking care of a duck, then for a second thought of her taking care of a kid in the future, then he let that thought pass, tucking it away for a later date. They backed away from the edge of the river.
As they came upon on a weird plastic bench covered in cherry blossoms outside the university's art building, Sharon asked, "Is this art?" a twinge of disdain in her voice.
Greg followed after her, saying, "Yeah, I don't know if we're allowed to sit here."
"There's no sign." She paused, "Well, I guess I'm sitting here."
She sat down, crossed her legs toward him, looked up, and beckoned him toward her. "And, you too."
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Normal
It bothers her, the way he would lick his fingertips after chewing back a bag of Cheetos. The way those fingers stayed orange, despite his slathered efforts, would stick with her throughout the day. Mary Lynn thought of it most often when sitting on the bus, riding home to him. They are a couple, unmarried, but he's hopeful. She's still unsure, always on the fence. Mary Lynn thought about how much she wanted to say, "Hey, buddy. You bother me, and here's why..." But she never would. Being honest would mean being open, and being open would then unseal all the possible pain and frustration that being open leads to.
"Cambridge," said the bus driver. It was a muffled 'Cambridge.' If she didn't ride that bus every day from downtown to her apartment she wouldn't know what he was saying. But she had lived in Boston for most of her adult life, so she knew a thing or two about the city.
Tom is his name. Her non-husband's, that is. He's a physically fit, guy. Wears ties regularly. Enjoys a bag of Cheetos after work on his commute home. It was the one thing he stuck with from his childhood. Most guys keep a daydream or maybe remember their first middle school girlfriend fondly, but not Tom. Cheetos were his middle school girlfriend, so to speak.
Mary Lynn got off the bus at "Lipton." It was a stop earlier than her normal routine, but she had to pick up a gallon of milk at the 7-Eleven because Tom had finished their old gallon earlier that morning. She knew he had drank the last of it because he was the only person in the house to blame. They didn't have kids, and truth be told, Mary Lynn didn't think she wanted any. It was chilly outside as she got off the bus, her Dansko shoes clunked with each step. She knew they weren't attractive, but they were comfortable shoes for the walk.
As she approached the 7-Eleven Mary Lynn began daydreaming about what her life would be like if she moved, or if she got a different job, or if she had kids. She imagined moving to someplace sunny. Earlier that year she had taken a semi-vacation to Captiva Island, Florida, for a wedding. Tom couldn't come because he had some work engagement. Mary Lynn didn't mind going by herself. She wasn't in the wedding, but it was for a friend of hers from college. They had gone to BU together. Boston University. So, she imagined moving to Florida. She imagined getting a job doing marketing for one of the boating companies on some illustrious pier. She imagined meeting someone new. She imagined all of these things without Tom.
Swinging the 7-Eleven door open, Mary Lynn scanned the store, knowing full well where the milk was located already. She moved past three rows, then turned. The milk was on the back wall near the beers and pop. She eyed the lowest priced full gallon of milk. $2.39. "Not bad," she said to herself.
"Excuse me?"
Before she even looked up she apologized.
"Oh, no, sorry, just grabbing a decently priced milk."
The "excuse me?" came from a man. He was tall, if not slightly overweight, but he had a nice face, a slight bit of stubble and straight teeth.
Mary Lynn looked up to find a nice smile.
"That's why I love this store," the guy added. "Convenient and cheap."
Mary Lynn smiled, mumbled a "Right," then an "Excuse me," flustered. She went up to the counter, paid her $2.54 for the milk and tax, looked back for a second, then left.
While walking the extra three blocks to her house from the store, she attempted to fish her keys out of her work bag, a black Timbuktu. It was hard with milk in one hand, and they were at the bottom. Outside her apartment she rang the bell for apartment 2R.
"Who is it?" That's Tom.
She pushed the button again. "It's me."
The door sounded, and she went inside to her life.
