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 |   My 2nd blog. My spot for sharing my life, music, and writing with my friends. |
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Hello, Hello. Fancy seeing you here. I'll work on making this nice and pretty later. *  I also have a poetry blog, for those who dig poetry:
AND I have a mental health group with a monthly challenge:
[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Lay my hands on Heaven and the sun and the moon and the stars While the devil wants to fuck me in the back of his car ♡ * I will never make this pretty. |
Well, we're four days in! How's everyone liking the challenge so far? I think it's really cool to see what poems people share and, more importantly, what the poems mean to each person. Not in an analytical way, but in a life force way. I haven't seen him anywhere yet (sorry if you posted him and I missed it), but my pick today is by Allen Ginsberg. It's a long poem, so I'm not going to drivel on too much here. Don't worry, it's not "Howl". We've all read that, right? If not, here you go: "Howl"  . That's just required Ginsberg reading, but not the one I want to talk about today.  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "Sunflower Sutra" by Allen Ginsburg I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily. Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust— —I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past— and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye— corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then! The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown— and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen, —We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision. I know, it's a long one. It's worth the read, I promise. I love this poem because, gentle soul that I am, I really like that it has an optimistic ending. In my own poetry, I have so much trouble not being dismal, so I can appreciate a positive ending. I think this poem is talking about the general decay of America due to materialism and consumerism that Ginsberg saw in the '50s when he wrote this poem. The industrialization of the country is fairly clear through his lines, so I don't think I'm stretching there: Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. Then Kerouac finds a sunflower and tells him to come look at it. Ginsberg is excited because the sunflower obviously represents much more than a sunflower to him. It's a sign of color and light in the middle of the machine world: Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust— —I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers... But unfortunately, the sunflower is also fucked up. (Sorry, I can't think of a better way to put that, some writer I am.  ) Anyway, the flower is fucked up, just like America:corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear... And then, my absolute favorite part: Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!  That is such a beautiful line. I always read it 4 or 5 times over when I read this poem. Then he goes back into the negative thoughts he was having at the beginning of the poem: those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos You'll have to ignore the cock/cunt/asses bit if you're easily offended, or you could just accept that this is Ginsberg and he doesn't care about your 'kid' ears. BUT THEN, this amazing talk he has with the sunflower:all these entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! I think he's talking to himself here... or rather, talking himself out of this endless pit of sadness that you fall into when you think about Americans choosing manmade things over nature. I think he's kind of saying, "If we can remember when we became this way, we can realize that we aren't this way by nature." And he goes on to have this new outlook on the whole thing where he can possibly change people's minds: So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen And so, I accidentally went full analysis there. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong anywhere. I'm not very smart, but that's what I feel like he's talking about when I read the poem. I think it's this sort of rollercoaster of being super down about the issue and then this kind of realization that a sunflower is always a sunflower, even if it forgets it's a sunflower. I don't know. I think it's a really sweet poem and I like the sentiment behind it. Also, that line. |
What up, guys? Thursdays and Fridays are kind of busy for me because the school/work combination has me down most of the day, so I figured I'd throw my poem into the ring for Day 3 before I go to school. I'm almost afraid to use today's poem because I know there was a pretty big e. e. cummings debate recently... (Elle - on hiatus  , Sally  , Cinn ...) But, I sort of love e. e. cummings. Well, not sort of, I really love e. e. cummings.I love the way he plays with words and syntax in his poems. He's super experimental, obviously, and I do think he went a little extreme with it in some of his poems, but I love him by and large. The poem I chose for today is "it is funny, you will be dead someday". I had Tulips and Chimneys by e. e. cummings at some point. I don't know where it went but I'm guessing I lost it along the way. I really loved this poem from it though, so, I hope you do too. