When I turn 19....

I'm so scared to finish anything at all.

I do my darnedest to ignore every warning from others.

Now I'm smiling and its only because I'm terrified

I think I'm going to ride my bike off your porch and see if it will take flight. Real Wizard of Oz style, basket and all, hair blowing in the wind.

Away from secondary-dominants, my grown-up job, and my 8th floor disaster.

Maybe I'll fly to France, across the big pond, through the Canary Islands, to Baptiste, the French boy that bought me coffee once. Now its is November 4th, 2007, and I swear:

I was on the clock, but I stood still, for time was standing still, and looked into his eyes while he messed with his words, trying to make me understand. I did not. But I still gazed into his eyes as his face turned red with frustration, or perhaps embarrassment. A divide I had become patient with over the past few months.
"Tuesday," he said. He wanted to tell me I was beautiful.
"Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday."

Well it was Tuesday, and I was cold even in my mothers wool coat. I shuffled on my feet. Bus after bus had come and I was growing anxious. I crossed the street with the same wobbly legs I had felt under his gaze as I worked. "Go gather your thoughts," Kerry had told me. They proved to be ungatherable.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs, perfect locks of brown, dark blue eyes. In his lanky, awkward way he gathered me about, and kissed both of my cheeks, the custom, as it was understood.

Over coffee, we messed with a dictionary. Saying loving things, to complete strangers, who had in some strange way, decided upon one another the moment their eyes met. "Try, try," I pleaded and he had to look the word up.

On opposite sides of the subway we stood, staring at each other, legs slightly parted as if bracing to jump to the other side. He blew me a kiss, I caught it. His train was coming. I could see it encroaching from around the corner, we stood, desperation in our eyes. It whirred by, he disappeared from my view, and yet I stood, fists clenched. I saw him push through the crowd and press his face to the door. I made a heart with my fingers, and he returned it. There was sadness in his face and he stared at me until the very end. I watched his train disappear down the tracks, never once questioning how I had fallen in love with a stranger.

I'm not 17 anymore. I wont park my car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, or dream about anyone.

I'm Still Awake

And, probably to anxious to fall asleep.

Today, I'm a puddle. Europe is on one side of the sky, California is on the other, the sun peaking through a quilted comforter with construction workers on it. You talked and talked until I fell asleep, mouth pressed to your shoulder, and you felt sort of soft next to me, like a fleece blanket, or a well-loved sectional.

Coalmine Canary still breaks my heart.

I'll probably fall down today.

I'll probably have to deal with everything I have neglected this week. I have a best friend with a full head of hair who is disappointed in me. I'm a flake, I'm a cheater, I'm not proud.

I'll probably cross the river later, the beckoning, mighty, Merrimack river, that promises me a boat thats a maple leaf, to drift out to sea, past Plum Island.

If I go to Chicago, its only because I'm running.

...

I am an incurable and nothing else behaves like me.

I'm a Big fan of the Pig-Pen

I hope someone will call 911 when my car spins out of control on the highway. Its gonna hurt. I will probably cry out for someone. Maybe wherever they are, they will look up from whatever it is they are doing and think of me, because that's how it works.

I think I finally know what it means to be part of this city. The first greeting came with a pang of fear, the second with internal warmth. My feet can carry me just as well through a drive-thru ATM machine as any sort of car may. I can creep down Decatur just as well as anyone.

We ran up your ice-cream-parlor stairs 4 times, twice for each load of laundry. The third time, you put your hand on mine. The fourth time, it had become dark in your room. The perfect waste of a beautiful day.

Smoke-filled lungs, and cold hands. I'm making waves in a hazy-cloud. I'd probably rather be wine drunk. I can see you though. Then we're screaming in your car and I'm fading faster into your passenger seat. We're singing, we're pouring out every last breath, into your car. It sticks to the window, it evaporates:

"I love you, I must confess"

I'm fading faster into your pillow, your sheets. I'm asleep.

Unicorns of the Sea

I really want to snuggle one of these.

Sleeping in

We inherently thank people for whatever they have done before we depart.

If I could have asked for one more moment to lie under my sheets, wrapped up in my thoughts, the Promise Ring spinning at 33 rpm on the table next to me, I would be forever grateful. However, today is overcast, the sky promises rain. I can see the branches swaying back and forth anxiously outside my window, and it is time to wake up.

My mom took me the grocery store yesterday. Our feet paced nervously up and down tiled aisles looking for the things that would keep best: nuts, dried fruits, and whole grains. Her face looked worn with the wears of motherhood. Torn from lack of companionship, and the ungratefulness of her kin. If I had more courage, perhaps I could have reached out and touched her arm. Instead we shopped in silence, our hands touching the worn out cart, cartons of cereal, packaging shipped by freight. Once or twice I thought I heard her choke nervously as we weaved our way around the store.

It would be our last time, I think gently to myself as I pull my slacks up. It is not the grocery store, and I am no longer a child in lady-bug mittens, sucking orange juice from a cup with green handles. My mother is at the foot of the stairs, she is holding my backpack. We will sit in silence again in the car. She will return to the house, she will see our town again, everything familiar, the beach, market street, generations and generations of children.

We pull up to the freight yard. "I love you Al," I avert my eyes, "you too mom," and get out of the car.

There is a man in a reflective vest. I throw my pack over my shoulders and walk towards him.
"Excuse me?" He doesn't hear me. I puff out my chest:
"Excuse me?" He turns around. His face is hard from years of labor, the scruff on his neck is dark with collected dust and sweat.
"How can I help you?" I try to explain, knowing the extent of the law, and the liability of his job.
"I need a train. I need to go west," and after a pause I add, "I have no money."
"Who are you?"
"I don't rightly know, Sir"
"This train here will take you as far as Chicago, I will be done with this car in a moment, If you give me a hand I'll wedge the door open for you."

I climb into the boxcar and he hands me a bag of grain. I push my weight against the stack and throw it to the top.

"Good luck, kid," he says with disdain and wedges a scrap of lumber into the boxcar door. A few minutes later, I feel a stir and the train begins to push forward. I listen to it hum against the rails and adjust to watch as everything flies by the door. There are children playing where I once had lived. There are teenager girls walking to school, flirting in that way only teenage girls can flirt. There are business men in suits walking to the train station.

The air feels wet, I am glad for the shelter. I think about my bed, and about the Promise Ring LP still clicking on the turntable at 33, somewhere, in some room. The distance is fleeting, I wont be back.

What to do?

I think I'm going to take this blog in a new direction.

I'll probably write stuff...fiction...prose...stuff.

Who knows.

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