They're powerful.
But are they powerful enough
to hold two people together?
Do people need
physical closeness
to feel connected?
Or will a
dial-up connection do?
Yuuki is in love.
Or at least
I think she is.
She thinks she is.
Mom and Dad
disagree
but what do they know?
His name is Ronnie.
And he lives
over one thousand miles away.
They met on the internet
of all places,
a place teeming with
middle-aged predators
psychotic people
with online personas
because who they are
in real life
isn't enough for them.
But he came along
as authentic
as a real person,
so he had to be one.
And after all the
questions asked
and the
"Really? Me too!"
responses
and all the things they
discussed
debated
pondered
shared
confessed
she realized she had
found somebody
worth finding.
She liked
how he unfolded
before her
like a story
that she couldn't see
the end of yet.
I guess it was
almost suspenseful.
He fascinated her
she fascinated him
They kind of
fell in love
with each other's
brains.
There were too many
similarities
for it to be random
Too many details
for it to be a lie
Too many
smiles
for it to be mere luck
Too many
reasons for him not to
feel the same way
(according to her),
but she told him
how she felt anyway.
And it was
quite a risk to take
because the only thing
that held them together
was
words.
But somehow,
in some way
that I'll never understand
because I'm much
too cynical,
their
relationship
survived
the confession.
And it's weird,
because whenever
I see a couple,
in a photo on Facebook
holding hands in the hall
dressed up for a formal
I turn the ugliest
shade of green.
But when I think about
Ronnie and Yuuki
and the nice things
he says to her
and the way he says
he'll come up to see her
in April
and the long-ass
messages they send
each other,
that waste time
I could be spending
blogging
messaging
scrolling
thinking
responding
observing the
more interesting lives
of Facebook friends
I don't even know,
and the mix CD
she made for him
for Christmas
full of love songs
yet somehow
not awkward
that she sent in the mail
yesterday
It all makes me
happy.
Their words
make me
happy.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
The Damnedest Things
We all say things we don't mean.
Vicious words, crawling out of your mouth with the intention to hurt someone. And all you can do is watch them escape in astonishment. How did you let them slip by your common sense, who usually guards your mouth so closely that you end up never saying what's on your mind?
Sometimes, common sense takes a coffee break. No one wants sleepy, sluggish common sense. People in their right minds want their common sense to be wired, wide-eyed, vigilant.
So while common sense runs down to Starbucks for overpriced coffee and possibly a cookie if it isn't in the mood to diet, it leaves you unattended.
That can be dangerous.
I've never understood the phrase, "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you." Who even made up something so futile, and why do people choose to believe that?
Words can be painful. I consider my sharp tongue one of my deadliest weapons, a dormant creature that rested behind my teeth, sometimes trying to rear its ugly head but being suppressed by that common sense. And every once in a while, when my feelings are in danger of becoming wounded, I sharpen that tongue and take it for a spin, always a little stunned by the results.
A slap to the skull, shock, confusion, oblivion, a look of astonished hurt, a sharp-edged insult fired back to hit me right where it hurts.
I call my sister self-centered. I say I hate my grandmother. I drop snide comments to my parents on a regular basis, until I unintentionally hit a nerve, then I recoil. I pointedly disagree with things David says just so he realizes that my goal in life is not to please him. I start spur-of-the-moment arguments with Symphony out of boredom and irritation with her tendency to be a thousand miles away when all I want to do is talk. I say that I wish Floyd would get hit by a train. I say that God doesn't care about me.
I say the damnedest things sometimes.
Common sense had best grab me a mocha cappuccino or something while it's at it, because this has been one long coffee break.
Vicious words, crawling out of your mouth with the intention to hurt someone. And all you can do is watch them escape in astonishment. How did you let them slip by your common sense, who usually guards your mouth so closely that you end up never saying what's on your mind?
Sometimes, common sense takes a coffee break. No one wants sleepy, sluggish common sense. People in their right minds want their common sense to be wired, wide-eyed, vigilant.
So while common sense runs down to Starbucks for overpriced coffee and possibly a cookie if it isn't in the mood to diet, it leaves you unattended.