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "it is funny, you will be dead someday" by e. e. cummings it is funny, you will be dead some day. By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean the unique and nervously obscene need;it’s funny. They will all be dead knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash —dead—and the dark gold delicately smash…. grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead. It is a funny,thing. And you will be and i and all the days and nights that matter knocked by sun moon jabbed jerked with ecstasy ….tremble (not knowing how much better than me will you like the rain’s face and the rich improbable hands of the Wind) I always liked this poem because it's funny and the language he used is really great. My favorite line from it is: knocked by sun moon jabbed jerked with ecstasy. You can see the way he's playing with formatting here, but it isn't overwhelming (or at least it shouldn't be), so it's still clear where you're supposed to read and when. This poem is pretty much just about accepting that everyone's going to die and trying to not make a huge deal out of it when it happens. That's what I took away from it, anyway. Of course, when it happens, it's not so easy, but it kind of reminds me of that line from Fight Club about knowing (not fearing) that someday, you're going to die. I think if you can accept death as a part of life as much so as birth, you'll be in a better place mentally. The problem isn't accepting your own mortality though, it's accepting the mortality of the people you love. That's the tricky bitch. |
As promised, today's entry will be super chill after the manic passion I had for Buddy Wakefield yesterday.  I guess now is a good time to mention that I'm into Beat poets. There will be some Ginsberg, Corso, Ferlinghetti, Kerouac and Burroughs this month. Look, that's already like five days planned out in advance. The question isn't whether they'll come up or not, the question is which poem will it be? Such mystery.I'm not exactly sure what it is that attracted me to Beat poets in the first place. I'm trying to remember when I even got into them. I know I read stuff like On the Road and Naked Lunch when I was fairly young. I almost think what happened was that my obsession with Bukowski led me into reading Beat poets like Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti. I think it might have all started with Bukowski though, honestly. Today's poem is called "For All" and it was written by Gary Snyder. There's something really special about this poet to me because I had his book, Axe Handles, as a teenager and it went everywhere with me. It survived a lot of abrupt moves and general chaos. I think I memorized a lot of the poems in it because it was one of the only poetry books I had at the time, so it got read a fair amount. I was debating between this poem and "True Night" for today's entry, but then I remembered that there are 28 more days after today and I can always use it later if I feel like it. So anyway, onto the poem... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "For All" by Gary Snyder Ah to be alive on a mid-September morn fording a stream barefoot, pants rolled up, holding boots, pack on, sunshine, ice in the shallows, northern rockies. Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes cold nose dripping singing inside creek music, heart music, smell of sun on gravel. I pledge allegiance I pledge allegiance to the soil of Turtle Island, and to the beings who thereon dwell one ecosystem in diversity under the sun With joyful interpenetration for all. Gary Snyder has amazing imagery and that's one of the things I most like about him. He hits every single sense in this poem and it really feels like you're there. Nature was really important to me growing up, and I think any of the other Maine people would say the same thing (Lyn's a Witchy Woman  ? Cinn ?), because there's not much to do in Maine except be in nature and the scenery there is SO beautiful.I love this entire idea of becoming one with nature and literally pledging allegiance to it. It reminds me of being a kid and being outside all the time with my friends or my brothers. There are few manmade things in a tiny town, especially out in the country where I lived, so there really wasn't this separation of man and nature that is so incredibly pronounced in more developed areas. Hey, what's that Joni Mitchell lyric from "Big Yellow Taxi"? They took all the trees And put them in a tree museum Then they charged the people A dollar and a half just to see 'em Anyway, this poem is truly nostalgic for me and also kind of makes me sick to my stomach, for reasons completely unbeknownst to me. I think it might be that I spent a lot of time reading this poem while I was living in a concrete jungle and reminiscing about home. That's my best guess anyway, but I'm no psycho therapist. I also love the last line a crazy amount. Just the use of the word "interpenetration" there is perfect. Like becoming one with nature while nature becomes one with you. Melding together and all that... Oh, one more thing, when you see the reference to Turtle Island, he's talking about North America. It's the name of North America according to a lot of Native tribes. More info on that. And I guess that concludes Day Two. I swear, I tried to make this entry shorter than it is, for what it's worth. |
