Changing face

When I looked at the home page of my blog this morning, instead of feeling a rush of excitement at all the writing possibilities, I felt a whopping bleeeeeeeeeh. It just screamed (or more likely whimpered, as it dried up, withering) dread and depression. So I changed the header to something more fitting to the next few months that are opening up ahead of me.

For some reason I have a newfound obsession with the color lime - it is bright without being obnoxious, and at the same time cooling without looking dreary. I've got a bit of New York in there, although I doubt this header will last far into the year. The funky font is actually the same one they use for the headings in the Calvin and Hobbes cartoons, which is what my life reminds me of sometimes - a giant cartoon. Only less funny.

Countdown to trip: 9 days. I'm still trying to figure out a way to blog in internetless Turkmenistan.


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It starts in my toes, and I crinkle my nose

As we drove down the road that was more twisted than a pair of untangled headphones, he laughed at my “focus” face. Both eyes ahead, eyebrow muscles slightly strained. I could only afford to crank the car up to 40 – anything faster guaranteed a run-in with the mountain slope. We didn’t talk much on the way up; I remember “Birthday Sex” came on the radio and we sang along in our mutual tonedeafness. How easy it all was. I knew I was going to be home an hour late and I knew I would never hear the end of it, but I went anyway. So I pushed away all thoughts about what I was going to tell my mother and enjoyed the view that was starting to peek through the treetops.

The view was amazing. More stars than I’ve ever seen concentrated at one dot, and others thrown around like dandruff on a black suit. The entire bay area slept under a soft thin fog. A few lights here and there, but mostly it was black, with a barely perceptible red glow that I could only assume were the diffused street and bridge lights. It was surprisingly warm. Four other cars were parked next to ours, whose owners leaned against the railing smoking and laughing and talking and kissing. It was impossible to see more than five feet in front of us, so everyone had their privacy.

There, with my feet on the ledge, cigarette in one hand and his hood strings in the other, was the first time I felt a goodbye. What a perfect place to bid farewell to the last nine years in this town. This – the town, the warm air, the rough skin on his hands – felt like home. I did not think about talking as words glided effortlessly through my mouth, and everything that was said was just right. Just enough. Then again, there isn’t enough time in the world (especially not a week and two days) to say everything. But that’s just how it is, and how it always was.

“What will happen on this very day in five years?” I asked. He pressed his lips to mine. “You’ll be in my apartment, telling me about school,” he decided. “And I’ll hopefully be telling you about my school. Not hopefully – I will be telling you about how I accomplished my goal.” He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth so it wouldn’t get into my hair. “And what exactly is your goal?” “Easy – to be successful,” he shrugged. “I know I’ll get there in five years.” No, I thought. Easy was what we were doing now. It really only gets harder from here. But nothing else needed to be said, so we looked at each other in silence as the wind played with our jackets.

There are many times when I think I deserve better. Many memories of pain and disappointment, and countless promises to myself to never go down that road again. And while I’m sticking to that promise, part of me desperately wants this one last week. And that part of me wins the age-old battle of brain versus heart. Because if this is as good as it gets, then it gets pretty damn amazing. It brings charm and comfort to any ordinary thing. Where will I find comfort in the crazy, chaotic New York City?

And then I remember how much we’d give up for each other. Screwed could not even begin to describe our condition that night with our parents, and if you don’t count the drive there and back, the entire meeting lasted less than twenty minutes. Was it worth it? Hell to the fucking yeah.

I know I’ll get used to it, sometime in the next year, eventually. I just have no clue how I have to bear the separation now.
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My dirty little secret

Who has to know?
When we live such fragile lives
It's the best way we survive
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you

Tell me all that you've thrown away
Find out games you don't wanna play
You are
The only one that needs to know


And I plan to keep it that way. Every time I replay the sequence of events in my head, I can't help but smile. I know it's wrong, but unfortunately it feels like the right kind of wrong and I'm doomed to always choose my heart over logic. I can't help myself.


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I forgive you.

I began writing a post three days ago, but was never able to finish. I had all the words to start it but not enough to write an ending that actually had a conclusion. So I'll leave that for after senior trip-


In the meantime, there are so many things I want to say before the year ends I don't know which topic to start with. Since we're boarding the bus for the 5+ hour ride (with the Darenator!...) to Laguna tomorrow, I'm going to keep this brief.

