Tonight is like pulling myself away from that twin mattress on the floor when I had to go to class. I remember thinking of how unfair that it was that I had to walk outside, into the cold street below, while you got to stretch your long legs and press your face deeper into the pillow.
I miss us in Elon, NC when we got woken up by that freight train. I miss comparing the tastes of tap water. I miss picking hairs of your sweartshirt. I miss the desire to run away, as opposed to the aching of homesickness. I'll miss our silhouettes at dusk in your driveway, ending an era, and understanding eachother like we were young again.
I can only feel you curling up next to me as if to say, "look what I did," while a feeling of admiration overcomes me. We'll fall in love, or something similar, in an egg shaped chair, like the one on the deck of the Montecalvos when I was young and used to know them.
Wide eyed, we are black eyed, and gray eyed.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
I want to put you in an envelope and ship you over here and ride you around on my bike. then ship you back when you've had enough
I haven't seen anyone I need now, just a photograph of familiar faces with a tree in the fall behind them: blood red leaves contrasting their pallor, flushed from the brisk fall day. I'll wince when I go out on the porch because it is 95 degrees out there. I wont be putting on a flannel for a good long while. And yet somehow, it can feel like fall in my belly. Maybe it's the mere fact that it is August and I am going back to school soon. I'm am anxious. Maybe I just miss everything.
I'm thinking about walking with Luke down Pawtucket St. How Autumn became Winter and then Spring with my hand wrapped in his, our legs curled together, giggling at some movie playing on his computer screen. Cooking Mexican food in his kitchen with the duct during that blizzard in January. Meeting him after Accounting in the skate park. Recognizing warm air. Saying goodbye in my driveway in Lowell.
Or just driving away from Lowell. Maybe driving away from Ipswich too.
I am opening letters from Germany, anxious for your words. I am plotting ways back to Kentucky.
I am watching C.H.U.D. on a couch and thinking about Gloucester in the fall, blood red leaves.
I have to get to the Ocean.
I'm thinking about walking with Luke down Pawtucket St. How Autumn became Winter and then Spring with my hand wrapped in his, our legs curled together, giggling at some movie playing on his computer screen. Cooking Mexican food in his kitchen with the duct during that blizzard in January. Meeting him after Accounting in the skate park. Recognizing warm air. Saying goodbye in my driveway in Lowell.
Or just driving away from Lowell. Maybe driving away from Ipswich too.
I am opening letters from Germany, anxious for your words. I am plotting ways back to Kentucky.
I am watching C.H.U.D. on a couch and thinking about Gloucester in the fall, blood red leaves.
I have to get to the Ocean.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
I wish I could smush our faces together until we were smushed together
I could smash you into a pulp but I forgive way to easily. Life can be beautiful if you break free, but you wont. I hope you fall off Paris Mountain, right down the cliffs, hitting your head, bleeding, bruising. Maybe you'd wake up with a better outlook. Maybe you would see the beauty in a handful of people, coming together to make a space for music that is positive, and safe. Maybe you would understand the things that make people feel face, let them think freely, let them be human.
...but you are militant. You would burn a bar down because that's what they get for having a beer with friends. You would hurt someone. You are everything that is wrong with faith, everything that is wrong with Merrimack Valley Hardcore, everything that is wrong with society: Fear, close mindedness. You are afraid. You would rather remain anonymous than face confrontation. You are a coward, and I have no room in my heart for it.
...but you are militant. You would burn a bar down because that's what they get for having a beer with friends. You would hurt someone. You are everything that is wrong with faith, everything that is wrong with Merrimack Valley Hardcore, everything that is wrong with society: Fear, close mindedness. You are afraid. You would rather remain anonymous than face confrontation. You are a coward, and I have no room in my heart for it.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Home Coming
This time is different because this time I don't have to stay. I can't imagine what changed these past two weeks, or why I am frustrated. I was put on this earth a certain way, I just don't feel obliged to fight with it, or condone patriarchal views on the issue.
I don't know what I expected anyways. There are too many people in the Northeast. They're all rushing about, squeezing down congested arteries like a disease and I'm sitting here wishing for the South. Of course I'd find a reason why I hate it or have to go. The truth is, it's colder here, it's more tolerable but I'll never feel free if I stay.
