I'm not a paradox, and he's not a paradox, but whatever sort of friendship we have can only be called paradoxical. Really, I wouldn't have it any other way.
"Happy birthday," he says, his arm loosely around my shoulders, just enough affection to keep me from slipping into paranoia, but not enough to really signify anything more.
"It's not my birthday."
"Yes it is. And I got you a present."
"It's not my birthday."
"Shut up and take it."
He sits down abruptly, ending or at least pausing the walk we hadn't decided on taking. I sit down next to him and our shoulders touch, reminding me he's not a phantom and won't disappear in the hasty tapping of the delete key.
"I thought you might like something untraditional," he says, his tone light. He's very good at keeping any emotion but laziness from his voice. I'm not; I don't even know how to try.
"It's not my birthday."
"Would you stop arguing? Or I'll take it back and won't care to see you for awhile."
I know that's a lie, partly because he's too soft-hearted to stay away from me for long. Sometimes the guilt climbs back into my heart and that's when the paranoia plays it's tune, but he'll always end it with a smile because he's sort of amazing like that.
He places a little box into my hand. "Open it!"
"I didn't get you anything."
"Why would you have? You can later. Nothing material though. From you I accept strictly hugs and, on especially thank-worthy occasions, kisses. Now open your present or I'll fall asleep waiting."
"Yes sir."
A few pleasant moments are spent attempting to open the little box and listening to his gentle chatter. He seems to find it necessary to keep a steady stream of words in all the blank spaces when I don't talk.
The box doesn't open and at last I give it back to him and rest my head against his shoulder, because that was maybe even better than a present for my non-birthday.
"No, don't give up, idiot." He kisses the side of my head and puts it back in my hands. "I was having fun and I'm waiting to see how long it will take you to ask me what's in it."
I smile because I can't help it. Right now I don't care what's in it because I'm happy just to be with him, and I don't even care how corny I am.
"Aren't you going to ask?"
I lean my head back and he looks at me, and his eyes are laughing.
"What's in it?"
His arm around my shoulders tightens and when he kisses me I think I might learn how to fly from that feeling.
"Happy birthday."
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Marshmallows
It was an unstable system. It had always been an unstable system. The only constant was inconsistancy, and it burned through all the ropes and bridges I made until I was, once again, falling toward the water.
Carlie was coming home, or at least she said she was. I had re-read every letter she had ever sent me, because she didn't talk to anyone if my family but me. I think she pretended she could trust me just because I was her little naïve sister who didn't understand anything about anything.
Her letters were written hastily, her scrawling handwriting leaving me with only bits and pieces to collect. Sometimes I thought she really did open her mind onto the paper and that's why everything was so disconnected and fragmented ― sort of like our relationship, but that was an analogy I didn't care to explore.
I had recieved roughly one a month for the past three years, with the occasional missed month. She never gave a return address and often vaguely said she'd be coming to visit, "in a while." Assuring me she missed me more than anything, she would sign the letter with a scribble in an attempt to look like she didn't altogether wish to neglect me.
More often that not, she wouldn't come. Even if she promised me she would. The days would go by and I'd get another letter that went on with her stream of consciousness as if she had never broken another vow to me. I kept every one of her letters, and I could have shown them to her if I wanted to make her angry at me, but I forgave and didn't forget quietly, just like we all do.
I got one from her in March, and she said she was coming home. She might bring her unnamed husband, but maybe not, because she was often "out and about," as she so eloquently put it. Carlie never admitted when people she thought she cared about were doing things behind her back. When she didn't care about them, however, all hell was loose and the tears shed were enough to make a lake of anger.
"I miss you, of course," she wrote, in a sentence that took me five whole minutes to decifer. "Try to butter Mom up so she doesn't throw me out, and tell Dad that I'm still his daughter and he can't tell me any differently."
I said nothing to either my mother or my father, and hid the letter away quietly with all the rest.
She showed up on our doorstep at two in the morning, alone and with only one bag, and I was the only one awake. I don't sleep for weeks after she hints that she might visit. I don't want to miss her.
"Hey, baby," she said with her trademark half-smile. "Waiting for me?"
We made popcorn and sat on the couch drinking Mountain Dew and Kool-Aid. She showed me her drawings, telling me why she drew them and what she was feeling and how the feelings related to the picture. They were usually dark and sometimes disturbing, but I found them intruiging and I didn't even mind when the nightmares came, many months later.
"Mom wouldn't like them," Carlie muttered, sliding the pictures back into her bag. We were silent for awhile, and the clock told us that it was five in the morning and soon we'd have to face our parents who would only pretend to be glad to see their eldest daughter.
I fell asleep against Carlie's shoulder and dreamed of lights and pencils and a great blackness that pebbles kept falling into.
Carlie was gone in three days. She left in the middle of the night, after seeing that I was safely in bed and whispering promises of a day together tomorrow. I woke to an empty driveway and empty eyes and a picture of a man drowning in letters.
She had told me that one was her best.
Her letters got more and more sparse, never apologizing for missing my inward calendar or explaining her own demented schedule. From her brief one-sided conversations, I gathered that school was taking over her life and giving her a reason to get away from "him." She pretended she liked it, she pretended she liked to be busy. Sometimes I wondered how lonely she really was.
Thanksgiving came and went by, and it had been three months since my last letter from Carlie. It hardly counted as a letter, it was a postcard with three lines ("Hey baby. I'm gonna drop by next week. Miss you."), and she didn't come. I kept her postcard anyway. The picture on the front was completely black with the word "light" in the low left corner. I started sleeping again.
The phone rang, for me, for the first time since Carlie went away. Carlie used to call me when she stayed the night at her friends' houses, but the phone had been silent for years. My parents didn't use the phone; they viewed it as an impractical and untrustworthy form of communication.
"Hello?"
My voice tipped toward the sky on the second syllable. I was afraid it would be Carlie, Carlie to drag another thing to hope and wait for into my life.
It wasn't Carlie, it was her husband. My stomach spun with unease. I didn't want anything more to change.
He wanted to know if I knew where she was. She was missing from that morning and all her pictures were gone. She didn't leave any notes. I didn't ask how he got my number, but I said I didn't know where she was and hung up before he heard me cry.