That can be dangerous.
I've never understood the phrase, "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you." Who even made up something so futile, and why do people choose to believe that?
Words can be painful. I consider my sharp tongue one of my deadliest weapons, a dormant creature that rested behind my teeth, sometimes trying to rear its ugly head but being suppressed by that common sense. And every once in a while, when my feelings are in danger of becoming wounded, I sharpen that tongue and take it for a spin, always a little stunned by the results.
A slap to the skull, shock, confusion, oblivion, a look of astonished hurt, a sharp-edged insult fired back to hit me right where it hurts.
I call my sister self-centered. I say I hate my grandmother. I drop snide comments to my parents on a regular basis, until I unintentionally hit a nerve, then I recoil. I pointedly disagree with things David says just so he realizes that my goal in life is not to please him. I start spur-of-the-moment arguments with Symphony out of boredom and irritation with her tendency to be a thousand miles away when all I want to do is talk. I say that I wish Floyd would get hit by a train. I say that God doesn't care about me.
I say the damnedest things sometimes.
Common sense had best grab me a mocha cappuccino or something while it's at it, because this has been one long coffee break.
The Christmas Spirit
What comes to mind when you hear the words "traditional family"?
Parents still married. Dad is some rugged Ken doll in an army uniform. Mom is his Barbie doll equivalent, with curled blonde hair, a billowing circle skirt. She vacuums the living room, a majestic dance of spinning skirts and graceful cleansing. The kids are playing in the spacious front yard, never growing past the age of eight or so, jumping in the spray of the sprinkler, screaming with delight. A golden retriever named Ralph barks, loud and jovial, and circles the playing children, and no one cares what life is like outside of the white picket fence.
Much to the dismay of Hollywood filmmakers and the like, this family never existed.
Americans have odd standards set up in their minds when it comes to their idea of perfection. They believe in intangible things, making them their goals subconsciously. Absentmindedly searching for conventional solutions to things that usually aren't problems in the first place.
People always talk about "getting in the Christmas spirit."
This year, I just couldn't seem to get into that spirit. I couldn't remember where it came from. I couldn't remember if I'd ever actually found it in the first place. But what if "the Christmas spirit" is just another overrated figment of America's imagination?
I mean, what is it, anyway? Blasting Christmas music in the car? Drinking hot chocolate? Baking? Decorating your house? Picking out a tree for the living room? Going to holiday parties? Going shopping? Getting gifts? Giving gifts?
After giving this whole "Christmas spirit" thing a bit of thought, I settled on an answer that just seemed so easy. Too easy, but what else could it be?
"It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas."
I think that the Christmas spirit is love. Love, fueled by Christmas. It's loving the world around you when you look outside and see snow falling peacefully. It's loving Jesus for loving us back. It's loving the Christmas movies you watch every year. It's loving being alive on December 21, and every other day too. It's loving your best friend when she gives you a makeshift photo album of memories after she drew your name for Secret Santa. It's loving that moment as you leave school on the last day before break, like a colder version of the last day of school. It's loving Floyd even though I hate him and I don't exist anymore. It's loving your family when you find yourself surrounded by them and their mouths that flap like ducks' asses and their love for you. It's so weird, knowing that people love me. I don't know why. It's like, I didn't do anything to deserve it, and yet, it's there. I guess that's really what family is. Loving people for no real reason. Just knowing you do.
If you look for love, you'll find the Christmas spirit everywhere. "It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas." That quote is from "A Muppets Christmas Carol," which I've been watching every year on Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember.
Sometimes we learn the most important things from places we'd never think to look.
Merry Christmas, everyone. :)
Parents still married. Dad is some rugged Ken doll in an army uniform. Mom is his Barbie doll equivalent, with curled blonde hair, a billowing circle skirt. She vacuums the living room, a majestic dance of spinning skirts and graceful cleansing. The kids are playing in the spacious front yard, never growing past the age of eight or so, jumping in the spray of the sprinkler, screaming with delight. A golden retriever named Ralph barks, loud and jovial, and circles the playing children, and no one cares what life is like outside of the white picket fence.