"Cambridge," said the bus driver. It was a muffled 'Cambridge.' If she didn't ride that bus every day from downtown to her apartment she wouldn't know what he was saying. But she had lived in Boston for most of her adult life, so she knew a thing or two about the city.
Tom is his name. Her non-husband's, that is. He's a physically fit, guy. Wears ties regularly. Enjoys a bag of Cheetos after work on his commute home. It was the one thing he stuck with from his childhood. Most guys keep a daydream or maybe remember their first middle school girlfriend fondly, but not Tom. Cheetos were his middle school girlfriend, so to speak.
Mary Lynn got off the bus at "Lipton." It was a stop earlier than her normal routine, but she had to pick up a gallon of milk at the 7-Eleven because Tom had finished their old gallon earlier that morning. She knew he had drank the last of it because he was the only person in the house to blame. They didn't have kids, and truth be told, Mary Lynn didn't think she wanted any. It was chilly outside as she got off the bus, her Dansko shoes clunked with each step. She knew they weren't attractive, but they were comfortable shoes for the walk.
As she approached the 7-Eleven Mary Lynn began daydreaming about what her life would be like if she moved, or if she got a different job, or if she had kids. She imagined moving to someplace sunny. Earlier that year she had taken a semi-vacation to Captiva Island, Florida, for a wedding. Tom couldn't come because he had some work engagement. Mary Lynn didn't mind going by herself. She wasn't in the wedding, but it was for a friend of hers from college. They had gone to BU together. Boston University. So, she imagined moving to Florida. She imagined getting a job doing marketing for one of the boating companies on some illustrious pier. She imagined meeting someone new. She imagined all of these things without Tom.
Swinging the 7-Eleven door open, Mary Lynn scanned the store, knowing full well where the milk was located already. She moved past three rows, then turned. The milk was on the back wall near the beers and pop. She eyed the lowest priced full gallon of milk. $2.39. "Not bad," she said to herself.
"Excuse me?"
Before she even looked up she apologized.
"Oh, no, sorry, just grabbing a decently priced milk."
The "excuse me?" came from a man. He was tall, if not slightly overweight, but he had a nice face, a slight bit of stubble and straight teeth.
Mary Lynn looked up to find a nice smile.
"That's why I love this store," the guy added. "Convenient and cheap."
Mary Lynn smiled, mumbled a "Right," then an "Excuse me," flustered. She went up to the counter, paid her $2.54 for the milk and tax, looked back for a second, then left.
While walking the extra three blocks to her house from the store, she attempted to fish her keys out of her work bag, a black Timbuktu. It was hard with milk in one hand, and they were at the bottom. Outside her apartment she rang the bell for apartment 2R.
"Who is it?" That's Tom.
She pushed the button again. "It's me."
The door sounded, and she went inside to her life.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
hat tricks
There are few things more confusing than the moment right after something unexpected happens.
Twenty years later, you're in each others weddings.
A police officer comes and helps you out.
You're married, and you're still happy about it on a daily basis.
But these things happen every day, and the opposite probably happens more often. That kid gets rejected, insurance doesn't come through with that hit-and-run, and you're lucky if you get married then divorced. People just work it out until the end.*
*This wasn't supposed to be sad, but re-reading it, well, it is. Kind of.
You're a four-year-old child. You get dropped off at preschool for the first time. There are twenty other kids in the class. You're scared, and the world before you is a constant surprise. Walking in on your knobby little legs, holding your mother's hand tightly, hoping to God she doesn't leave you. She does, though, and you are alone for a time. Eventually another kid spies you, recognizes you as someone they might like. You've got the same lunch bag after all. You introduce yourselves by playing together as if you've never not done that.
You're driving your car, and suddenly you're sideswiped. It's surprising and scary. But the car that hit you doesn't stop, and you're left in the middle of the road hoping someone saw, noticed you in the middle helpless, unsure of what to do next. There's this huge bit of you that prays for that; for someone to not only have seen you, but to recognize that it's not OK that that just happened, and help you through the aftermath.