| Well, helllllllllllo, poetry lovers. We're falling out of "The Soundtrack of Your Life" and right into "Pursue the Horizon - Open for Signups" , which means that for the next month, my blog is going to be full of poetry instead of music. Strange concept, eh? I'm actually super stoked for this challenge because I'm kind of curious about what poetry people like, in a totally gossipy and nosy sort of way. I'm into seeing which people are all about Poe and which are, like, Whitman lovers. And also the people who are totally out in left field who can introduce the rest of us to some new poetry. I'm all ears this month... or all eyes, or whatever.  I feel that I should mention quickly that I am obsessed with certain poets. As in, you'll probably see the same person a couple times this month because I just can't pick one poem by them and I'm too in love with them to not talk about them multiple times. I'm told this is normal, by someone who is probably totally abnormal. Anyway, let's get into it... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** This one is super fancy because it's spoken word. So, you can just listen to it instead of reading it, if you prefer: [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] "Giant Saint Everything" by Buddy Wakefield There were days I wanted out. But then You would go and do things like dive into the Vancouver ocean, big brilliant cliché poem that You are, water rolling off Your back as You swam toward a sunset that hung like a sacred recipe painted all the way around Your holy head. And then there were the ways You caught me moving back into my cave where the wheels turn, same wheels that drove You off. I should have told You before talking in terms of Forever that any given day wears me out and works me sour, that there are nights when the sky is so clear I stand obnoxious underneath it begging for the stars to shoot at me just so I can feel at Home. What’s left of You now is a shrine built from the pieces I kept of Your presence, Your incredible stretch of presence. It sits in Our room like a sandpiper cross-legged and crying, remembering the night we met and the day You left, and the Light shifting in between. By the side of it stands a picture of the poem where I promised, “You will never have another lonely holiday.” The words “I Promise” and “Forever” begged me not to use them but sometimes I don’t listen to God, so You can imagine how much it hurt to let Your last birthday pass with no word. August 3rd. You weren’t the only one comin’ up lonesome. Listen, if I had to make a list of everything everywhere - and I mean everything… everywhere - the very last to-do on that infinite list of every – single – thing – would be – to hurt You, so I need You to know that in an attempt to keep my promise I did write a letter to You on Your birthday. It was covered in stickers of flock-printed stars, choir claps, and a bonfire of buttercups stuck in the air, but when I finally drew enough courage to send You all the Love in the World my hand snapped off in the mailbox from clenching. It was returned to me with a gospelstitch, a hope stamp and a note etched into the palm I had to pry open with the pressure of pitching doves reminding me we agreed to let each other go. There is a point when tears don’t work to wash things away anymore. Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers. I miss You so much some days that I beg for the airplane to crash with just enough time in the freefall for scribbling “I Love You” across my chest. That way – when they find my burning breast plate – they will tell You how the very last thing I did with my life was call out Your name. A. R. L. I know You’re momma didn’t raise no sissy, so it’s best if I believe that You’ve bounced back and been born again, but in the bottom left corner of dreams in the dark spot where it gets windy and hollow I can still see you flailing, eating knuckle cake, full torque and tender, heart pounding from being pulled under, feet bleeding from bracing for endings, tongue dying to curse Forever because promises murder us backwards when people like me don’t keep them. And sure, we all deserve absolution, but especially You. You and Faith, You’ve got the same hungerpunch, same song still rising off the watertrain running through the laws of a moon dead set on daylight digging marbles from the trees in a Love not scared to make no sense and monkey enough to see the same devastating reason for living this life My Giant Saint Everything I promise You Forever these words have buckled my lips so far back to the beginning that I am now allowed only Today, so from my snap-chested heart spraying fully flying sending out the birds: Today I stop believing in words. Today all my visions converted to blurs like the night We saw the Light and I could not shut up but I swear I was feelin’ silence. So, yeah, Buddy Wakefield is my current obsession. Who doesn't like a little slam poetry, right? Buddy Wakefield is a three-time world champion spoken word artist. I've listened to pretty much all of his stuff and regularly walk around saying lines from his poetry to the people unfortunate enough to see me in person on a daily basis. My friend J has taken to just saying, "Wakefield?" whenever I say something that doesn't make sense in the context and he's right, like, 90 percent of the time. I could have chosen a Tony Hoagland poem to start the month, but I think he's going to be well spoken for this month, and he'll definitely show up in my entries too, so I went with this poem: "Giant Saint Everything" instead. I chose this poem because it's legit a 10 out of 10 poem for me. If you're ever trying to understand me or what I'm aiming for just read this poem. So, if you listened to the video and read the poem, you'll notice that there are a couple changes here and there. Artistic liberties and all that. I can sort of relate to this poem so much that it's strange, from the beginning lines until the very end. Starting with: There were days I wanted out. But then... It doesn't matter what's after "but then" because there is always a "but then". I should have told You before talking in terms of Forever that any given day wears me out and works me sour, that there are nights when the sky is so clear I stand obnoxious underneath it How many of you have made a promise you couldn't keep?  