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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