You're out with your friends, and suddenly someone asks you for your number. It's surprising, but not quite scary. This has happened before, and it will probably happen again. Because what ends up happening is you end up going out with that person. You like each other for a while, or at least you think you do. You really might. Who knows? But, eventually, people tire of each other. It takes longer for some than for others, but eventually you either need to break it off, or reinvent what that relationship is. That doesn't mean it's any less romantic. It only means that you change, and you do it together. You decide to be someone who sees the other and recognizes them, helps them out, and does it because they love them.
Twenty years later, you're in each others weddings.
A police officer comes and helps you out.
You're married, and you're still happy about it on a daily basis.
But these things happen every day, and the opposite probably happens more often. That kid gets rejected, insurance doesn't come through with that hit-and-run, and you're lucky if you get married then divorced. People just work it out until the end.*
*This wasn't supposed to be sad, but re-reading it, well, it is. Kind of.
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
hair
Earlier today I drove up to Lake Forest to get a haircut; a trim, really. A trim like the kind you give to a two-year-old. Hair is so odd. It truly is. You wear it every day, and it basically looks the same, but it's different, because you're different. And it keeps growing, long after your body stops.
At 7:36 a.m. my alarm buzzed, then again at 8:04 a.m. Despite it being above 30 degrees outside, I wake up daily with a cold nose. I have a heating pad that I use to warm my sheets if I'm alone in there. If there's another person, a roommate, a guy, a friend, whatever, it's not really necessary, because you're not really thinking about how you’re cold. You're talking about your day with your roommate, you're making out with that guy, and you're not sure what's happening with that friend. Friends are a supremely different beast. If they're girlfriends, then it's a pretty standard, hilarious sleepover because no one wants to sleep in the living room alone. If they're friends that are boys, then you might as well admit that there's some sort of sexual tension. So perhaps get out of that room. Tension bursts always. It just does, even if you're not attracted to each other, but especially if one friend is, while the other isn't. In the end it doesn't matter. None of it does. We're lonely beasts. We all are.
We are men. We are women. And we're allegedly adults. Charged. And. Trialed. We are. But all too often, we don't think of ourselves as such. No mortgages. Few set career tracts. An overwhelming vortex of men-children and women-children. In spite of our hair growing longer and longer every day, it's taking everyone even longer to become the people our parents hoped we would be.
But yeah, sure, I like my new haircut. It's different, but exactly the same.
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
lawyers
"He must be innocent." John Kilme said it because he needed to. He needed to believe his client didn't run over his own kid on purpose. John's slicked back hair was becoming less slick. Enter Gerald Root:
"He's not innocent, friend. No way. No how." Gerald was a man who wore scarves. He shouldn't have though. They made his neck look fat and caused him to sweat more than an average amount.
"Have you ever seen a man so distraught?" asked John, talking about his client Richard Neuman.
"Have I? I'm lookin' at him." Gerald was staring at John. He was making a joke, and had no sympathy for anyone, especially not for his clients.
"But if Richard was innocent..." John continued. Gerald stopped listening at 'innocent.'
"Sympathy is reserved for those who have done no wrong, but terrible things happen to them anyway," he said, wiping his sweaty, sweaty brow. "I, sir, have done no wrong. Our client. That mess of what used to be a man. He's a mess, a murderous mess."
It wasn't fair for Gerald to call his client a mess, especially since he looked so wet, salty water pouring from his pores. But life's not fair now, is it?
"Cold-blooded?" John's eyes bugged thinking of Richard.
Gerald turned to face the wall near the coat rack, his right hand on his hip, and left pulling at his dumb scarf.
"As cold as his nine-year-old was when his mother found him in the bushes." He stuck his tongue out to lick his lips; they hit the wall. He was very close to it. The wall.
Anyway, that's where Mrs. Neuman found her son, Jimmy Neuman, outside, behind one of those ugly bushes next to the garage. People always have those ugly bushes outside their homes. They block the street-viewers from seeing the foundation of the home. But the foundation is better looking than those bushes. It is.