Some of us should come with warning labels.The words “I Promise” and “Forever” begged me not to use them but sometimes I don’t listen to God, so You can imagine how much it hurt to let Your last birthday pass with no word. August 3rd. I love the "sometimes I don't listen to God" part. Just a good line, and can we appreciate the holy capitalization of "you"? It was returned to me with a gospelstitch, a hope stamp and a note etched into the palm I had to pry open with the pressure of pitching doves reminding me we agreed to let each other go. You know when you know it's best to let someone go and then you wanna die forever? Yeah. I think one of the worst feelings in the world is when you actually love someone and know that there is no possible way it could ever work out. Such an empty feeling, truly. I miss You so much some days that I beg for the airplane to crash with just enough time in the freefall for scribbling “I Love You” across my chest. That way – when they find my burning breast plate – they will tell You how the very last thing I did with my life was call out Your name. A. R. L. I know You’re momma didn’t raise no sissy, so it’s best if I believe that You’ve bounced back and been born again I would never do it, but I love the fact that he called the dude out by name. Also, right after that: but in the bottom left corner of dreams in the dark spot where it gets windy and hollow I can still see you flailing, eating knuckle cake, full torque and tender, heart pounding from being pulled under, feet bleeding from bracing for endings, tongue dying to curse Forever because promises murder us backwards when people like me don’t keep them. Full torque and tender? That entire part is so epic, especially when you listen to Wakefield say them. His emotion definitely adds a lot to his poetry. Like, I said, I wouldn't call out a guy I was with who wanted to be kept "undercover" (oh, and he doesn't just use initials when he does it live. he says full name, first, middle and last-- and then everyone cheers about it ), because it's not my story to tell. But, holy fuck, have I wanted to do this, so I admire him all the same.Today I stop believing in words. Today all my visions converted to blurs like the night We saw the Light and I could not shut up but I swear I was feelin’ silence. That ending is just perfect, the last two lines especially. Sooo, yeah. I promise they won't all be this bad. I just really, really love this poem and almost every part of it is "my favorite part" depending on the time of day. I swear, there will be poems that I only love love like one stanza of, or especially love one stanza of, so I'll just talk about that part. But, that's definitely not going to be this poem, or any other poem by Buddy Wakefield, for that matter. I also raided his merch shop a couple days and am patiently waiting for lots of things in the mail. Anyway, I can't wait to see what other people are throwing out there for Day One. Off I go... |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Whew, look at us! We made it to the end of the month and we're gonna have a chill last day. No drama, no second person vignettes. Just some comedy to get us over the sadness of "The Precious Few" week. I think a lot of us couldn't write anything sad anymore, so we caved and wrote some happy entries in there somewhere. I'm not really in a super 'comedy' mood right now. I'm having a hell of a time with work and school, even with a healthy dose of xanax. I'm basically just a hamster on a wheel right now, not actually getting anything done even if I work all day. There's, like, no improvement. But I have a shit ton of stuff to do today, so if you make the mistake of trying to talk to me and I'm a little bit slurred, don't worry, that's just me attempting to get work done. So anyway, the song I picked for comedy day is by Bo Burnham. He's a comedian who does songs, basically. If you're easily offended, uh, don't listen to this song. But you guys know me, a comedic religious song is right up my alley. I just like Bo Burnham because he plays with words in a way that is admirable to a writer, if you can get past the vulgarity and all that- which I have no problem doing. Like, so much word play, and just hilarious topics in general: [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] You want a guy that's sweet A guy that's tough A feminist who likes to pay for stuff and then, of course, the guy version: You want a girl that's nice A girl that's not Obsessed with her looks but is insanely hot My favorite part of the song though: We all deserve love It's the very best part of being alive And I would know- I'm almost twenty five  So, that's basically what I listen to for a quick laugh. Bo Burnham is awesome because he's not a total moron. Too many comedians get their laughs from just playing the 'stupid' or 'goofy' card. Like, standing there and making weird faces (Steve Harvey, anyone?) or playing the race card ad nauseum (hey, George Lopez). I'm actually super into comedy, which I guess I don't talk about a lot here. But I loooove Dave Chappelle, Mitch Hedberg, Steven Wright and Hannibal Buress. I guess that closes out this round of Soundtrackers. So, let's move into March. If you're into poetry, Cinn has a sweet 30-day challenge opening tomorrow. It's sort of like soundtrackers, actually, except you share a poem every day for a month and talk about why you like it instead of a sharing a song. You can sign up here if you're into it:
