10.28.2009

sometimes homework isn't awful

I’ve seen a lot of things I didn’t know I was seeing.   I’ve missed seeing a lot of things that were right in front of my face, obvious and vital.
I’ve heard some words I never thought I’d hear, waited for words that never came, said a lot of words that meant nothing, and believed too many words that were never spoken.
There are smells that remind me of a single room, of an hour, of a lifetime, of an era.  Songs that make me shiver from the first note, songs I can’t play loud or long enough, songs that smack me in the heart and beat up through my brain.  Music reminds me of certain people, and can make me like them more, or less, in my memory.  It tells me how to feel when I can’t figure out anything in my head.  I can’t remember a time that it wasn’t the most important thing in my world; every kind of music makes me want to dance, with my head or my feet.
I don’t know how people can feel without music.  When I listen to Rhett Miller, I’m in love. Country, I am loved.  Almost always, I am heartbroken.   I can’t hear Brand New and not be sixteen in a Reliant K with speakers so loud they massage my back and fuzzy blue seats I can still feel on my skin, on the way to Taco Bell after a cold night football game, in a sweatshirt that lets the whole school know I’m number seventeen and I’m their hockey star.
I clutch on to these pieces of my history, these symbols, because the real events are too blurred and blended.  I can’t trust my own memory but I can’t deny the lasting value of a few strums of a guitar or a sentence or a summer night and bug bites and falling in love.  I can immerse myself in my own memories for hours and never remember more than a handful of scenes.
I am staring out the window of a rusty red Jeep, watching an imaginary horse with its seven-year-old rider, sometimes no rider, on its grey back, leap over every fence post, car, lawn ornament, motorcycle that blocks its journey through the yards of endless brick row homes. No matter how fast he’s going, he never makes a mistake; he hates trotting in place waiting his turn at the stop sign, but is ready to burst forward when the last car makes its left turn.
I am French fries with gravy and cheesesteaks, or a Filet-o-Fish (which isn’t shark meat) and a Hot Wheels car on a Friday night, every Friday night, watching “Seinfeld” and “All in the Family” and the Orioles when they actually won games.  I am food on my lap on the couch, no conversation.  I am anxious to get away and read my book.
My worried head can never relax—my mother is late getting home from her night job in the city and is too tired to eat the Pop Tart I stayed up to give her, but she does leave me a few sentences in the secret notebook we hide behind the microwave. She is home so I can finally go to bed, and I’ll eat the Pop-Tart in the morning (she likes Cinnamon Toast Crunch—which I always thought was “grown-up cereal”).  I will always worry about something.
My sister and I have a fort in Grandma’s backyard—it’s in a forsythia bush and today, it’s a spaceship.   The bees are all in the honeysuckle bush so we don’t have to worry about stings. Poppy is going to teach us to play poker , and our hands will smell like pennies all afternon because he actually lets us bet with real money.  Grandma made us ham and swiss sandwiches, and hers is the only iced tea I can drink. They are the only babysitters we ever had, and I’m still the best card-shuffler I know. There is no place for television on summer vacation, as long as there is a deck and a woodpile and a partner-in-crime of a twin sister.
I thought I had a perfect childhood when I was in it, and I thought I lived in a charming small town. I never traveled more than a hundred miles away from it until I went to high school, when we packed the car for half a day's ride to see my first hockey game in Pennsylvania.
I left the town with only my ambitions and my education, and realized I had been raised in a very insignificant, undignified, corner of a much larger, more important world.  I will never underestimate anyone again, especially myself.
Now I want to live an adventure, even if every day hurts.
I do everything I do with the intention of being perfect.   I am very, very far from perfect.  I have no idea what other people think of me.
I need summer nights, fall afternoons, long stretches of highway, harbor wind in my hair, football noises in the background, Christmas lights, hot chocolate that comes in packets, big, warm arms around my shoulders, acoustic rock, drums.   I can draw, sing in the car, dance on a stage (and not be afraid), play any sport with a ball, make someone smile if I want to, make handmade greeting cards.  I can’t sing, fake a smile, feign interest, apologize, style my hair, remember a book or a movie after two years, trust, dream enough.  I will write a short novel, run a half-marathon, become fluent in Spanish again, fall in love one more time, never be satisfied.


worth $.99 on itunes: "orange sky" by alexi murdoch.  oh, while you're at it, just get the whole 'away we go' soundtrack.  oh, and watch the movie--it should pretty much be required viewing for anyone ages 20-30.

10.26.2009

heavy boots.

it's leaning too hard on strangers.  laughing or crying too much at fiction or paper or anyone else's life.
almost always feeling like it's about to rain, or feeling like it feels like when it's raining.  squeezing the glove in your pocket and shaking your head, making some movement that isn't moving somewhere or away from somewhere.
feeling constantly on cold fire.  never being warm enough.
never sitting still and never wanting to move.  it's go.  it's far.  it's a piano in the dark.
a look in eyes looking up under eyelashes, a mascarashield from eyes looking back.
the fastest steps still too slow  everything down.