Jimmy's hair was brown, made a dark red after the 'accident-non-accident,' like the kind after a bad dye job. Pun intended. John's hair was graying everywhere. It was long and straggly. If it was short it would be sexy, but it was long, so it wasn't.
"There's gotta be something we're missing." John's hair looked terrible. He was pulling it from side to side, and now looked akin to Wolverine.
"Relax, guy," Gerald had begun smoking weed while John freaked out about poor Jimmy.
"Stop that!" John smacked the bud from Gerald's fingers. "You were holding it weird." It, being the dooby.
"Whatever, brother-man." Gerald was getting weird. But not the fun kind of weird, rather the kind that makes people who aren't high feel bored.
"I am so bored." That was Gerald, despite it seeming like John would say it, as he wasn't the high one.
This story took a turn.
"If you're not going to share, then you don't get to enjoy." It was a pretty good rule, a rule John had learned as a child at Kinderhaven, his precursor school to first grade.
Jimmy was a third grader at Jepperson Elementary. John remembered what he had been previously lamenting over.
"Oh, gees. How can we represent a guy we don't believe?"
"We --" Gerald paused for an inordinate amount of time, "don't believe him?"
"I thought we didn't."
"Does it matter?"
John wondered. Did it matter? Huh? He turned to look at the coat rack. His L.L. Bean jacket hung there limply. What sort of grown man wears an L.L. Bean jacket to the office? He wondered that, too. Italics. What sort of grown man wears an L.L. Bean jacket to the office?
"We're lawyers," said Gerald.
John picked up the joint. It had fallen under his classy leather desk chair. That's what he would call it when his secretary would ask where to put his coat in the morning: "The classy leather desk chair." When he picked up Mary Jane he swiped up some dust bunnies with it. They were everywhere, floating. John sneezed, so did Gerald. They were gross man-sneezes. Gerald's nose began to bleed. He thought about Jimmy.
"Yeah, we are."
"He's not innocent, friend. No way. No how." Gerald was a man who wore scarves. He shouldn't have though. They made his neck look fat and caused him to sweat more than an average amount.
"Have you ever seen a man so distraught?" asked John, talking about his client Richard Neuman.
"Have I? I'm lookin' at him." Gerald was staring at John. He was making a joke, and had no sympathy for anyone, especially not for his clients.
"But if Richard was innocent..." John continued. Gerald stopped listening at 'innocent.'
"Sympathy is reserved for those who have done no wrong, but terrible things happen to them anyway," he said, wiping his sweaty, sweaty brow. "I, sir, have done no wrong. Our client. That mess of what used to be a man. He's a mess, a murderous mess."
It wasn't fair for Gerald to call his client a mess, especially since he looked so wet, salty water pouring from his pores. But life's not fair now, is it?
"Cold-blooded?" John's eyes bugged thinking of Richard.
Gerald turned to face the wall near the coat rack, his right hand on his hip, and left pulling at his dumb scarf.
"As cold as his nine-year-old was when his mother found him in the bushes." He stuck his tongue out to lick his lips; they hit the wall. He was very close to it. The wall.
Anyway, that's where Mrs. Neuman found her son, Jimmy Neuman, outside, behind one of those ugly bushes next to the garage. People always have those ugly bushes outside their homes. They block the street-viewers from seeing the foundation of the home. But the foundation is better looking than those bushes. It is.
Jimmy's hair was brown, made a dark red after the 'accident-non-accident,' like the kind after a bad dye job. Pun intended. John's hair was graying everywhere. It was long and straggly. If it was short it would be sexy, but it was long, so it wasn't.
"There's gotta be something we're missing." John's hair looked terrible. He was pulling it from side to side, and now looked akin to Wolverine.
"Relax, guy," Gerald had begun smoking weed while John freaked out about poor Jimmy.
"Stop that!" John smacked the bud from Gerald's fingers. "You were holding it weird." It, being the dooby.
"Whatever, brother-man." Gerald was getting weird. But not the fun kind of weird, rather the kind that makes people who aren't high feel bored.