I got a letter from Carlie the next week. She explained nothing. It was an actual letter, filled with shattered thoughts and scratched out words. She was complaining about something, and she was angry, but she left the ending the same. "Miss you, baby. See you soon."
Four days later, I woke up to Carlie shaking my shoulder. "Wake up, baby. Carlie's here."
It was three in the morning, but we sat on the floor of my room and talked about pictures and new music and bad music and how high you could stack marshmallows until they tumbled onto the ground, just like a visual representation of my life. I didn't voice that last part, but Carlie said it instead, and we were both quiet for a very, very long time.
"How long will you be here, Carlie?"
"I'm not sure, baby."
Breakfast was uneventful, as my parents weren't up yet. Carlie and I crawled under the blankets and watched stupid shows on the television to plaster our thoughts in an illegible mess on the back of our heads.
"Did he call, baby?"
The lights and images flickered their sad song, the voices blending together into a steady ― consistent ― stream of color. The pile of candy wrappers on the floor breathed and shifted with each turn of the fan, and the warmth of the blanket on my back was one of those fake comforts you wish to banish from your life.
"He called."
Carlie and I shared a look closer to understanding than ever before, and I knew why she sent me letters.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and we went back to gazing at the mind-numbing form of distraction.
"Carlie's here?"
She glanced up and nodded once. My mother's face darkened and she went into the kitchen without a word. And again the television took over.
It was 31 hours later when someone said something wrong and knocked the tower of marshmallows over. I sat with my knees pulled to my chin, just around the corner, too petrified to go try to collect them and build another tower.
My mother's voice scraped the ceiling.
"Why did you come back? Your man not good enough for you? Finally figured that out, did you?"
"I don't need you telling me how I've ruined my life, Mom."
"I warned you." She swore. "Didn't think I had the experience?"
"I don't want to hear about your mistakes."
Their voices rose, swirling in bloody ribbons through that horrible black river of silence. My mother's voice had tears in it, slipping down her face to join the rest that were on the floor, best friends with the broken glass and alcohol. Carlie never cried. Carlie never drank. Carlie was the perfect imperfect and my mother didn't stand a chance.
I don't know how long they shouted. I crawled away from the door and vomitted nothing into the toilet. My lip was bleeding from where I bit it open and my mouth tasted like every word my mother and Carlie exchanged.
"Baby."
There were too many marshmallows on the floor... no way it was every going to be my beautiful tower again.
"Hey. Look at me."
It would be nice if everything was dark. Just dark. And quiet. So I wouldn't have to think about anything ever again.
"You okay?"
No more marshmallows. No more bridges, no more ropes, nothing to fall and crash to pieces.
"I'm leaving."
"Please don't."
The silence between us stretched out and I wondered if it would snap back at me and sting. A thousand hands in my stomach pressed burning coals into my throat, but I wouldn't open my mouth again for fear I'd lose more than what's in there.
"Come on, baby."
Her car was waiting, and my mother was readily comforted by those darkened bottles of false consolation. Carlie grabbed the chocolate and I sat in the front seat. Maybe we would make a new marshmallow tower.
Carlie was coming home, or at least she said she was. I had re-read every letter she had ever sent me, because she didn't talk to anyone if my family but me. I think she pretended she could trust me just because I was her little naïve sister who didn't understand anything about anything.
Her letters were written hastily, her scrawling handwriting leaving me with only bits and pieces to collect. Sometimes I thought she really did open her mind onto the paper and that's why everything was so disconnected and fragmented ― sort of like our relationship, but that was an analogy I didn't care to explore.
I had recieved roughly one a month for the past three years, with the occasional missed month. She never gave a return address and often vaguely said she'd be coming to visit, "in a while." Assuring me she missed me more than anything, she would sign the letter with a scribble in an attempt to look like she didn't altogether wish to neglect me.
More often that not, she wouldn't come. Even if she promised me she would. The days would go by and I'd get another letter that went on with her stream of consciousness as if she had never broken another vow to me. I kept every one of her letters, and I could have shown them to her if I wanted to make her angry at me, but I forgave and didn't forget quietly, just like we all do.
I got one from her in March, and she said she was coming home. She might bring her unnamed husband, but maybe not, because she was often "out and about," as she so eloquently put it. Carlie never admitted when people she thought she cared about were doing things behind her back. When she didn't care about them, however, all hell was loose and the tears shed were enough to make a lake of anger.
"I miss you, of course," she wrote, in a sentence that took me five whole minutes to decifer. "Try to butter Mom up so she doesn't throw me out, and tell Dad that I'm still his daughter and he can't tell me any differently."
I said nothing to either my mother or my father, and hid the letter away quietly with all the rest.
She showed up on our doorstep at two in the morning, alone and with only one bag, and I was the only one awake. I don't sleep for weeks after she hints that she might visit. I don't want to miss her.
"Hey, baby," she said with her trademark half-smile. "Waiting for me?"
We made popcorn and sat on the couch drinking Mountain Dew and Kool-Aid. She showed me her drawings, telling me why she drew them and what she was feeling and how the feelings related to the picture. They were usually dark and sometimes disturbing, but I found them intruiging and I didn't even mind when the nightmares came, many months later.
"Mom wouldn't like them," Carlie muttered, sliding the pictures back into her bag. We were silent for awhile, and the clock told us that it was five in the morning and soon we'd have to face our parents who would only pretend to be glad to see their eldest daughter.
I fell asleep against Carlie's shoulder and dreamed of lights and pencils and a great blackness that pebbles kept falling into.
Carlie was gone in three days. She left in the middle of the night, after seeing that I was safely in bed and whispering promises of a day together tomorrow. I woke to an empty driveway and empty eyes and a picture of a man drowning in letters.
She had told me that one was her best.
Her letters got more and more sparse, never apologizing for missing my inward calendar or explaining her own demented schedule. From her brief one-sided conversations, I gathered that school was taking over her life and giving her a reason to get away from "him." She pretended she liked it, she pretended she liked to be busy. Sometimes I wondered how lonely she really was.
Thanksgiving came and went by, and it had been three months since my last letter from Carlie. It hardly counted as a letter, it was a postcard with three lines ("Hey baby. I'm gonna drop by next week. Miss you."), and she didn't come. I kept her postcard anyway. The picture on the front was completely black with the word "light" in the low left corner. I started sleeping again.