Much to the dismay of Hollywood filmmakers and the like, this family never existed.
Americans have odd standards set up in their minds when it comes to their idea of perfection. They believe in intangible things, making them their goals subconsciously. Absentmindedly searching for conventional solutions to things that usually aren't problems in the first place.
People always talk about "getting in the Christmas spirit."
This year, I just couldn't seem to get into that spirit. I couldn't remember where it came from. I couldn't remember if I'd ever actually found it in the first place. But what if "the Christmas spirit" is just another overrated figment of America's imagination?
I mean, what is it, anyway? Blasting Christmas music in the car? Drinking hot chocolate? Baking? Decorating your house? Picking out a tree for the living room? Going to holiday parties? Going shopping? Getting gifts? Giving gifts?
After giving this whole "Christmas spirit" thing a bit of thought, I settled on an answer that just seemed so easy. Too easy, but what else could it be?
"It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas."
I think that the Christmas spirit is love. Love, fueled by Christmas. It's loving the world around you when you look outside and see snow falling peacefully. It's loving Jesus for loving us back. It's loving the Christmas movies you watch every year. It's loving being alive on December 21, and every other day too. It's loving your best friend when she gives you a makeshift photo album of memories after she drew your name for Secret Santa. It's loving that moment as you leave school on the last day before break, like a colder version of the last day of school. It's loving Floyd even though I hate him and I don't exist anymore. It's loving your family when you find yourself surrounded by them and their mouths that flap like ducks' asses and their love for you. It's so weird, knowing that people love me. I don't know why. It's like, I didn't do anything to deserve it, and yet, it's there. I guess that's really what family is. Loving people for no real reason. Just knowing you do.
If you look for love, you'll find the Christmas spirit everywhere. "It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas." That quote is from "A Muppets Christmas Carol," which I've been watching every year on Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember.
Sometimes we learn the most important things from places we'd never think to look.
Merry Christmas, everyone. :)
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Strangers
Have you ever been in love with someone?
I think that I have. I think that I am.
But when you’re only sixteen, saying you’re in love feels stupid. It’s like the words don’t fit in your mouth correctly. They feel awkward, even in your brain.
Is it possible to become addicted to another human being?
He’s like a pack of cigarettes tucked into my back pocket. Absentmindedly, I pull him out, take out a little piece of him. Like the sound of my name in his mouth. Like the smell that hung on his clothes. Like the way his eyes smiled when he said something wicked. Like the way his breath felt against my ear. Like the countless knowing glances that were exchanged. Like the sound of him singing under his breath. Like the song "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" by The Offspring.
And I light it up and let it burn in my mind. It calms me down. It brings a small, bittersweet grin to my face. It takes me away.
And it eats away at the inside of me.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever even knew him, because I certainly don’t anymore.
I remember what it was like to have a crush on him.
Mouthing the words of "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" as it blasted from his computer, meeting my gaze as I did the same. Nowadays, those chords make my throat tingle, the same sort of lump that forms when you're frantically searching for something that you have lost.
Telling me he hated my "I ♥ NY" t-shirt, because it was so cliché, and I told him that's why I liked it.
Smiling to myself when he told me his girlfriend had dumped him, but replying with, "Oh, really? Why?" like I was actually concerned.
Watching him walk into shop class, fresh from an extended period of Chemistry class, which he despised, and asking smugly, "How was Chem?" Him letting out a scoff and replying with, "Long," he paused, gave me one of his wicked, admittedly roguish grins, "…and hard." I rolled my eyes and laughed in spite of myself.
Scrolling through the unorganized list of songs on his Blackberry, familiar titles catching my eye on the cracked screen. One headphone each, hushed conversation, there was only two people in the world.
Something like jealousy burning just behind his green eyes when he saw me laughing at something Jordan said, comfortable by his side, sharing food with him, listening to Protest The Hero. His obvious attempts at making me jealous too, and the way they always worked. Oh, how we pissed each other off.
Him falling into step beside me as we left class, talking and laughing until we found ourselves on the other side of the school, where I was supposed to be, but far from where his next class was. He laughed incredulously, and asked "What am I doing?" And I didn't know what he was doing, but I liked it.