"I am so bored." That was Gerald, despite it seeming like John would say it, as he wasn't the high one.
This story took a turn.
"If you're not going to share, then you don't get to enjoy." It was a pretty good rule, a rule John had learned as a child at Kinderhaven, his precursor school to first grade.
Jimmy was a third grader at Jepperson Elementary. John remembered what he had been previously lamenting over.
"Oh, gees. How can we represent a guy we don't believe?"
"We --" Gerald paused for an inordinate amount of time, "don't believe him?"
"I thought we didn't."
"Does it matter?"
John wondered. Did it matter? Huh? He turned to look at the coat rack. His L.L. Bean jacket hung there limply. What sort of grown man wears an L.L. Bean jacket to the office? He wondered that, too. Italics. What sort of grown man wears an L.L. Bean jacket to the office?
"We're lawyers," said Gerald.
John picked up the joint. It had fallen under his classy leather desk chair. That's what he would call it when his secretary would ask where to put his coat in the morning: "The classy leather desk chair." When he picked up Mary Jane he swiped up some dust bunnies with it. They were everywhere, floating. John sneezed, so did Gerald. They were gross man-sneezes. Gerald's nose began to bleed. He thought about Jimmy.
"Yeah, we are."
Thursday, January 03, 2013
Blush
"Where did she go?" Elizabeth's mother wails from the laundry room. Shifting shirts and towels from one basket to another. "She just runs off." Maria Keaton always chats to herself about her children. This daughter though, she is the most excitable; the youngest. Youngest children tend to be the cutest. Something about their countenance.
Elizabeth is behind the radiator, maybe four feet from her mother. But she's quiet. So quiet, and in the warmest spot in the whole house. She's seven years old, has brown hair, but that pretty brown, not the mousy kind. When you're a kid your hair is soft and falls gently. Elizabeth's is long, but knotty, never preferring her hair to be combed. Earlier this morning she saw her mother putting on make-up in the bathroom. It consisted of Maria taking her Revlon "Cheeky" lipstick in the green tube, twisting the bottom to bring up the color, pressing it against each side of her face, then rubbing the color in aggressively with that part of ones hand right below the pinky finger, but before the wrist. It's little moments like this that made impressions on Elizabeth. Moments her mother would forget about in the same amount of time it took to create them.
She can see her mother from between the crack of space that separates the radiator from the wall. Maria's Ralph Lauren jeans sit on her hips tightly, but her legs are skinny, so there's just too much fabric there. You wouldn't call them baggy though. Perhaps boot-legged? Elizabeth's gaze takes in her mother completely. From Maria's jet black hair to her bare feet. Her toes are painted a shade of red, probably OPI Damsel in a Dress. Elizabeth makes a note to look in her mothers make-up bag later for the color.
The heat from the radiator gives Elizabeth comfort. Before her parents redid the playroom and made it into a guest bedroom Elizabeth spent hours in the back closet. It was a walk-in. She had collected various comfortable blankets and pillows from around their home, like a robin creating its nest, and made a soft safe place for herself, a place her brothers weren't allowed. One of the blankets was a really unattractive knit blanket. It was black, green, orange, and a yellow color akin to Yoplait custard. Her mother made the blanket while she was pregnant, and the only yarn she had were those colors. Elizabeth's drawings from school littered the walls of her tiny castle. One in particular, a giant whale took over the East wall. Behind it Elizabeth hid notes she wrote but never delivered to the boy down the street, Todd Allen. Various proposals for getting together to play. Her mother knew they were there. Sometimes she would find Elizabeth sleeping in there, and Maria would pick Elizabeth up like a rag doll and snuggle with her on the big chair in the living room until her daughter awoke.