The phone rang, for me, for the first time since Carlie went away. Carlie used to call me when she stayed the night at her friends' houses, but the phone had been silent for years. My parents didn't use the phone; they viewed it as an impractical and untrustworthy form of communication.
"Hello?"
My voice tipped toward the sky on the second syllable. I was afraid it would be Carlie, Carlie to drag another thing to hope and wait for into my life.
It wasn't Carlie, it was her husband. My stomach spun with unease. I didn't want anything more to change.
He wanted to know if I knew where she was. She was missing from that morning and all her pictures were gone. She didn't leave any notes. I didn't ask how he got my number, but I said I didn't know where she was and hung up before he heard me cry.
I got a letter from Carlie the next week. She explained nothing. It was an actual letter, filled with shattered thoughts and scratched out words. She was complaining about something, and she was angry, but she left the ending the same. "Miss you, baby. See you soon."
Four days later, I woke up to Carlie shaking my shoulder. "Wake up, baby. Carlie's here."
It was three in the morning, but we sat on the floor of my room and talked about pictures and new music and bad music and how high you could stack marshmallows until they tumbled onto the ground, just like a visual representation of my life. I didn't voice that last part, but Carlie said it instead, and we were both quiet for a very, very long time.
"How long will you be here, Carlie?"
"I'm not sure, baby."
Breakfast was uneventful, as my parents weren't up yet. Carlie and I crawled under the blankets and watched stupid shows on the television to plaster our thoughts in an illegible mess on the back of our heads.
"Did he call, baby?"
The lights and images flickered their sad song, the voices blending together into a steady ― consistent ― stream of color. The pile of candy wrappers on the floor breathed and shifted with each turn of the fan, and the warmth of the blanket on my back was one of those fake comforts you wish to banish from your life.
"He called."
Carlie and I shared a look closer to understanding than ever before, and I knew why she sent me letters.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and we went back to gazing at the mind-numbing form of distraction.
"Carlie's here?"
She glanced up and nodded once. My mother's face darkened and she went into the kitchen without a word. And again the television took over.
It was 31 hours later when someone said something wrong and knocked the tower of marshmallows over. I sat with my knees pulled to my chin, just around the corner, too petrified to go try to collect them and build another tower.
My mother's voice scraped the ceiling.
"Why did you come back? Your man not good enough for you? Finally figured that out, did you?"
"I don't need you telling me how I've ruined my life, Mom."
"I warned you." She swore. "Didn't think I had the experience?"
"I don't want to hear about your mistakes."
Their voices rose, swirling in bloody ribbons through that horrible black river of silence. My mother's voice had tears in it, slipping down her face to join the rest that were on the floor, best friends with the broken glass and alcohol. Carlie never cried. Carlie never drank. Carlie was the perfect imperfect and my mother didn't stand a chance.
I don't know how long they shouted. I crawled away from the door and vomitted nothing into the toilet. My lip was bleeding from where I bit it open and my mouth tasted like every word my mother and Carlie exchanged.
"Baby."
There were too many marshmallows on the floor... no way it was every going to be my beautiful tower again.
"Hey. Look at me."
It would be nice if everything was dark. Just dark. And quiet. So I wouldn't have to think about anything ever again.
"You okay?"
No more marshmallows. No more bridges, no more ropes, nothing to fall and crash to pieces.
"I'm leaving."
"Please don't."
The silence between us stretched out and I wondered if it would snap back at me and sting. A thousand hands in my stomach pressed burning coals into my throat, but I wouldn't open my mouth again for fear I'd lose more than what's in there.
"Come on, baby."
Her car was waiting, and my mother was readily comforted by those darkened bottles of false consolation. Carlie grabbed the chocolate and I sat in the front seat. Maybe we would make a new marshmallow tower.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Late
It all seems so repetitive. Art is a mystery; an ever-changing mystery, and once I knew how to understand it, manipulate it, express it... But I've lost that, I've lost it along with the naivety I used to treasure so much.
The shoebox beneath my bed is full of letters, unsent, unread. So many words, phrases, conflicts. So much of that mysterious art I no longer know how to interpret. They send me letters, they give me presents, they flaunt their skills and beg me to critique them. But no. I can't. For my own skill has been used and used again, and I've fallen off the cliff and shattered on the rocks.
And I've got twenty minutes to try once again to force my talent back onto the page and make it into something that maybe someone can understand. Just maybe.
Those little paper daggers do little damage, and my little paper bandages cover those burns in vain. I never write back; what would I say?
"I love this style of yours."
"My style is like the shape of my face. I had no part in its design. It is strange that you would compliment me for something I did not create."
"What inspired this incredible piece?"
"What sort of question is that? If I told you what went through my mind when I started it, you would laugh and wink at me. If I told you what I was thinking when I ended it, you wouldn't understand. I don't write about what inspires me. I write what I feel."
"Give me ideas, tips, anything."
"I have no new advice. I am not a god. All I have are the words of any skilled person: do it again and again and again, even when you are sick to the stomach of this never ending chore. It is impossible to love without some irritation."
"Talk to me."
"About what? Silence is a better choice. Go practice your dreaded chore and come when you have words and seek disregard."
"I want your attention."
"My mind is full."
And the ink flows back into those cheerfully white envelopes, and the smell of coffee entices the work of the lazy. Thoughts are a tedious chore and I don't know why I try anymore. Why do I try?
Because words are the only thing that frees me when I am alone. When everyone else has gone to sleep or gone to work, and I must make angels in my mind to keep me company, just so I can spend one more night without tears. They glue me back together when I fall off the shelf and all the king's horses and all the king's men shy away at my broken body. I break into so many shards that I don't know how to make this puzzle work anymore... loneliness makes a garden out of everything I am missing.
And yet it is so temporary. Sometimes I still just want a hug.
The shoebox beneath my bed is full of letters, unsent, unread. So many words, phrases, conflicts. So much of that mysterious art I no longer know how to interpret. They send me letters, they give me presents, they flaunt their skills and beg me to critique them. But no. I can't. For my own skill has been used and used again, and I've fallen off the cliff and shattered on the rocks.