Brushing sawdust off my shoes and peeling Elmer's glue from my fingers during Geometry class, a thousand miles away. Or more accurately, merely a class period earlier.
My voice saying his name fearlessly, watching him turn and watch me as I confessed my feelings for him. The way he turned me down, quick and painless. My hands shaking in my lap. My eyes wet from subconsciously refusing to blink. And the way that moment disappeared from his mind afterwords, like it never even happened.
I remember what it was like to wake up every morning and think to myself, "Maybe today is the day that I’ll win his heart." I remember what it was like to smile only because I was with him. I remember feeling so full, so content by his side, and all of the bad things in my life suddenly didn’t exist anymore.
And then, out of nowhere, he became one of those bad things.
Summer was an eternity. The days moved by sluggishly. Boredom reigned on all levels. Summer was the beginning of the end, and I spent every day hoping that it wouldn’t be. When it came to a close, I breezed through the doors of the school and back into a life I think I came to love before those three slow months brought everything to a screeching halt. And there I was again. Waiting for it all to start again, right where it left off.
How foolish.
"Hey, Floyd," I said breezily, as I slid into the seat behind him in my first period math class.
"Hey," he replied.
The amount of times we have spoken since that day could probably be counted on my fingers. It’s been months. And the last time I checked, I had only ten fingers.
The air outside is now brisk and empty, the kind of cold air that it hurts to breathe in. The leaves have long fallen from the trees and plastered themselves to the ground, leaving the branches to shiver in the wind. Every house shines with Christmas decorations, some artfully placed, some tacky as hell.
What happened? When did we forget how to dance on the line between friendship and more-than-friendship? Silence fills the once charged atmosphere between us. When did we become different? Did I change? Did he? He didn't seem to be different. Same flannel and jeans uniform, same witty sarcasm and talking just to hear his own voice, same curly hair and fiery eyes, doodling in notebooks, head in his hand. There was a tension in the air between us, unanswered questions.
Why isn't he talking to me?
Does she still like me?
Is he playing hard to get?
Is she ignoring me?
Or does he just not care anymore?
But after a while, even the tension went away.
And we have become nothing.
I wish I knew why.
I wish I knew the reasons why every day in study hall, he will sit less than ten feet away from me, but he will not say a word to me. He won’t even look at me anymore. I’ve become translucent. Am I even alive anymore? Or do I just go through the motions? Why do I need him like this?
I miss sitting on my Nana’s porch swing until dark, listening to the All-American Rejects and just dreaming about all of the things that couldawouldashoulda happened, and the things that I had my fingers crossed on to happen when I saw him again. A quirky fairytale, the result of mashing together a dreamer and a cynic who switched roles so much it was like they were playing musical chairs. Who played which part? I wanted it so badly. And sitting there on that porch swing, it seemed possible.
But this isn’t a good feeling anymore. This is hell. This is a loss of inspiration. This is crying my eyes out with only Metallica to comfort me. This is wanting to move on, but for some reason, it’s impossible. This is hating his guts. This is wanting to beat his brains in just as much as I want to hold him.
Is this love?
If it is, I want no part in it.
I think that I have. I think that I am.
But when you’re only sixteen, saying you’re in love feels stupid. It’s like the words don’t fit in your mouth correctly. They feel awkward, even in your brain.
Is it possible to become addicted to another human being?
He’s like a pack of cigarettes tucked into my back pocket. Absentmindedly, I pull him out, take out a little piece of him. Like the sound of my name in his mouth. Like the smell that hung on his clothes. Like the way his eyes smiled when he said something wicked. Like the way his breath felt against my ear. Like the countless knowing glances that were exchanged. Like the sound of him singing under his breath. Like the song "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" by The Offspring.
And I light it up and let it burn in my mind. It calms me down. It brings a small, bittersweet grin to my face. It takes me away.
And it eats away at the inside of me.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever even knew him, because I certainly don’t anymore.
I remember what it was like to have a crush on him.
Mouthing the words of "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" as it blasted from his computer, meeting my gaze as I did the same. Nowadays, those chords make my throat tingle, the same sort of lump that forms when you're frantically searching for something that you have lost.