A friend reminded me today about mistakes and repair, and somehow this takes on a different meaning when I'm saying goodbye to one part of my life and leaping into the random scary unknown. We all make them, the mistakes. Some are practically harmless and some turn our life around. Luckily I don't think I've made any of the second type, but who knows? Who's to say that if I hadn't made this decision or that one, I would be in a completely different place? But if someone makes mistakes that affect us, the important thing is not to hold grudges. This is particularly hard when "affect" means ripping every endorphin (='happy' chemical in the brain (yes I'm aware I'm a psych nerd)) apart and stomping them down until nothing is left but sad, brooding regret. I have the right to be mad for another week, you say. Then I'll think about forgiving them. But what if there isn't a tomorrow because this is the end, this is it? How important is getting back at someone when in a few days there's a good chance you'll never see them again?

Most importantly, if this person has been a major part of your life, shouldn't the leaving memories be at least amiable? That's a very weak word in retrospect. Amazing, unforgettable, happy are all better substitutes, but things rarely work out that way. The most we can do is make an effort to not make the memories painful, for either of you. Not when it's the last week, day, few hours. And then to forgive. That's one of the few qualities that make us uniquely human - acknowledging that someone screwed up but accepting them and loving them anyway.

So I forgive you, you stupid, stupid idiot.


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What is and what could've been

Two poems today, both by Laura Haskins-Bookser.


Regrets

I am seventeen
and I just came home
so drunk and
so high
that I've just pissed myself

My mother is alone, asleep in her room

I rush to clean up after myself
trying to be quiet
but when I get out of the shower
my mother is standing in the hallway

Screaming at me
in a rage that I rarely saw
Beating on me with her fists
slapping me wildly

Do you want to be like your father?
Do you want to be a drunk?

I dodge out of her way
make it to my room
and remember one year earlier

I sat my parents down
Told them I thought I might have
A PROBLEM

She screamed at me that day as well

You don't need help
You just want attention

So while she is
still yelling in the hallway

I lock the door
ignoring her
and fall asleep quickly
because of my lethargic state

The next morning
the masks go back on
the superficial talk of the day begins

I think to myself
It's only Saturday

I still have another night of partying
before my weekend is over

Sleep Deprived

I slept
slept like a baby
a normal baby, that is
who doesn't survive on
three-hour blocks of sleep

I slept
without one interruption
without one peep from your crib
without any noise at all
from you

I panicked
and jumped out of bed
raced to your crib
on the other side of the room

You are not breathing
I am sure of it
I cry out
call your name
pick you up
wake you up

Oh no

I slept
slept like a baby
and could have gone back to sleep
if only I hadn't woken you
from the deep sleep you were enjoying

You scream
and I laugh and I hug you
that's the baby I know
that's the baby I love

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Black Coffee

By Cathy C., Damascus, MD

“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said to me on the sixty-third day after I fell in love.

It started quickly, but it always starts quickly. Love was classic, and love was smooth. If there were a soundtrack to those first four months, it would consist of nothing but Frank Sinatra songs. The cover would be black and white. A picture of a coffee house. And that’s where we met: a coffee house. Classy. He ordered a medium coffee, black. I ordered, well, I don’t remember, but I remember he ordered his coffee black.

After the quick start, after the laughing and the crazy nights and the dreamy eyes, everything slowed. It always does. But mostly you just don’t notice what speed you’re going. Once I fell for him, though, it was all about which love song on the radio reminded me of him. Love is like that. It’s waiting in line to check out in the grocery store and taking all the lovey-dovey quizzes in the trashy magazines. And it’s all about those music videos full of slow-motion shots of two people running their hands along each other’s skin. Once I had fallen, I kept falling – like Alice down the rabbit hole. Incoherent objects and instances flew by me as I fell, for what seemed like eternity. Contrary to popular belief, eternity is actually only 63 days long.