I would be hard pressed to find someone longing for Appalachia: the Smoky Mountains, or the rolling hills of West Virginia. Someone young, clutching onto a book about the Concord and Merrimack rivers in a used book store in Asheville.
I'm leaving with my bicycle.
I don't know what I expected anyways. There are too many people in the Northeast. They're all rushing about, squeezing down congested arteries like a disease and I'm sitting here wishing for the South. Of course I'd find a reason why I hate it or have to go. The truth is, it's colder here, it's more tolerable but I'll never feel free if I stay.
I would be hard pressed to find someone longing for Appalachia: the Smoky Mountains, or the rolling hills of West Virginia. Someone young, clutching onto a book about the Concord and Merrimack rivers in a used book store in Asheville.
I'm leaving with my bicycle.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Couch Mates
Rambo's head is in my lap and I'm scratching him behind the ears. We're escaping the heat, the suffocating humidity. I haven't eaten and my head is pounding. I'm trying not to wander back into the mall to drink another yerba mate. I'm trying not to fall in love with sleeping head to toe on a couch too small for us.
I was a bad driver today. I'm not used to the afternoon flash floods of the Carolina's. When I returned home, with something to show for myself, no one was here. I wished out loud for my ten speed, and made myself a bowl of cereal, which I ate while fending of the scavenger cat, Moomoo. There are two puppies playing across the street. I feel overwhelmed with contentment, and beautiful in someone elses' clothing listening to two animals breathing.
I love them, or rather, this. The commodities have returned.
I was a bad driver today. I'm not used to the afternoon flash floods of the Carolina's. When I returned home, with something to show for myself, no one was here. I wished out loud for my ten speed, and made myself a bowl of cereal, which I ate while fending of the scavenger cat, Moomoo. There are two puppies playing across the street. I feel overwhelmed with contentment, and beautiful in someone elses' clothing listening to two animals breathing.
I love them, or rather, this. The commodities have returned.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Work Wont Make You Free
There were a couple things on my mind as I washed dishes at the restaurant the other night. First, was I that intolerable to be around that I was sent dejectedly to the back to do everything no one wants to do? I thought of Dormin chopping onions in the back of the house, failing to learn English, or do any of the things they had promised him he would learn. I don't know his story, just that he can wash dishes like a madman and ensure us a quick and easy close. Como se dice "thank you for washing all our dishes," en espanol?
The next day, instead of letting me know that I did something wrong, I would be banished to cash register, left with the sinking feeling of terrible management, and a sort of admiration of our service manager for the look of empathy he gave me when I returned to the line. I could have walked out.
I think about that every single time I leave those doors for break. I beeline it to my car, or to the grass, huck my things, and watch the traffic, wishing I had the courage to never come back.
If I was free, I'd be romping on bioluminescent beaches and swimming at night in just my underwear. I'd be breaking into private drives and visiting Spooner's grave by the Shagbark Hickory in my old yard. Not working 45 hour a week for no gain and feeling increasingly regretful for the time not spent with my friends and family.
I am a workaholic and I love to hate my job. Work is my vice. I can't get enough of it, even when it gets in the way of the things I'd rather do. I'm miserable when I'm working, and even worse when I'm not. Every bone in my body longs for a job that I actually enjoy.
The next day, instead of letting me know that I did something wrong, I would be banished to cash register, left with the sinking feeling of terrible management, and a sort of admiration of our service manager for the look of empathy he gave me when I returned to the line. I could have walked out.
I think about that every single time I leave those doors for break. I beeline it to my car, or to the grass, huck my things, and watch the traffic, wishing I had the courage to never come back.
If I was free, I'd be romping on bioluminescent beaches and swimming at night in just my underwear. I'd be breaking into private drives and visiting Spooner's grave by the Shagbark Hickory in my old yard. Not working 45 hour a week for no gain and feeling increasingly regretful for the time not spent with my friends and family.
I am a workaholic and I love to hate my job. Work is my vice. I can't get enough of it, even when it gets in the way of the things I'd rather do. I'm miserable when I'm working, and even worse when I'm not. Every bone in my body longs for a job that I actually enjoy.
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