Telling me he hated my "I ♥ NY" t-shirt, because it was so cliché, and I told him that's why I liked it.
Smiling to myself when he told me his girlfriend had dumped him, but replying with, "Oh, really? Why?" like I was actually concerned.
Watching him walk into shop class, fresh from an extended period of Chemistry class, which he despised, and asking smugly, "How was Chem?" Him letting out a scoff and replying with, "Long," he paused, gave me one of his wicked, admittedly roguish grins, "…and hard." I rolled my eyes and laughed in spite of myself.
Scrolling through the unorganized list of songs on his Blackberry, familiar titles catching my eye on the cracked screen. One headphone each, hushed conversation, there was only two people in the world.
Something like jealousy burning just behind his green eyes when he saw me laughing at something Jordan said, comfortable by his side, sharing food with him, listening to Protest The Hero. His obvious attempts at making me jealous too, and the way they always worked. Oh, how we pissed each other off.
Him falling into step beside me as we left class, talking and laughing until we found ourselves on the other side of the school, where I was supposed to be, but far from where his next class was. He laughed incredulously, and asked "What am I doing?" And I didn't know what he was doing, but I liked it.
Brushing sawdust off my shoes and peeling Elmer's glue from my fingers during Geometry class, a thousand miles away. Or more accurately, merely a class period earlier.
My voice saying his name fearlessly, watching him turn and watch me as I confessed my feelings for him. The way he turned me down, quick and painless. My hands shaking in my lap. My eyes wet from subconsciously refusing to blink. And the way that moment disappeared from his mind afterwords, like it never even happened.
I remember what it was like to wake up every morning and think to myself, "Maybe today is the day that I’ll win his heart." I remember what it was like to smile only because I was with him. I remember feeling so full, so content by his side, and all of the bad things in my life suddenly didn’t exist anymore.
And then, out of nowhere, he became one of those bad things.
Summer was an eternity. The days moved by sluggishly. Boredom reigned on all levels. Summer was the beginning of the end, and I spent every day hoping that it wouldn’t be. When it came to a close, I breezed through the doors of the school and back into a life I think I came to love before those three slow months brought everything to a screeching halt. And there I was again. Waiting for it all to start again, right where it left off.
How foolish.
"Hey, Floyd," I said breezily, as I slid into the seat behind him in my first period math class.
"Hey," he replied.
The amount of times we have spoken since that day could probably be counted on my fingers. It’s been months. And the last time I checked, I had only ten fingers.
The air outside is now brisk and empty, the kind of cold air that it hurts to breathe in. The leaves have long fallen from the trees and plastered themselves to the ground, leaving the branches to shiver in the wind. Every house shines with Christmas decorations, some artfully placed, some tacky as hell.
What happened? When did we forget how to dance on the line between friendship and more-than-friendship? Silence fills the once charged atmosphere between us. When did we become different? Did I change? Did he? He didn't seem to be different. Same flannel and jeans uniform, same witty sarcasm and talking just to hear his own voice, same curly hair and fiery eyes, doodling in notebooks, head in his hand. There was a tension in the air between us, unanswered questions.
Why isn't he talking to me?
Does she still like me?
Is he playing hard to get?
Is she ignoring me?
Or does he just not care anymore?
But after a while, even the tension went away.
And we have become nothing.
I wish I knew why.
I wish I knew the reasons why every day in study hall, he will sit less than ten feet away from me, but he will not say a word to me. He won’t even look at me anymore. I’ve become translucent. Am I even alive anymore? Or do I just go through the motions? Why do I need him like this?
I miss sitting on my Nana’s porch swing until dark, listening to the All-American Rejects and just dreaming about all of the things that couldawouldashoulda happened, and the things that I had my fingers crossed on to happen when I saw him again. A quirky fairytale, the result of mashing together a dreamer and a cynic who switched roles so much it was like they were playing musical chairs. Who played which part? I wanted it so badly. And sitting there on that porch swing, it seemed possible.