See you guys during the next Soundtrackers challenge!   dear god, dear lord, dear vague muscular man with a beard or a sword. |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** There are a lot of people who will promise you the world in a handbasket, and a lot who will swear they've already given it to you, even when you're comin' up empty-handed. It doesn't take long to figure out that when someone does something for you, they're really doing it at you. So when Madison lectures you on the steps of your brothers' apartment, it's easy to grind your teeth together like ecstasy and apologize at the right times. It's hard to say things like, "I'd literally rather be anywhere but here with you now." Even if the other person is the epitome of perfection. It'll happen. Like Madison in a university sweater, hair piled on her head, who moves vertically, rather than horizontally, like everyone else does. Even someone as perfect as Madison can make your fingernails itch underneath. When she puts her hands on either side of your face and looks you in the eyes, she's trying to reach some part of you that died somewhere between southern Maine and northern Massachusetts. And it wasn't just buried either, left to rot- no, it was cremated. There aren't even any pieces left. Even if you weren't who you are, Emmy would make sure that Madison found her place, and there's a sickness in the way that pleases you. The way her eyes light up in moments of jealous rage, devising a plan, most certainly. Because, secretly, you're planning your own way to bring her down, even subconsciously. Everything is an endless cycle of 'who next'. So when someone sweet comes along, they're really just an ant waiting to get crushed under the rubber sole of your boots. You'll take advantage 'til you think you're being used Cause without an enemy your anger gets confused I got stuck on the side you know, I never chose But it's all about taking the easy way out for you I suppose |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** You're used to Ma's half-hearted threats, so when she says something like, "I brought you into this world and I'll take you out of it," you can only laugh in response. "You gonna kill me, Ma?" you ask from the kitchen counter where she's standing over you, patching your leg up. She's used enough gauze and bandages over the course of your life that she alone could fund the at-home first aid industry. "You're gonna get yourself killed. You're gonna put me in an early grave," she muses and then uses your full name so you know she means business. "You should really probably be getting stitches," she informs you, pulling off her latex gloves that are covered in crimson smears. "But then again, if I made you get stitches every time something like this happened, I'd never get out of the hospital, would I?" Being a nurse, she has fallen into the role of fixing up not only you, but all of your friends too. Bike accidents, thrown elbows during basketball games, fistfights... She's seen everything. This time it's a cut from being shoved (jokingly) onto the concrete behind the drugstore where there happened to be some broken glass. "It was just a joke," you tell her and she scoffs loudly, tying the plastic bag on the disposed of gauze and tape. "Some joke. Keep the bandage on for now. I'll look at it again in a little bit." You watch her settle back into her reading chair by the open window where the curtains flutter lightly. It's beyond hot enough to have the air conditioner running, but she always withstands it as long as she can, claiming she loves the smell of outside, but hates actually being outside. The best part is that she doesn't try to stop you when you grab your skateboard and start to head back out, friends in tow, even though you both know that she could easily be bandaging up yet another wound in an hour. Instead, she falls right back into her book, engrossed in its weathered pages and always pushes you out the door faster if she thinks your father will be in soon. Summer breeze, makes me feel fine Blowing through the jasmine in my mind |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Noah drives around listening to music until you feel lost enough to climb out and lay down on the hood of his truck together. It's a dead end dirt road that leads to a lake and it's now your home for the night. You could just as easily go stay at Danny's trailer, or even just go home, but who wants to do that when the night is warm and so inviting? Instead, you lay on the hood and watch Noah point out different constellations and tell stories about them. For some reason, this is his area of expertise. He doesn't want to go to school for astronomy, in fact, he doesn't want to go to school at all. Instead, he just has a wealth of knowledge on the subject and the only use for it is to lay on his truck at night and show you what he knows. "Which one is your favorite?" You ask him after a while, just to show that you're still awake and listening. To your dismay, he says, "All of them." You're quiet again. They're all just a jumble to you, holes in a trash bag. He seems to sense this and says, "Orion is the easiest to identify. I guess that one's my favorite... because anyone can see it." He then goes into the Greek mythology of Orion as a hunter and how you can find it by its two brightest stars, Betelgeuse and Rigel. And you say, "Beetlejuice?" He ignores you. "See, the bluish one? That's Rigel." He points and your eyes follow his finger. "And Beetlejuice?" "The red one, see?" And you do see. If light pollution didn't completely ruin it, you could find it now too. Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day... |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** From 13 to 14, you are consumed by Haley. It starts 7th grade year when she sits in front of you in math class and becomes the victim of your forgetfulness. "Do you have a pencil?" is a question she's asked more than several times and each time she responds the same way, a soft, disappointed sigh before she hand chooses a pencil, a different one every day. You aren't the only one consumed by Haley, in fact, her first month of school in the middle of the semester is marked by every guy in your grade, and the grade above yours, fawning over 'the new girl' with her huge dark eyes and olive skin. "She looks foreign," one of your friends says and you take the opportunity to remind him that you live in the middle of nowhere- every non-aryan person looks exotic. But of all the things you hear about Haley, the reason she moved to your town is the one you hear most often. Much to your dismay, you hear about how she got molested by her dad way too often. The story gets more and more absurd as time goes. First, she was just molested by her dad and put into foster care. Then she was molested by her dad and she killed him, so she had to go to foster care. That wasn't the worst rumor though- the worst rumor was that she was making it up entirely... that she was sent to foster care because she was crazy. Her cousin in the grade below us was largely to blame. It wasn't rare to hear her talking about it on the stairs before school, always saying how crazy Haley was and how they had to keep her bedroom door locked- from the outside. Somehow, you became friends with Haley. Actual friends, and she didn't have any others in the several months since she came to your school. The first time you walked into her room, you tried not to compare it to the room that had come before it. Her cousin's room, decked out with colorful paint, posters, a full length mirror, christmas lights, a canopy bed covered in lace, a huge TV with a stereo beneath and surround sound speakers, a leopard print director's chair- and that was just what you noticed in the 5 seconds it had taken to pass it. Haley's room was bare, to say the least. A single bed, pushed up against the window with one of those itchy beige hotel sheets and a pillow without a cover. Other than that, there was just one small brown dresser and a small stereo on top. The walls were beige like her cover and the curtains were a heavy white cotton. That was Haley's room. "I don't have a lot of things," she said. And you asked, "Huh?" "That's what you were thinking... that I don't have a lot of things." "I wasn't thinking that," you lied. That summer, you saw Haley every day. One day you were sitting on the porch, just sort of watching cars go by as the day wound down when her aunt came outside. "Do you want to stay the night here tonight, Charlie?" You looked at Haley. You had never thought of that as an option. "Uh, sure." After calling your parents to let them know you were staying with your friend, Aaron, you watch Haley make a pallet of the floor of her bedroom. "The bed isn't big enough," she tells you, even though you already knew that because it was the size of a prison bed. Once she finishes, you lay down on the floor together and listen to music for a while. It's a typical night for the two of you, just listening to music and talking about nothing. "You know why you're my best friend?" she asks, and you feel her turn toward you, the light from sunset filtering through the window hitting her directly in the eyes. "Because I'm awesome?" She laughs. "No, because you never try to get me to sleep with you." "Wow, that's like the lowest standard for a best friend I've ever heard. That's sad." You can't help but laugh too though. You probably are the only guy in school that hasn't tried to pull something. She sits up suddenly, her eyebrows tight with something. "You okay?" She takes a long time to respond, and when she does, she's playing with the tear in the knee of her jeans instead of looking up. "You know I was molested by my dad, right?" "Yeah, it's okay." She gives you a strange look and you start rescinding. "I have no idea why I said it's okay. That is not what I meant to say." You're more than relieved when she laughs. What you had meant to say was that she doesn't have to explain herself to you. What you meant to say was that you don't see her as the girl who was sexually abused by her dad. "I meant, we don't have to ta-" "Can I just-" she starts, and goes back to playing with her frayed jeans. And then you realize that in all this time, you never took into consideration that she might want to talk to someone about it. That she might need to tell someone instead of just hearing hallway speculations, so you only nod, committed to letting her be the one to talk. So you watch her tell her story, really watch her, the way she swallows hard at certain parts and pauses in uncertainty until you reassure her that you're listening and that she can continue. And when she's done, you ask, "When did your mother pass?" She smiles, but it's a bitter one. "My mother isn't dead, Charlie. She