It doesn’t matter anymore what started it. It doesn’t matter anymore who said what, it doesn’t matter why we said it. But I gotta tell you, coming out of love feels a lot more like falling. And I stood on his door step, after the screaming and after the tears. Calm, collected I stood there for a good four minutes. Not moving, just letting the rain soak into my white shirt. Of course it had to be raining; it rained like someone had just died in a Disney movie. And of course I had to be wearing white, because everyone knows you have got to look the most pathetic after a breakup and I don’t think standing in the rain for four minutes in a white shirt could be any more pathetic. It didn’t matter how it ended to me, just that it ended.

“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” he had yelled. A cup of black coffee was all I could think about. If you are ever in a coffee house and a man is drinking his coffee black, don’t be intrigued. It’s not a sign of mystery, it’s not a sign of suaveness. Because his heart is as decorated as his coffee. He is empty, which is tricky because even when you attain something empty, you still feel like you’ve gotten something. Don’t be fooled. You can marvel at the pretty package all you want; but eventually you will open it. Empty.

So I got on a plane to the East Coast. I am gonna go wherever I want. I am gonna do whatever I want. When I land in New England, the first thing I’ll do is put on my cutest outfit. Then I am gonna go to the nearest coffee house and stand right next to the cream and sugar.

© teenink.com
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And the world spins madly on

© Masha

A spin on my photo from here.

BTW, the title is a lyric from a great song by The Weepies.


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The car ride home

"I first fell in love when I was 14," this man had told me.
I'm not sure why;
Silence was taboo on this 20-minute drive.
He asked if I had read Gone With the Wind.
No, I told him.
"You should," he replied,
"Those kinds of stories are good for your age.
That's when I read them." And then he proceeded
To tell me about his first love.
"I dated her for two weeks.
Man, 14," he repeated.
I smiled and read the license plates of cars we passed by.
"We held hands and all of that."
I looked down at my legs
And watched the sun burn the car leather right where I sat.
I usually hate these lazy scorching May afternoons -
always more of a winter girl -
but today was different.
"And walked in the park late under the moon."
He laughed.

With his left hand on the wheel,
He left the other motionless on the side
Still unable to break the habit of his old stickshift.
"I even cried
About her. Once. But after two weeks,
I was done."
His happy nostalgic smile nicely complemented his graying hair
Which looked white under the sun.
He wasn't old or anything;
He had a 10 year old daughter
And a worrying wife
Who, like a gypsy with her ash-black hair,
Looked flawless every day
With another on the way;
Above all, she was kind.
"Her I married within a month," he told me.
"Didn't want to wait too long
And change my mind.
Again."
But there's no feeling quite as high as that first love, he said as we pulled up to a red light.
Cars crawled like ants into the intersection
With men and women and children
Behind the wheel,
Killing time and thinking
And talking and smoking and drinking.
I wondered if any of them were also remembering their teenage girlfriends.

"What about you? Have you ever been in love?
And I mean like, real, crazy,
Pull-your-hair-out love?"
As he said this, his eyes flashed
Like this love thing was the greatest ever.
I could have said "Oh, don't I know it!"
I could have told him about
The Italian pizza I bought us for takeout.
I could have said, "Funny you ask,"
And told him about the books we planned to read
And the frozen yogurt
And the stolen bikes
And, of course, his grandfather's spoon.
I could have shown him my worn-out eyes
And remembered that morning I was sleepy but happy
After a long and perfect night.
I could have said, "Don't get me started!"
And told him about the day that we parted
And the strangely rectangular shape of his head
During all those horrible things that were said
Instead of a proper goodbye.
I could have chuckled and sighed.

"Have you ever been in love?"
"No," I lied.
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Whoever thought of chicken soup obviously never had Bailey's

Because, let's be honest, the soup kinda tastes like oil and shoelaces. Bailey's, on the other hand, tastes like chocolate wrapped in sunshine. The taste of alcohol is almost unnoticeable, but the mixture still has that dazed-dizzy-but-completely-relaxed effect on the body and the mind.

The reason I bring this up is that I'm having a hard time dealing with what happened. I want to think about all of it at once and never remember it again at the same time. To avoid falling into a mopyteenagercoma when I'm left to myself, I do what I do best - draw, write, paint, sing, play, make, bake, whatever - but all of that somehow seems to relate back to the brooding thoughts that pound at the back of my mind where I left them to rot and fester. So I decided there's no use fighting them anymore. But there is a healthy way of letting them seep out on their own, and that's why I'm creating a special segment in my blog that will hopefully let me express everything I want implicitly. It's a collection of poems, paintings, and short stories, some by me and some by people who've had similar experiences. I'm hoping to recreate that feeling left by Bailey's that is so carefree and intoxicating, you'd swear you just jogged off five pounds of cellulite and are now having your celebratory cake.