But this isn’t a good feeling anymore. This is hell. This is a loss of inspiration. This is crying my eyes out with only Metallica to comfort me. This is wanting to move on, but for some reason, it’s impossible. This is hating his guts. This is wanting to beat his brains in just as much as I want to hold him.
Is this love?
If it is, I want no part in it.
Numbers At My Feet
I lost twenty-five pounds.
I can’t remember when I decided to lose weight.
It feels like only yesterday that I had broken a promise I had once made to myself, and hesitantly stood on the old scale in my Nana’s bathroom.
The needle jumped from the zero and past the "160" mark. I stepped off quickly, then left. I shook the number from my head before it could settle there. Was that the deciding moment?
I couldn't tell you.
But nonetheless, I made a decision. A big decision.
I let the amount of food I was eating every day slowly dwindle down to somewhere around one thousand calories at one point. My evening walks turned into my evening runs. I remember how it felt, taking a rest on a cool rock at the end of the walking trail, gulping water, being slick with sweat. It was excruciating, but I pushed myself to do it every day. And then it didn’t feel hard anymore. I simply pushed myself along, looking at the dull brown river as I ran alongside it, my mind completely blank. Then, when August began and marching band practices made it hard to spend time at home, I started going for bike rides. By the end of the summer, I was only consuming around 1200 calories at the most and going for two bike rides per day. It was excessive. I didn't care.
And at one point, my clothing stopped fitting me. I poked new holes into my white stud belt, all the way up to where the studs started. My friends would look at me, envy shining dully just behind their eyes, asking me how I had done it.
It was a strange feeling. It was foreign. People were never jealous of me. People probably hung out with me because they wanted friends that they didn’t have to be jealous of.
There was a time when my weight loss went from an experiment to an obsession. The amount of calories in all of the snacks in my house became common knowledge. There are 140 calories in 26 cheese curls. I still know that. Maybe I'll always know that. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the last ten pounds I still want to lose. Every time I eat something outside of the strict confines of my diet, I immediately begin planning what foods I will eat (and not eat) the next day.
I may look a little better in my clothes, and the numbers at my feet have slipped neatly back into a "normal" BMI, but along with the weight, I lost something else.
It’s something I can’t really find a word to describe. Is there a word that means "the ability to go through one day without any worries"?
Happiness?
But did I even have that in the first place?
I can’t remember when I decided to lose weight.
It feels like only yesterday that I had broken a promise I had once made to myself, and hesitantly stood on the old scale in my Nana’s bathroom.
The needle jumped from the zero and past the "160" mark. I stepped off quickly, then left. I shook the number from my head before it could settle there. Was that the deciding moment?
I couldn't tell you.
But nonetheless, I made a decision. A big decision.
I let the amount of food I was eating every day slowly dwindle down to somewhere around one thousand calories at one point. My evening walks turned into my evening runs. I remember how it felt, taking a rest on a cool rock at the end of the walking trail, gulping water, being slick with sweat. It was excruciating, but I pushed myself to do it every day. And then it didn’t feel hard anymore. I simply pushed myself along, looking at the dull brown river as I ran alongside it, my mind completely blank. Then, when August began and marching band practices made it hard to spend time at home, I started going for bike rides. By the end of the summer, I was only consuming around 1200 calories at the most and going for two bike rides per day. It was excessive. I didn't care.
And at one point, my clothing stopped fitting me. I poked new holes into my white stud belt, all the way up to where the studs started. My friends would look at me, envy shining dully just behind their eyes, asking me how I had done it.
It was a strange feeling. It was foreign. People were never jealous of me. People probably hung out with me because they wanted friends that they didn’t have to be jealous of.
There was a time when my weight loss went from an experiment to an obsession. The amount of calories in all of the snacks in my house became common knowledge. There are 140 calories in 26 cheese curls. I still know that. Maybe I'll always know that. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the last ten pounds I still want to lose. Every time I eat something outside of the strict confines of my diet, I immediately begin planning what foods I will eat (and not eat) the next day.
I may look a little better in my clothes, and the numbers at my feet have slipped neatly back into a "normal" BMI, but along with the weight, I lost something else.