Elizabeth's brothers are all older than her. And none of them could understand why Elizabeth needed her own time, alone from the rest. Her mother understood though, but not enough to not turn the playroom into a guest room, thus making the closet into a real closet unsuitable for nesting in. If Elizabeth is seven, which she is, that makes her four brothers logically age in the range of nine through fourteen. Maria and her husband Nicholas had everyone very close in age intentionally. They wanted their kids to grow up playing together. And the first four did and do. They include Elizabeth too, but in different ways and not all the time. If they were playing war, Elizabeth was more of a prop that stood for things that needed to be rescued. If they played movies, then Elizabeth would be the ticket seller. Soon she would bore of them, and leave to hide from everyone. It was her own game of Hide and Seek that only she was playing.
"Elizabeth?" Her mother again. Maria had left the laundry room for ten minutes. During that time Elizabeth moves from behind the radiator to the kitchen. She walks down the hall, turns right, and walks up five steps to the kitchen. No one sees her, except for the dog, David. He is a Schnauzer who does not bark, if you can believe it.
"Hello, David," she says to him, patting him on his bottom, then takes a seat on the high chair overlooking the island counter-top where her and her brothers ate breakfast an hour ago. Elizabeth thinks it is weird that David's name is David, and he is also a dog. David looks up at her from his puppy bed. One dog eyebrow up, then the other, then his head back down.
Maria moves from the laundry room, down the hall, turns right, and walks up five steps to the kitchen, effectively tracing Elizabeth's footsteps.
"Hi momsy," says Elizabeth.
"Elizabeth, where were you before?"
"Here." Elizabeth loves to tell white lies. Not because of the lying part, but rather because she likes to see if people will believe her simply saying something, over their own memory and knowledge of knowing she was in fact not there before. People generally believe her. She has an ongoing list of these mini tales, so she can inform her family and friends later that she tricked them. It's in her bedroom now under her copy of the book "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch.
Maria wraps her arms behind Elizabeth, over the chair, embracing both. Her face next to Elizabeth's, their cheeks together, some of her Revlon lipstick blush rubbing on Elizabeth's face, despite the shield of brown and black hair between them.
"I love you," Maria whispers. Her mouth is warm and her words sweet. Elizabeth feels the heat on her left ear. "You," she stares into Elizabeth's brown eyes, "You are mine."
"I know," responds Elizabeth, her voice warbling slightly, like a child's does.
Elizabeth is behind the radiator, maybe four feet from her mother. But she's quiet. So quiet, and in the warmest spot in the whole house. She's seven years old, has brown hair, but that pretty brown, not the mousy kind. When you're a kid your hair is soft and falls gently. Elizabeth's is long, but knotty, never preferring her hair to be combed. Earlier this morning she saw her mother putting on make-up in the bathroom. It consisted of Maria taking her Revlon "Cheeky" lipstick in the green tube, twisting the bottom to bring up the color, pressing it against each side of her face, then rubbing the color in aggressively with that part of ones hand right below the pinky finger, but before the wrist. It's little moments like this that made impressions on Elizabeth. Moments her mother would forget about in the same amount of time it took to create them.
She can see her mother from between the crack of space that separates the radiator from the wall. Maria's Ralph Lauren jeans sit on her hips tightly, but her legs are skinny, so there's just too much fabric there. You wouldn't call them baggy though. Perhaps boot-legged? Elizabeth's gaze takes in her mother completely. From Maria's jet black hair to her bare feet. Her toes are painted a shade of red, probably OPI Damsel in a Dress. Elizabeth makes a note to look in her mothers make-up bag later for the color.
The heat from the radiator gives Elizabeth comfort. Before her parents redid the playroom and made it into a guest bedroom Elizabeth spent hours in the back closet. It was a walk-in. She had collected various comfortable blankets and pillows from around their home, like a robin creating its nest, and made a soft safe place for herself, a place her brothers weren't allowed. One of the blankets was a really unattractive knit blanket. It was black, green, orange, and a yellow color akin to Yoplait custard. Her mother made the blanket while she was pregnant, and the only yarn she had were those colors. Elizabeth's drawings from school littered the walls of her tiny castle. One in particular, a giant whale took over the East wall. Behind it Elizabeth hid notes she wrote but never delivered to the boy down the street, Todd Allen. Various proposals for getting together to play. Her mother knew they were there. Sometimes she would find Elizabeth sleeping in there, and Maria would pick Elizabeth up like a rag doll and snuggle with her on the big chair in the living room until her daughter awoke.