lives in upstate New York with her new family." "New family?" "Yeah, she left us when I was eight. She had already met a guy. They got married a few months later and had a couple kids." "Surely if you called her... if you told her..." She just shakes her head. "No, I tried that soon after she left, and then again when CPS got involved. They told her I'd have to go into foster care if she didn't take me in, and she said that was fine." Her voice cracks. You don't know what to say, because "sorry" seems inappropriate and you can't wrap your head around a mother letting their child get sexually abused and then put into foster care. All these things start going through your mind, like how her uncle is her dad's brother and you wonder if child molestation runs in the family. "I'm so tired, Charlie," she says suddenly, tears flying from her eyes and there's nothing you can do but hug her and feel her nails dig into your back as she clings to you. And suddenly the lump in your throat that you've had since the beginning takes over and you're crying too, just holding onto each other for dear life. After a while, it could've been five minutes or five hours but the sun has gone down, Haley pulls back and says, "Can you do me a favor?" "Of course, anything." And you mean that. She stands up and walks over to her window, turning on the light on the way there, then reaches up on her tippy toes and pulls ones side of the curtain rod down. She reaches inside the hole where the metal rod goes and pulls out a baggie between her fingers. She brings them over and hands it to you. "Pills," you say. "I've been hiding them in here for months." "Why?" "I can't take them anymore. All they do is make me shake. I can't focus on them. They just keep shoving them down my throat." You hold the bag up and aren't surprised when you recognize a lot of them. Antianxieties, antidepressants, sleeping pills... "You can't just say that you want to get off them?" Haley shakes her head. "No, that's one of the rules for living here. Have to take my meds..." She's standing over you and crosses her arms uncomfortably, shifting her weight from foot-to-foot and you realize that she thinks you're about to tell her no and renege on the promise you just made. "Of course I'll get rid of them," you tell her quickly and put them inside your backpack. She visibly relaxes, her shoulders losing tension as she turns off the light and then trips over you coming back to the pallet. You both laugh, but it's a nervous laughter. You lay side-by-side in silence for a long time, the CD has cycled through more times than you can count, and then Haley says, "I'm so fucked up, Charlie." Her voice sounds on the verge of breaking again, and you're happy that it's too dark to see her now. "Your smile still reaches your eyes though," you tell her. "That's a good sign." She finally responds with a "hmm" as though she hadn't considered that and then the silence blankets you again. I need you so much closer |
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** There's nothing more broken than the atmosphere in this car and the look on someone's face when you've completely betrayed them. There's something about the way their eyes light up with distrust, and all the things you should have said are a semicolon in their life, an empty ellipsis. You've taken enough litmus tests to know what to say. All words are not created equal. There's a difference between, "I'm sorry" and "I need help". One implies change; one is an infinity symbol. So you know when you say you need help, you can follow it up with observable actions, like new therapists who chew on pen caps and nod too frequently. She's an easy read, the way she clenches her jaw and white knuckles the steering wheel offsets her slightly optimistic words, or the other way around, and when she throws the car into 'drive', it's just a little too rough. Because there aren't any words that exist to subdue her anger, you know you're best off leaning against the passenger window, cool and calm against your check, bumping lightly with every pothole. When you start to talk, she interrupts immediately with, "Just don't." And you don't have the nerve to tell her that you were just going to ask to turn the stereo up. Well maybe I'm just too young To keep good love from going wrong |
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I'm still so confused. How did they get to senior-level finance with so little know-how. I don't get it. 
People definitely tend to jump straight to the worst conclusion when any problem arises, which is why you so frequently hear, "My computer is broken!" when there's really a simple fix. 
Just why. It's so gross. We need to get you some personal finance help! This is only tangentially related and not a statement on you, but one of the nonprofits I work with consists of me making budget plans for people who were recently homeless and have just gotten back on their feet. A lot of the people I work with have only been at their job for less than a month or been in an apartment for a week or two. My role is to gather all of their financial information and then consult with them on their bills, disposable income, purchases, and stuff like that. It's shocking to see the financial decisions people make after just being homeless. I'm like, dude, you were just homeless 2 weeks ago. 
I have seen so much of the disasters it has caused with some people. I have in the past been unconsciously roped into financial situations that were most unpleasant and having to make sensible plans to unravel them.