It’s something I can’t really find a word to describe. Is there a word that means "the ability to go through one day without any worries"?
Happiness?
But did I even have that in the first place?
Winter
Vacant tree branches
save for the cedars and pines
First snow long gone
Fresh baked cookies
raw dough in my stomach
My Nana's house has
become the North Pole
in appearance
My own house has
become the North Pole
in temperature
Plump tree in the living room
Might be the last real one
in the world
Unwrapped presents
waiting in Boscov's bags
For Santa to wrap them up
And the days of clarinet playing
lips chapped and destroyed
from reeds and cold air
long gone now
No more concerts
no more shows
or practices
Don't know whether I
should be smiling
or reminiscing
Maybe both
Decorations are put up
shopping is done
Free time
is precious
And now,
we write.
save for the cedars and pines
First snow long gone
Fresh baked cookies
raw dough in my stomach
My Nana's house has
become the North Pole
in appearance
My own house has
become the North Pole
in temperature
Plump tree in the living room
Might be the last real one
in the world
Unwrapped presents
waiting in Boscov's bags
For Santa to wrap them up
And the days of clarinet playing
lips chapped and destroyed
from reeds and cold air
long gone now
No more concerts
no more shows
or practices
Don't know whether I
should be smiling
or reminiscing
Maybe both
Decorations are put up
shopping is done
Free time
is precious
And now,
we write.
Autumn
It was always my favorite season.
I love everything about it. The way it looks. The way it smells. The way it feels. Autumn is a season that is considerate to your senses. It's the only season that seems to adore me, appealing to my tastes flawlessly. Suiting my fancies.
Perfect weather. Football season. Marching band season, the good parts and the bad. Changing leaves, falling leaves, naked tree branches--perfect excuses to take photographs of anything and everything. Halloween. Candy corn and mini Twix bars. Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie.
Autumn is one of those occurrences that teaches you to love the simple things in life. Watching leaves fall around you. The feeling of warm air pushing against your face as your bicycle races through the clear air. Sitting around your kitchen table with your family on Thanksgiving. The sheer happiness you can't contain when your school's team wins at a football game. The little burst of pride when you take the perfect photograph of yellow leaves scattered on the front lawn or bare trees reflected in the still river. Autumn humbles you. The world stops revolving around you. You start revolving around the world.
And then all the leaves dry up, everything turns brown, the air becomes shallow and cold, and so do you.
Autumn was long this year, and it never quite screeched to a halt. It just disintegrated, so slowly that I barely even noticed. The occasional balmy day would come along after a few days of cold or rain. It was an unpredictable visitor that seemed to live for the surprised smiles on our faces as we walked outside and found ourselves bathed in warm sunlight, stripping off our warm weather hats and knitted scarves and exchanging our layers for a single sweatshirt. Even that was too much sometimes, but we had to keep that little bit of warmth, because we were uncertain of how long our good luck would last.
Is it possible to simply enjoy your good luck? Is it possible not to question it?
I love everything about it. The way it looks. The way it smells. The way it feels. Autumn is a season that is considerate to your senses. It's the only season that seems to adore me, appealing to my tastes flawlessly. Suiting my fancies.
Perfect weather. Football season. Marching band season, the good parts and the bad. Changing leaves, falling leaves, naked tree branches--perfect excuses to take photographs of anything and everything. Halloween. Candy corn and mini Twix bars. Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie.
Autumn is one of those occurrences that teaches you to love the simple things in life. Watching leaves fall around you. The feeling of warm air pushing against your face as your bicycle races through the clear air. Sitting around your kitchen table with your family on Thanksgiving. The sheer happiness you can't contain when your school's team wins at a football game. The little burst of pride when you take the perfect photograph of yellow leaves scattered on the front lawn or bare trees reflected in the still river. Autumn humbles you. The world stops revolving around you. You start revolving around the world.
And then all the leaves dry up, everything turns brown, the air becomes shallow and cold, and so do you.