And I've got twenty minutes to try once again to force my talent back onto the page and make it into something that maybe someone can understand. Just maybe.
Those little paper daggers do little damage, and my little paper bandages cover those burns in vain. I never write back; what would I say?
"I love this style of yours."
"My style is like the shape of my face. I had no part in its design. It is strange that you would compliment me for something I did not create."
"What inspired this incredible piece?"
"What sort of question is that? If I told you what went through my mind when I started it, you would laugh and wink at me. If I told you what I was thinking when I ended it, you wouldn't understand. I don't write about what inspires me. I write what I feel."
"Give me ideas, tips, anything."
"I have no new advice. I am not a god. All I have are the words of any skilled person: do it again and again and again, even when you are sick to the stomach of this never ending chore. It is impossible to love without some irritation."
"Talk to me."
"About what? Silence is a better choice. Go practice your dreaded chore and come when you have words and seek disregard."
"I want your attention."
"My mind is full."
And the ink flows back into those cheerfully white envelopes, and the smell of coffee entices the work of the lazy. Thoughts are a tedious chore and I don't know why I try anymore. Why do I try?
Because words are the only thing that frees me when I am alone. When everyone else has gone to sleep or gone to work, and I must make angels in my mind to keep me company, just so I can spend one more night without tears. They glue me back together when I fall off the shelf and all the king's horses and all the king's men shy away at my broken body. I break into so many shards that I don't know how to make this puzzle work anymore... loneliness makes a garden out of everything I am missing.
And yet it is so temporary. Sometimes I still just want a hug.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
How To Laugh
Silence is never silent. If anything, my mind gets louder as everything else gets quieter. That's when all those nameless characters in my head start clawing at the walls of my mind, bent on escaping onto paper or computer so they can be real and keep the loneliness away. And that's when the headache starts.
The ground is uncomfortably uneven, but I am too lazy to switch positions or shake those annoying ants off my clothes. It's also rather cold, and the sky looks like it's ready to cry on me at any moment, but I'm not about to go back home. Sometimes being alone is the easiest way to dull how much I miss you.
I miss you. The words shimmer and cringe behind my eyes, and I'm both disappointed and amused. It's not really fair to miss you. I just like you too much. Maybe if you were more disagreeable, I wouldn't miss you so much, and then I wouldn't have to bite my tongue off every time I see you, for fear I'll blurt out how much I longed to see you this week.
If I said that once, it wouldn't be that big of a deal. But no, I'd tell you every time, and then you might think I'm annoying and clingy and then I'd be the disagreeable one.
A drop of rain falls on my forehead and I jump. Rain is a distraction, an interesting diversion from the dryness of life. Only that's a bad analogy, because my life isn't dry; in fact, it's already interesting without the rain. It's cold out here though, and the rain makes it worse.
But I'm not getting up, because I'm lazy.
You're getting back today or tomorrow. I was hoping it is today, but then I remembered you'll be tired and jet-lagged and so I should leave you alone. I put my hands behind my head and close my eyes. I'm going to be so muddy after this.
The characters in my head are starting to get desperate. I have no paper and no computer and I don't know how to appease them. I don't need the ideas they are begging me to use; I've written hundreds of things, I've been in the paper, in magazines, published online. I don't need new ideas. I have plenty.
And I miss you.
I laugh out loud as that thought comes flitting back over my stream of consciousness. How is it you take over my mind so much? It's so cliché I almost hate it. But I don't. I like you, and I like thinking about you. You could be rid of me if you were more disagreeable. I smile.
The rain is steady now, and bitterly cold. I begin talking out loud to appease the clamor inside my mind. The voices jump ahead and back and forth, conversing, and I let them. It's easier than copying them down, because sometimes I am tired of the fantasies I create, the fantasies I cannot enter into.
The ground is getting softer, and for some reason that makes me laugh and all the little people and voices get quiet to listen. Laughing is the easiest way to get rid of them. They'll come back, but sometimes, I like to be without them.
Although, sometimes I need them because they stop me from missing you. But maybe missing you is alright. I smile and keep my eyes closed because it's raining on my face. The cold feels good for once, which is surprising, but not unappreciated.
I sit up. I wish you were here just so I could have a hug. But you probably wouldn't want to hug me since I've been lying in the grass in the rain.
"I miss you," I say aloud.
Someone laughs behind me. I stand up and you pick me up and spin me around, and it didn't matter that it's raining and I'm all wet and cold.
"I missed you too."
And I laugh.
The ground is uncomfortably uneven, but I am too lazy to switch positions or shake those annoying ants off my clothes. It's also rather cold, and the sky looks like it's ready to cry on me at any moment, but I'm not about to go back home. Sometimes being alone is the easiest way to dull how much I miss you.
I miss you. The words shimmer and cringe behind my eyes, and I'm both disappointed and amused. It's not really fair to miss you. I just like you too much. Maybe if you were more disagreeable, I wouldn't miss you so much, and then I wouldn't have to bite my tongue off every time I see you, for fear I'll blurt out how much I longed to see you this week.
If I said that once, it wouldn't be that big of a deal. But no, I'd tell you every time, and then you might think I'm annoying and clingy and then I'd be the disagreeable one.
A drop of rain falls on my forehead and I jump. Rain is a distraction, an interesting diversion from the dryness of life. Only that's a bad analogy, because my life isn't dry; in fact, it's already interesting without the rain. It's cold out here though, and the rain makes it worse.
But I'm not getting up, because I'm lazy.
You're getting back today or tomorrow. I was hoping it is today, but then I remembered you'll be tired and jet-lagged and so I should leave you alone. I put my hands behind my head and close my eyes. I'm going to be so muddy after this.
The characters in my head are starting to get desperate. I have no paper and no computer and I don't know how to appease them. I don't need the ideas they are begging me to use; I've written hundreds of things, I've been in the paper, in magazines, published online. I don't need new ideas. I have plenty.
And I miss you.
I laugh out loud as that thought comes flitting back over my stream of consciousness. How is it you take over my mind so much? It's so cliché I almost hate it. But I don't. I like you, and I like thinking about you. You could be rid of me if you were more disagreeable. I smile.