As a side note: it's difficult to publish stuff that's very personal. The reason I created the blog is because I wanted people to hear what I had to say, but there are many things I write every day that will never be seen by anybody else. I could just as easily have kept these poems and stories private, but I think it'll be easier for me to get over if I'm not the only one looking at them. Maybe if I allow it to fester out there rather than in here, under the judgmental condescending eyes of people who probably don't relate and will likely misunderstand, I won't feel confined to my own contemplations. Or maybe I'll find people that do relate, and help them out as well.

Here is something to start things off (and also because it's 11:46 in the night before my morning english lit exam). Who needs poultry? I'll take a shot of the Irish Creme.

Chalk by Rebecca Ann Brown, 13

Love is like a piece of chalk
First it's brand new
Never been used
Then
With time
It fades away slowly
Until there is nothing left
But a small, tiny piece
That cannot be held anymore

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List of the Week

A lot has happened recently. Or to be more honest, not much has happened but a lot has changed. In any case, I'll be posting details of this bit by bit over the next few days, but to get me started here is the official Monday list. Unfortunately, I can't take credit for this genius creation, but I saw it on an advertisement in an airport cafe many years ago and still think whoever wrote it deserves the Pulitzer prize. Or at least a booty shake.

25 Reasons why Chocolate is Better than a Man

1. Chocolate is rich, dark, and satisfying.
2. You're never disappointed when you open the wrapper.
3. Chocolate doesn't care how many pieces you've eaten before.
4. Chocolate always hits the spot.
5. Chocolate doesn't always secretly want to be eaten by your best friend.
6. Chocolate doesn't think the shopping channel is stupid.
7. Chocolate always smells good.
8. Chocolate won't ask "Am I the best?" or "How was it?"
9. It doesn't sulk when you don't want it first thing in the morning.
10. Chocolates are easy to pick up.
11. Chocolate satisfies even when it has gone soft.
12. You can suck a piece of chocolate even in front of your mother.
13. Chocolate never leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
14. Chocolate doesn't mind what time of the month it is.
15. You don't mind the brown stains left by chocolate.
16. With chocolate, size doesn't really matter. It's always good.
17. You can read the label and know what it's made of.
18. Chocolates do not wear white socks.
19. Chocolate doesn't mind when you bite its nuts.
20. With chocolates, you don't have to be a virgin more than once.
21. "If you love me you'll swallow that" has real meaning with chocolate.
22. You can have more than one chocolate a night without ruining your reputation.
23. Chocolate doesn't just think it's smooth.
24. Chocolates aren't into rope or leather.
25. You can tell just by looking at it, that it hasn't been in anyone else's mouth.

Check out the poster here. Forget men, give me a Milky Way.


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EARLY list of the week

I will make the official monday List of the Week tomorrow, but since I haven't updated in ten years, this week will have two. So, to kick things off, here is a special Sunday edition.

List of reasons why I love Deniz

1. She laughs at all of my jokes. Seriously. Even the bad ones.
2. Therefore we both have an identical, and purely awesome, sense of humor.
3. In the most embarrassing situations, she will make a miserable puppy face and then erupt in sad laughter, which makes everyone around erupt in real laughter and then she forgets why she was sad in the first place
4. She is there in all of my sing-trip-and-fall moments, and she never fails to point and elicit this manly BWHA before closing her eyes and holding her stomach because the laughter is so intense it can make her pee
5. Her sarcastic moments are so painfully obvious that each time she has one, I remember why I fell in love with this talent that is only perfected by a few.
6. She has this magical way of making me laugh after I think I'll never smile again
7. She is the most genuine person I've ever met, hands down. She gives the most heartfelt advice even on issues she's never come close to dealing with, and even if that advice is off-base, the idea that she only means the best is enough to heal a real shitty mood
8. She says things like "agility" and "booger" in reference to people
9. She wanted me to be in her senior showcase dance. So of course I love her for that.
10. Her mother's reading list includes comic books, travel magazines, and the Twilight series
11. She's going to a college just a few hours away from where I'll be staying, in a state that has a bowling alley. And a mall!
12. She falls in love with boys who do nice things, like hold the door or pick up eggshells. Therefore it is not uncommon if she is in love with 6 guys at the same time
13. If I do something strange in a public place, like pull my head down to my plate at a restaurant and make whale noises into the glass cup because I like the effect the arrangement of glass makes on my voice, she'll pull her head down and whale along with me
14. If I bitch about someone, she bitches about that person using bigger and better words. See reason #8 above
15. There aren't enough reasons in the world to describe why I love this ridiculously special person, but if you haven't had the chance to get to know her, you're missing out on a huge chunk of life. It's like going to Great America and not going on Invertigo. So next time you see Deniz, smile and wave, and she'll undoubtedly light up and do the same for you.