Autumn was long this year, and it never quite screeched to a halt. It just disintegrated, so slowly that I barely even noticed. The occasional balmy day would come along after a few days of cold or rain. It was an unpredictable visitor that seemed to live for the surprised smiles on our faces as we walked outside and found ourselves bathed in warm sunlight, stripping off our warm weather hats and knitted scarves and exchanging our layers for a single sweatshirt. Even that was too much sometimes, but we had to keep that little bit of warmth, because we were uncertain of how long our good luck would last.
Is it possible to simply enjoy your good luck? Is it possible not to question it?
Summer
A New England summer is as unpredictable as my life is not.
One day, it's ninety-eight degrees, and the sun beats down on you so hard that you think God has turned up the pressure of gravity just to watch you squirm. The next day, it's barely seventy and pouring rain.
But the unpredictability of my summer stopped there. Every day was the same. They all blended together, daylight hanging on for dear life, showing up sometime around five in the morning, and finally letting go sometime around eight thirty. The nights were short, warm and breezy.
And it came to the point where I forgot what the world was like beyond the edges of my vast property. I became so accustomed to being miserable and bored that I forgot what it was like to feel otherwise. The simplest things slipped my mind, things I used to know how to do. How to be social. How to put on a disguise of false kindness. How to make an attempt to look and act presentable for the sake of having a social life.
My previous life froze in its tracks, and even the most sweltering of those summer days couldn't melt it back into place. My new life was repetition. Obediently watering flowers that weren't even mine for no reward. Eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and TV dinners. Waking up after eleven and going to bed at two in the morning. Going to grocery store with my mom, which was something that changed my day from boring to eventful. Watching movie after movie on my living room floor. Going for the same walk on the same trail every day. Listening to Nirvana and The All-American Rejects on my Nana's porch swing until dark. Flipping through old Seventeen magazines. Playing the same old songs over and over on my guitar, "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" becoming a daily routine. Dieting. Reading. Going for the occasional swim at my grandmother's house. Surfing the Internet at the same time every night, marveling at how dull my life was compared to the lives of the smiling faces on my Facebook News Feed. Thinking so much that I put myself into a bad mood.
I missed the things I had to replace with memories.
But my "summer life" wasn't all bad. Nowadays, I'd do anything to get that simple existence back. It was complete paradise compared to putting up with the rest of the world, and all of its superficial, idiotic occupants.
But that last statement makes me feel a little troubled, even when I write it, because I hate hypocrites.
One day, it's ninety-eight degrees, and the sun beats down on you so hard that you think God has turned up the pressure of gravity just to watch you squirm. The next day, it's barely seventy and pouring rain.
But the unpredictability of my summer stopped there. Every day was the same. They all blended together, daylight hanging on for dear life, showing up sometime around five in the morning, and finally letting go sometime around eight thirty. The nights were short, warm and breezy.
And it came to the point where I forgot what the world was like beyond the edges of my vast property. I became so accustomed to being miserable and bored that I forgot what it was like to feel otherwise. The simplest things slipped my mind, things I used to know how to do. How to be social. How to put on a disguise of false kindness. How to make an attempt to look and act presentable for the sake of having a social life.
My previous life froze in its tracks, and even the most sweltering of those summer days couldn't melt it back into place. My new life was repetition. Obediently watering flowers that weren't even mine for no reward. Eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and TV dinners. Waking up after eleven and going to bed at two in the morning. Going to grocery store with my mom, which was something that changed my day from boring to eventful. Watching movie after movie on my living room floor. Going for the same walk on the same trail every day. Listening to Nirvana and The All-American Rejects on my Nana's porch swing until dark. Flipping through old Seventeen magazines. Playing the same old songs over and over on my guitar, "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" becoming a daily routine. Dieting. Reading. Going for the occasional swim at my grandmother's house. Surfing the Internet at the same time every night, marveling at how dull my life was compared to the lives of the smiling faces on my Facebook News Feed. Thinking so much that I put myself into a bad mood.
I missed the things I had to replace with memories.
But my "summer life" wasn't all bad. Nowadays, I'd do anything to get that simple existence back. It was complete paradise compared to putting up with the rest of the world, and all of its superficial, idiotic occupants.
But that last statement makes me feel a little troubled, even when I write it, because I hate hypocrites.
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