The rain is steady now, and bitterly cold. I begin talking out loud to appease the clamor inside my mind. The voices jump ahead and back and forth, conversing, and I let them. It's easier than copying them down, because sometimes I am tired of the fantasies I create, the fantasies I cannot enter into.
The ground is getting softer, and for some reason that makes me laugh and all the little people and voices get quiet to listen. Laughing is the easiest way to get rid of them. They'll come back, but sometimes, I like to be without them.
Although, sometimes I need them because they stop me from missing you. But maybe missing you is alright. I smile and keep my eyes closed because it's raining on my face. The cold feels good for once, which is surprising, but not unappreciated.
I sit up. I wish you were here just so I could have a hug. But you probably wouldn't want to hug me since I've been lying in the grass in the rain.
"I miss you," I say aloud.
Someone laughs behind me. I stand up and you pick me up and spin me around, and it didn't matter that it's raining and I'm all wet and cold.
"I missed you too."
And I laugh.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Monday Nights
You were always taller than me. So much taller, and I would have to stand on my tiptoes if I ever hugged you around the neck.
My ADD is a constant companion, especially on nights when I need to get something done. Tonight it's math, and tonight it's not really night but very early morning. Maybe three. Maybe later. It's been one hour since I stopped being tired, and I have an hour at best until the caffeine crash kicks in. Math. Focus. Math.
I write down a formula. Something simple. "A squared plus B squares equals C squared." I have to replace the variables with constants, like how you mix ingredients together to make cookies. I ate all the cookies already. I was thinking ahead this time, I made cookies a half hour before I remembered the math I hadn't done. I smile, wondering if you'd be proud of me making cookies before even knowing I needed them.
Math.
Math is one of those subjects that gets increasingly hard to concentrate on the later it gets. Some things you can just mindlessly copy down and pretend you aren't plagiarizing anything. Plagiarism? No, I didn't plagiarized anything. Why would you ask? It's too hard to spell, much less accomplish...
Concentration doesn't happen often enough for me to plagiarize anyway. I just make things up. They're far more interesting my way.
Math...
Find three consecutive multiples of 4... this isn't even hard math. I blame my current distraction on the old grandfather clock that's ticking away cheerfully as if it doesn't know I'm trying very hard to do my math. Math is hard enough to do without that tick-tick-tick back there. The first tick is louder than the second and they alternate, back and forth, back and forth, like a sort of gong destined to drive me insane.
Yesterday I spent an hour and a half in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out how to raise my right eyebrow.
The clock rings at me to tell me it's three thirty in the morning. The noise startles me and I drop my pencil under the desk. While I am searching in the dark for my pencil, I come across my phone which I lost three days ago. Once you called me while I was doing math and you were bored and I was trying very hard not to say something ADDish. But you said something about height, and I burst out with my thoughts on being short and hugging you. And I made you laugh.
I find my pencil and crawl back into my chair. My caffeine is wearing off and I try very hard not to fall asleep on my books. Math. Math. Math. The grandfather clock starts ticking to those four letters, and this amuses me for awhile and I forget about my math.
Its sort of funny how easily I am distracted. Having ADD helps me laugh at my ADD. I don't know why. I rarely make sense. But I am never bored with myself, even if I can't hold a conversation for more than three sentences.
Math!
I notice with surprise I only have to work one more problem. No more cookies, no more caffeine, and I'm so relieved to finally sleep that I don't care about the three hours of sleep I'll get.
This makes me laugh.
My ADD is a constant companion, especially on nights when I need to get something done. Tonight it's math, and tonight it's not really night but very early morning. Maybe three. Maybe later. It's been one hour since I stopped being tired, and I have an hour at best until the caffeine crash kicks in. Math. Focus. Math.
I write down a formula. Something simple. "A squared plus B squares equals C squared." I have to replace the variables with constants, like how you mix ingredients together to make cookies. I ate all the cookies already. I was thinking ahead this time, I made cookies a half hour before I remembered the math I hadn't done. I smile, wondering if you'd be proud of me making cookies before even knowing I needed them.
Math.
Math is one of those subjects that gets increasingly hard to concentrate on the later it gets. Some things you can just mindlessly copy down and pretend you aren't plagiarizing anything. Plagiarism? No, I didn't plagiarized anything. Why would you ask? It's too hard to spell, much less accomplish...
Concentration doesn't happen often enough for me to plagiarize anyway. I just make things up. They're far more interesting my way.
Math...
Find three consecutive multiples of 4... this isn't even hard math. I blame my current distraction on the old grandfather clock that's ticking away cheerfully as if it doesn't know I'm trying very hard to do my math. Math is hard enough to do without that tick-tick-tick back there. The first tick is louder than the second and they alternate, back and forth, back and forth, like a sort of gong destined to drive me insane.
Yesterday I spent an hour and a half in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out how to raise my right eyebrow.
The clock rings at me to tell me it's three thirty in the morning. The noise startles me and I drop my pencil under the desk. While I am searching in the dark for my pencil, I come across my phone which I lost three days ago. Once you called me while I was doing math and you were bored and I was trying very hard not to say something ADDish. But you said something about height, and I burst out with my thoughts on being short and hugging you. And I made you laugh.
I find my pencil and crawl back into my chair. My caffeine is wearing off and I try very hard not to fall asleep on my books. Math. Math. Math. The grandfather clock starts ticking to those four letters, and this amuses me for awhile and I forget about my math.
Its sort of funny how easily I am distracted. Having ADD helps me laugh at my ADD. I don't know why. I rarely make sense. But I am never bored with myself, even if I can't hold a conversation for more than three sentences.
Math!
I notice with surprise I only have to work one more problem. No more cookies, no more caffeine, and I'm so relieved to finally sleep that I don't care about the three hours of sleep I'll get.
This makes me laugh.
And Counting
It's been three hours since I last saw you, three hours since I said goodbye again. Three long hours, three short hours since you disappeared around the corner with a smile. I hate that corner, you know, because you always go around it and then I don't see you.
It's been two and a half days since we went to see that old black and white film, and we were the only two in the theater. Two and a half days since we sat with your arm around me, shouting at the bad acting of those timeful characters, and laughed. We laughed. Remember that? It felt good to laugh.