Elizabeth's brothers are all older than her. And none of them could understand why Elizabeth needed her own time, alone from the rest. Her mother understood though, but not enough to not turn the playroom into a guest room, thus making the closet into a real closet unsuitable for nesting in. If Elizabeth is seven, which she is, that makes her four brothers logically age in the range of nine through fourteen. Maria and her husband Nicholas had everyone very close in age intentionally. They wanted their kids to grow up playing together. And the first four did and do. They include Elizabeth too, but in different ways and not all the time. If they were playing war, Elizabeth was more of a prop that stood for things that needed to be rescued. If they played movies, then Elizabeth would be the ticket seller. Soon she would bore of them, and leave to hide from everyone. It was her own game of Hide and Seek that only she was playing.
"Elizabeth?" Her mother again. Maria had left the laundry room for ten minutes. During that time Elizabeth moves from behind the radiator to the kitchen. She walks down the hall, turns right, and walks up five steps to the kitchen. No one sees her, except for the dog, David. He is a Schnauzer who does not bark, if you can believe it.
"Hello, David," she says to him, patting him on his bottom, then takes a seat on the high chair overlooking the island counter-top where her and her brothers ate breakfast an hour ago. Elizabeth thinks it is weird that David's name is David, and he is also a dog. David looks up at her from his puppy bed. One dog eyebrow up, then the other, then his head back down.
Maria moves from the laundry room, down the hall, turns right, and walks up five steps to the kitchen, effectively tracing Elizabeth's footsteps.
"Hi momsy," says Elizabeth.
"Elizabeth, where were you before?"
"Here." Elizabeth loves to tell white lies. Not because of the lying part, but rather because she likes to see if people will believe her simply saying something, over their own memory and knowledge of knowing she was in fact not there before. People generally believe her. She has an ongoing list of these mini tales, so she can inform her family and friends later that she tricked them. It's in her bedroom now under her copy of the book "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch.
Maria wraps her arms behind Elizabeth, over the chair, embracing both. Her face next to Elizabeth's, their cheeks together, some of her Revlon lipstick blush rubbing on Elizabeth's face, despite the shield of brown and black hair between them.
"I love you," Maria whispers. Her mouth is warm and her words sweet. Elizabeth feels the heat on her left ear. "You," she stares into Elizabeth's brown eyes, "You are mine."
"I know," responds Elizabeth, her voice warbling slightly, like a child's does.
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
The Night Before & All the Days After
Thank Time that 2012 is over. What a crap year. Between the bookends of being broken, first in February/March and then again in August/September/October, then soul crushed and broken again, and the regular poor decisions you make when shitty things happen to you, the sorts of things that are out of your control which cause you to become someone out of control; then add to it getting rides from police officers not once, but twice due to my family judging me not worthy of remembrance -- well, you can see why that year needed to end. Sure, it had its perks. I went to New York thrice, joined a pretty baller sketch group (long pause), and perhaps know better now what I am capable of emotionally, physically and mentally. These, these are good things.
I wish I didn't have to learn in the ways I did, but the human spirit knows no bounds, right? And, I know from experience. CS Lewis says this about experience: “Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn.” And that, that is truth in all its glory.
This is a draft buried from back in October. A particularly rough month, one that encapsulates my year in 82 words. Its contents are as follows:
I've only a few times woken up with all my clothes
on from the night before.
Unfortunately, this seems to be a new Brigid
Marshall trend.
SO dumb.
Everything about the situation I've found myself in
is literally the dumbest.
Sometimes dumb is the best.
This is not one of those times.
This is a time where you're wondering where you're
going in life. When you lost your maps. And why the iPhone's new app is
screwing with your destination so hard.
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