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Just take it as it comes

Purse. Old. Don't know what will happen tomorrow.


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From the confines of a dark, stuffy bedroom

So I caved - I did do some thinking in the past 48 bedridden hours. Because after my stomach was full and my eyes started burning from the TV, there was nothing else left for me to do.

In all this thinking and contemplating, I've figured out the meaning of life. Honestly. I understood the reason we are all here on this earth, living and breathing and avoiding death, the reason we're all struggling to get ahead in school and work and love. The point behind everything. And it's simple. Ready? We do it for happiness. And this isn't a discovery, it was pretty much the first thing we learned in ethics class (after Jahshan's rendition of Plato's "is this a real desk, or isn't it??"). But, just as with all good things, it gets more complicated than just being happy.

For a long time, I used to think love and relationships were the most important thing in the world. Like that quote from Heroes: "So much struggle for meaning, for purpose. And in the end, we find it only in each other." What good is a load of money without anyone to share it with? For me personally, I don't think this outlook will ever change. But lately I've been around different kinds of people - scientists, librarians, donors - people who live for another cause. And then I get to thinking about people like Tibetan monks - I mean, they sit in one position for days and weeks and YEARS and get more kick out of doing that than anything else.

Then maybe happiness is relative for every single individual. This seems like a obvious statement, but someone whose ultimate goal isn't finding love? To me that sounds absurd, to them it makes complete sense. To the people whose craft is the most important thing in their lives, the people that give it their all. And that's where they choose to focus their love: the scientist in his creation, the librarian in the world of knowledge and imagination, the donor in alleviating pain for the greatest number of people. And with all the love they give to their work, they can't possibly equally share it with another person. And this makes sense. They've found their happiness.

Then there are people like me - and I'm assuming this is the majority of us - who really will only find meaning and purpose in each other. When life throws us lemons or limes or whatever other shitty bundle of bitterness it has, we turn to our that one other person for comfort. And if we do find someone who can give us that comfort in any shitty situation, we can say we've truly achieved happiness.

But wait! It still gets more complicated. There is not a single functional relationship without problems. Like a stand-up comedian once said, "if you've never contemplated suicide, you've never been in love; if you've never contemplated murder, you've never had a divorce". Just when we think we've hit that happy peak, everything comes crashing down in another fight or misunderstanding.

And that, right there, is the point: nothing in this world that's worth having comes easy. The scientist goes through countless failed experiments, but calls it 'success in finding what doesn't work'. The monk has every part of his body fall asleep ten times over before he feels that special tingly feeling monks are supposed to feel to reassure themselves that what they're doing is the greatest of all. And we hurt. A lot. We get cheated on, ignored, deserted, forgotten about, taken for granted, lied to, replaced, and rejected. But we put ourselves out there again, and again, and again. And the only reason for that stupid risk is the extremely ridiculous, incomparable happiness that is right up there with love.

So don't give up. Things don't just work out for people even if they are in love. You have to fight for it, work through it, breathe in it. Forget all the "if it's meant to be, it'll work out" crap. True - it does require some chance and luck, and sometimes second chance. But that's all you're going to get - a chance. What you do with it is up to you. Will you stay engaged to Lon, or get into the car and drive your butt back to that town to see Noah?

Don't wait until the chance is gone. Then you will just end up sitting in a dusty classroom as the summer leaves give way to cold September, wondering how in hell two years flew by so fast.
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