It's been a day less than a week since we walked all the way up to the top of the hill, the hill that overlooks everything and anything lovely and ugly. You can see the entire city, but the city's not very big, and it makes you feel lost in some sort of matrix that you can't escape from. It's been a day less than a week since I couldn't find my heavy coat, and I went anyway even though it was almost below zero. A day less than a week since you told me if I didn't take your coat, you'd have to hold me close until I was warm enough to walk back down. A day less than a week since I didn't take your coat.
It's been two weeks and three days since you came back from that eternity of a week. Two weeks and three days since I spent so long convincing myself it was alright to miss you. Two weeks and three days since you came the other way around the corner, and I have never loved that corner more.
It's been just a month since you held my hand and we ran along the river until I couldn't breathe anymore. Just a month since I leaned against your chest and you kissed my forehead. Just a month since you pushed me into the river and then declared your undying love while watching me struggle back to shore. I like your laugh.
It's been fifty-seven days since you kissed me for the first time.
It's been seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day happened. Seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day, standing in front of the video store, waiting for it to open. Seventeen weeks since I stood on tiptoe and impulsively kissed your cheek. Seventeen weeks since you turned around and picked me up and hugged me so tight, just because I kissed you.
It's been three thousand, eight hundred sixty-four hours since you came around that corner just to say you missed me.
It's been four hundred fifty-three thousand six hundred minutes since we held hands for the first time, at a concert for some band that was horrible. But I didn't mind.
It's been four hundred ninety days since I found out you loved me. And four hundred eighty-three days since I told you I loved you.
And it's been 2.37 years, 856.05 days, 20,761.2 hours, 1,245,672 minutes since you came around the corner. 123 weeks since you smiled at me for the first time.
Only fourteen hours till I get to see you again...
It's been two and a half days since we went to see that old black and white film, and we were the only two in the theater. Two and a half days since we sat with your arm around me, shouting at the bad acting of those timeful characters, and laughed. We laughed. Remember that? It felt good to laugh.
It's been a day less than a week since we walked all the way up to the top of the hill, the hill that overlooks everything and anything lovely and ugly. You can see the entire city, but the city's not very big, and it makes you feel lost in some sort of matrix that you can't escape from. It's been a day less than a week since I couldn't find my heavy coat, and I went anyway even though it was almost below zero. A day less than a week since you told me if I didn't take your coat, you'd have to hold me close until I was warm enough to walk back down. A day less than a week since I didn't take your coat.
It's been two weeks and three days since you came back from that eternity of a week. Two weeks and three days since I spent so long convincing myself it was alright to miss you. Two weeks and three days since you came the other way around the corner, and I have never loved that corner more.
It's been just a month since you held my hand and we ran along the river until I couldn't breathe anymore. Just a month since I leaned against your chest and you kissed my forehead. Just a month since you pushed me into the river and then declared your undying love while watching me struggle back to shore. I like your laugh.
It's been fifty-seven days since you kissed me for the first time.
It's been seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day happened. Seventeen weeks since a perfectly normal day, standing in front of the video store, waiting for it to open. Seventeen weeks since I stood on tiptoe and impulsively kissed your cheek. Seventeen weeks since you turned around and picked me up and hugged me so tight, just because I kissed you.
It's been three thousand, eight hundred sixty-four hours since you came around that corner just to say you missed me.
It's been four hundred fifty-three thousand six hundred minutes since we held hands for the first time, at a concert for some band that was horrible. But I didn't mind.
It's been four hundred ninety days since I found out you loved me. And four hundred eighty-three days since I told you I loved you.
And it's been 2.37 years, 856.05 days, 20,761.2 hours, 1,245,672 minutes since you came around the corner. 123 weeks since you smiled at me for the first time.
Only fourteen hours till I get to see you again...
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The Words We Don't Say
It's sunny today. It's so painfully bright, but I can't close my eyes because the sky is the most nostalgic shade of blue and those stupid clouds are like memories that won't go away. The grass holds me like I sometimes wish you would. It keeps me from sinking into the dirt and it prevents my heart from running away.
This is my favorite place to be. I feel so small and intimidated, like at any time I could be crushed by the giant foot of significance. I feel unimportant and unrecognized, flat on my back staring at those hideously beautiful clouds. The sky is so big, you know. So many places without memories.
I like how you always make me come out here when I have a meltdown and can't stop crying. I lay down on the grass and clench those pleasant green blades and stare. You sit next to me for awhile and you don't say anything until I've calmed down enough to talk.
The first two words I say are always the same. It takes such effort to male my voice work again, and my eyes are red and swollen from the unstoppable crying. I am so ugly right now. But it doesn't really matter, because I'm so small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized.
"I'm sorry."
You stretch out on the grass next to me, the sides of our heads almost touching, our bodies at a forty degree angle. I hold onto the grass tighter because it's not fair to miss you when you're right beside me. The endless game plays over in my mind, I debate saying so many things. You ask me what's wrong, what if I told you I miss you so much it tightens my stomach into a twisted lump, every time I let myself remember laughing with you? You ask me to tell you why I'm crying, what if I told you it's because I'm so, so, so afraid of nothing?
Every day is a constant battle of repressing my feelings, because I don't want you to know how much every word you say to me means. I get disgusted with myself, because I hate clichés and recently I've been such a walking cliché machine. I hate the idea that I'm like every other teenage girl who has ever loved a boy. Sometimes I want to be different, just so you'll never find anyone else quite like me.
But it doesn't really matter. I'm small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized... and so ugly today.
I realize tears are sliding from my eyes, and they tickle my cheek as they fall away. Out of the corner of my vision I can see you watching me.
"What's wrong?"
Oh, I hate your voice. It makes me want to laugh and cry and tell you everything that hurts me. It makes me feel loved and protected and cared for, it makes me feel special and beautiful, and all the things I know I'm not.
I bite my lip almost hard enough to draw blood, because the pain is a distraction from the horrible humiliating tears coming from my eyes. I wish I had no eyes, because then I couldn't cry and then I would never be ugly because of all my crying.
I wonder if it hurts you when I avoid answering when you ask me what's wrong. I wonder if you know it's not because I don't want to tell you, but because I don't know how to make the words mean anything and I don't want to irritate you with my rambles about all the things I do to make it easier. I wonder if you know that sometimes I cry simply when you say goodbye, because I wanted to say so much but I couldn't and I don't want you to leave.
And sometimes I wonder if it annoys you that I cry so often, and if it would annoy you more if you knew every time I cried. And other times I wonder if it's possible that I could be respected for my excessive crying.
Sometimes I wonder if you think I should be stronger. Sometimes I wonder if I ever help you. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I went away. Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?
"Hey."
I close my eyes and bite my lip harder. My face flames as you slide your hand into mine. Just like the first time we held hands. My face was burning, but my heart was in heaven.
"Is that out of guilt?" My voice is low and broken. I hate my voice after I've been crying. Everything about me is horrible when I cry.
"No." You tighten your hold and I wonder why that makes me want to start crying again. "No, Ellie. I want to."
I force my ugly, red eyes open again, but I don't trust myself to look at you. Your fingers run over mine and my face burns but maybe, maybe, maybe you missed me...
The sky is still so blue, and I hate it. No, I love it. Pain swirls in my lip and the sunlight makes my insignificance more defined. The clouds float by and I have the urge to blow them all away.
"Don't cry anymore, Ellie," you say, quietly, earnestly, like you're afraid to wake me up. "Please don't cry anymore."
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Ellie."
The pressure on my lip increases, but there still is no blood. I realize I am gripping your hand as tightly as I hold onto the grass, and out of shock I start to let go. You tighten your hold and I stop biting my lip.
You sit up and pull me up beside you. Our shoulders brush gently and the feeling in my stomach explodes. I could be sick from relief. My tiny hand still rests inside yours, and for some cliché reason that I don't hate so much, I feel so incredibly safe right now.
"Tell me what's wrong, Ellie."
I allow myself a glance at your face, and I want to tell you. You watch me quietly, keeping my hand safe inside yours.
The words come, those terrible words I was so afraid of releasing. The pain of trusting is countered with the happiness of trusting and I don't know when I started to cry. I force my voice over the hurt in my throat and keep talking, and you listen and you don't tell me to stop crying.
"Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?"
I lose my voice to just a whisper, and as the last words come you put your arms around me and I rest my head against your chest and try very hard to stop crying. You hold me close, just like the grass, and for some reason you don't need to say anything.
You have a funny way of making bad days just a little bit better, and making life just a little less unhappy, and making a smile come just that much quicker. And you make me feel so special and significant and important and recognized, all those things I must be to you, just by holding me close sometimes.
The sky is such a nostalgic shade of blue, and those clouds floating by are like memories, and I don't say I love you but you know I do.
This is my favorite place to be. I feel so small and intimidated, like at any time I could be crushed by the giant foot of significance. I feel unimportant and unrecognized, flat on my back staring at those hideously beautiful clouds. The sky is so big, you know. So many places without memories.
I like how you always make me come out here when I have a meltdown and can't stop crying. I lay down on the grass and clench those pleasant green blades and stare. You sit next to me for awhile and you don't say anything until I've calmed down enough to talk.
The first two words I say are always the same. It takes such effort to male my voice work again, and my eyes are red and swollen from the unstoppable crying. I am so ugly right now. But it doesn't really matter, because I'm so small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized.
"I'm sorry."
You stretch out on the grass next to me, the sides of our heads almost touching, our bodies at a forty degree angle. I hold onto the grass tighter because it's not fair to miss you when you're right beside me. The endless game plays over in my mind, I debate saying so many things. You ask me what's wrong, what if I told you I miss you so much it tightens my stomach into a twisted lump, every time I let myself remember laughing with you? You ask me to tell you why I'm crying, what if I told you it's because I'm so, so, so afraid of nothing?
Every day is a constant battle of repressing my feelings, because I don't want you to know how much every word you say to me means. I get disgusted with myself, because I hate clichés and recently I've been such a walking cliché machine. I hate the idea that I'm like every other teenage girl who has ever loved a boy. Sometimes I want to be different, just so you'll never find anyone else quite like me.
But it doesn't really matter. I'm small and intimidated and unimportant and unrecognized... and so ugly today.
I realize tears are sliding from my eyes, and they tickle my cheek as they fall away. Out of the corner of my vision I can see you watching me.
"What's wrong?"
Oh, I hate your voice. It makes me want to laugh and cry and tell you everything that hurts me. It makes me feel loved and protected and cared for, it makes me feel special and beautiful, and all the things I know I'm not.
I bite my lip almost hard enough to draw blood, because the pain is a distraction from the horrible humiliating tears coming from my eyes. I wish I had no eyes, because then I couldn't cry and then I would never be ugly because of all my crying.
I wonder if it hurts you when I avoid answering when you ask me what's wrong. I wonder if you know it's not because I don't want to tell you, but because I don't know how to make the words mean anything and I don't want to irritate you with my rambles about all the things I do to make it easier. I wonder if you know that sometimes I cry simply when you say goodbye, because I wanted to say so much but I couldn't and I don't want you to leave.
And sometimes I wonder if it annoys you that I cry so often, and if it would annoy you more if you knew every time I cried. And other times I wonder if it's possible that I could be respected for my excessive crying.
Sometimes I wonder if you think I should be stronger. Sometimes I wonder if I ever help you. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I went away. Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?
"Hey."
I close my eyes and bite my lip harder. My face flames as you slide your hand into mine. Just like the first time we held hands. My face was burning, but my heart was in heaven.
"Is that out of guilt?" My voice is low and broken. I hate my voice after I've been crying. Everything about me is horrible when I cry.
"No." You tighten your hold and I wonder why that makes me want to start crying again. "No, Ellie. I want to."
I force my ugly, red eyes open again, but I don't trust myself to look at you. Your fingers run over mine and my face burns but maybe, maybe, maybe you missed me...
The sky is still so blue, and I hate it. No, I love it. Pain swirls in my lip and the sunlight makes my insignificance more defined. The clouds float by and I have the urge to blow them all away.
"Don't cry anymore, Ellie," you say, quietly, earnestly, like you're afraid to wake me up. "Please don't cry anymore."
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"Ellie."
The pressure on my lip increases, but there still is no blood. I realize I am gripping your hand as tightly as I hold onto the grass, and out of shock I start to let go. You tighten your hold and I stop biting my lip.
You sit up and pull me up beside you. Our shoulders brush gently and the feeling in my stomach explodes. I could be sick from relief. My tiny hand still rests inside yours, and for some cliché reason that I don't hate so much, I feel so incredibly safe right now.
"Tell me what's wrong, Ellie."
I allow myself a glance at your face, and I want to tell you. You watch me quietly, keeping my hand safe inside yours.
The words come, those terrible words I was so afraid of releasing. The pain of trusting is countered with the happiness of trusting and I don't know when I started to cry. I force my voice over the hurt in my throat and keep talking, and you listen and you don't tell me to stop crying.
"Would you miss me then as much as I miss you now?"
I lose my voice to just a whisper, and as the last words come you put your arms around me and I rest my head against your chest and try very hard to stop crying. You hold me close, just like the grass, and for some reason you don't need to say anything.
You have a funny way of making bad days just a little bit better, and making life just a little less unhappy, and making a smile come just that much quicker. And you make me feel so special and significant and important and recognized, all those things I must be to you, just by holding me close sometimes.
The sky is such a nostalgic shade of blue, and those clouds floating by are like memories, and I don't say I love you but you know I do.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Strawberries
My favorite berry was always a strawberry. I hated the flavor. I hated the color. I hated the way they looked, all covered in those ugly little seeds. But it was my favorite berry.
I used to sit outside in the lawn with a bowl of strawberries and a bowl of sugar. I wouldn't eat the strawberries. I hated them. I ate the sugar.
You used to come and you'd eat the strawberries and I'd eat the sugar and you'd tell me about college. "It's fun," you'd say. "I like it."
I think you liked college the same way I liked strawberries.
The first day you left for college I asked you if you would ever come back. I couldn't see you getting in that car and leaving me forever. You laughed and pulled my hair and told me you'd always be back. "I'll always come back for you," you told me.
I cried the day you left and Nana couldn't make me eat and Papa couldn't make me sleep and I sat outside with my strawberries and wished someone was there to eat them.
Strawberries have an ugly color. Red. Red is the color of blood, of hate, of anger, of rage. It's the color of smashing my fingers in the car door. It's the color of squashed cats under car tires. It's the color of despising someone's very insides. It's the color of scars and of burning.
It's not the color of love because love isn't red. Love is blue or green or gray. Not red.
I counted every day you were gone at college. I wrote them up my arms and down my legs and over my face. My birthday was on the 167th day and I ate sugar and flattened strawberries under my bare feet.
Papa was angry when he saw the strawberries and he took away my paper and I went outside and screamed...
You called me late at night and said happy birthday.
I remember your birthday because it was exactly 203 days after mine and 167 plus 203 is 390. Nana said I did useless math but I did it for sanity's sake and I don't know what she meant but I know I had to. I had to count and add or I'd scream. You used to help me count the strawberries and all the seeds on them.
You came home for the holidays and I sat in the snow with my strawberries and I told you how much I hated them.
"But they're my favorite," I said. I had to make you understand.
You nodded solemnly. "Like college," she said.
I threw a strawberry at you and watched the red splash on your white shirt. It reminded me of blood and smashed fingers in a car door and the cat under the tires and I was scared and I ran away. I heard you calling my name but I was afraid to look at you.
You caught me and held me and told me it was okay, it was alright.
I never cry.
That summer we sat on the beach and ate strawberries. I counted the seeds and there were 390 on the biggest one and that made me sad.
I hated the water. I threw all the strawberries you didn't eat into the water and you were quiet and watched me.
You found someone you loved and I watched as you got married. I came to your wedding and gave you a strawberry and you smiled...
My favorite berry is a strawberry. I hate the flavor. I hate the color. I hate the way they look all covered in those ugly little seeds. But it is my favorite berry.
I used to sit outside in the lawn with a bowl of strawberries and a bowl of sugar. I wouldn't eat the strawberries. I hated them. I ate the sugar.
You used to come and you'd eat the strawberries and I'd eat the sugar and you'd tell me about college. "It's fun," you'd say. "I like it."
I think you liked college the same way I liked strawberries.
The first day you left for college I asked you if you would ever come back. I couldn't see you getting in that car and leaving me forever. You laughed and pulled my hair and told me you'd always be back. "I'll always come back for you," you told me.
I cried the day you left and Nana couldn't make me eat and Papa couldn't make me sleep and I sat outside with my strawberries and wished someone was there to eat them.
Strawberries have an ugly color. Red. Red is the color of blood, of hate, of anger, of rage. It's the color of smashing my fingers in the car door. It's the color of squashed cats under car tires. It's the color of despising someone's very insides. It's the color of scars and of burning.
It's not the color of love because love isn't red. Love is blue or green or gray. Not red.
I counted every day you were gone at college. I wrote them up my arms and down my legs and over my face. My birthday was on the 167th day and I ate sugar and flattened strawberries under my bare feet.
Papa was angry when he saw the strawberries and he took away my paper and I went outside and screamed...
You called me late at night and said happy birthday.
I remember your birthday because it was exactly 203 days after mine and 167 plus 203 is 390. Nana said I did useless math but I did it for sanity's sake and I don't know what she meant but I know I had to. I had to count and add or I'd scream. You used to help me count the strawberries and all the seeds on them.
You came home for the holidays and I sat in the snow with my strawberries and I told you how much I hated them.
"But they're my favorite," I said. I had to make you understand.
You nodded solemnly. "Like college," she said.
I threw a strawberry at you and watched the red splash on your white shirt. It reminded me of blood and smashed fingers in a car door and the cat under the tires and I was scared and I ran away. I heard you calling my name but I was afraid to look at you.
You caught me and held me and told me it was okay, it was alright.
I never cry.
That summer we sat on the beach and ate strawberries. I counted the seeds and there were 390 on the biggest one and that made me sad.
I hated the water. I threw all the strawberries you didn't eat into the water and you were quiet and watched me.
You found someone you loved and I watched as you got married. I came to your wedding and gave you a strawberry and you smiled...
My favorite berry is a strawberry. I hate the flavor. I hate the color. I hate the way they look all covered in those ugly little seeds. But it is my favorite berry.
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