A Tendor History in Rust

4 hours left.

I've always written on New Years, retrospectively. I want to remember who I was with last year at this time, nibbling carrot sticks in some dining room in Watertown. I remember the sweater I was wearing, the champagne flying across the room, and feeling older than I really was. I remember the snow on the ground, and the ice on the steps. I remember going home, driving home in spite of the ice and the cold.

If we're being retrospective, I owe more apologies than I have fingers to count with. I wish I could whistle. I wish I could send today's warmth into the hearts of all those I care about. As if it would fix them, fix us, or just make them smile.

I still hate doing the dishes. That hasn't changed. I've just had more alone time to think about it.

The blessing of his life.

I sign contractual agreements I cannot fulfill. It is a classic behavior of mine: unreliability. I guess you could call me a flake. The secret that lives deep within my stomach lining tears at my heart. It makes me turn my eyes away from their questioning gaze. Everyone that cares for me needs to hear that I am okay. However, I'm running down the street, I'm smashing the window with my mind on the only one thing of value in that house to me. The only living reminder of my father's mother. It's something to keep me warm for the cold nights ahead.

Unreliable, but I would never punish them with the cold. Especially for something so small: something that you could hold in your hands, or wear on your body: something that could be returned or compensated for: something that hurt no one.

The glass will bite through the skin of my knuckles. I'll think of your face, your glasses knocked to the ground. How I prefer your dog. And that will hurt. You, yes physically, but mostly me for wasting my time, for being so weak, and for starting a fight with my anxiety that I'll always loose.

And I'm falling down over cold pavement and looking around but no ones there. I can see the bus back home, just not the home I'm supposed to go to.

Tonight:

It all changes.

Dogs/Mike Kinsella

I've always felt like Mike Kinsella was singing right to me. Whether I was succumbing to sleep on a purple train back to Lowell, or trying to warm my toes driving through the Appalachian Mountains. You're much more attached to things like that back here. The mountains, I mean. They're always on the horizon, right behind the "bojangles" sign. There isn't anything real beautiful here. If I wanted to live somewhere beautiful, I'd move to West Virginia...or I'd just crawl back home with my tail between my legs.

There are things to look forward to though. Paychecks seem to warm my heart even though I don't really own anything or buy anything that doesn't end up in either one of our stomachs eventually. I always liked cooking and buying food. I look forward to singing again too. I look forward to making new friends.

I just don't stop thinking about snowflakes and how, even though its bitter cold here, we can't seem to get a day that isn't sunny. Living without a cell phone has been the most liberating thing I've done since I moved from Lowell. I'd like to latch on to a mover or a shaker but I'm at a standstill at a busy intersection with nowhere to go but back.

I wish I could text my friends that I miss them...just so they could text me back that they miss me too. That is the most selfish thing I want.

Sometimes I am a Big Dog

I hate it when you open up a little to someone and they tell you how it could be better. I do know it, I swear. I don't have anyone here to pull me out of an anxiety attack (or the bathtub in this case). I don't trust the people I like.

I'm hungry.

This is all I remember about you.

Ride Shares

I thought maybe I'd try to do something useful with my time today so I finally brought my car to a garage. On my last day off, I thought I'd try a couple recipes I know that Luke would have wanted to make with me. They were too adventurous for Tim's dad though. I wish he would talk to me.

I hate this apartment. Its like putting flowers on Algernon's grave: looking around this room, at the mess, at the things that used to mean something to me. I hardly ever put on my old clothes anymore. I hardly touch the things in my closet. I'm thinking about selling my records for money to get back home. My futon folds in the middle.

Niacin.

This is what it means to be unhealthy. I hardly want to look at anyone else. I cannot even plaster on a reassuring smile for them. They look at me like they're worried. They thought they'd help me and set me free but I've done nothing to prove that any of it was worth the trouble. That two mile bike ride back from the auto mechanic's kicked my ass. I am cold...all the time, but especially at night because I only own three blankets.

There is one major difference between South Carolina and Massachusetts. Our state and local governments in Massachusetts have huge deficits, while people continue to live comfortably in culdesacs and two story homes. South Carolina's government can't figure out what do with the extra money, while their residents suffer in poverty. I don't get it....in a liberal state, we pay higher taxes, and support public programs that benefit the state as a whole. In South Carolina, the cost of living is kept low, government money goes into grounds keeping on state property, and city revitalization. How is the weight shifted like that? And why is it so freaking cold in this house?

I need a plane ticket at a busy time of year. I want to sit on the end of Nick's bed and listen to him play guitar. I'm a wrecking ball, and I leave a mess wherever I go.

I hate that you have to go to work while I don't

Hear the same song twice,
Polaroids of faces smile.
I always miss you.

You Know That He Came All the Way Down?

I wish I had more insight into my younger self. I have some pictures of me next to my brother, or on the train. I wonder how many hours of my life have been spent traveling by rail? It's not really about what you have done, or about what your resume looks like (They were wrong). It's about who you are: If you are true to your word, appreciative of those you love, cautious about who you trust, genuine, and humble.

I hit an up today (finally). Or was it last night? Anyways a girl in a skirt jumped the fence onto the patio and reminded me of a time when I wasn't afraid. She talked to us like old friends. I was wearing a brown sweater and grey sweat-shorts, a 27 hanging out of my mouth, watching a daddy long leg crawl up the fence post. It's not that we were scared to give ourselves away, she sure wasn't. It's a matter of being honest about wasting what you've been given, or burning through what isn't yours to burn.

It's true that you're not alone.

He wrote me a letter. It will be in my new mailbox in a few days. I wish I was a better daughter.

I Want to Be at a Punk Rock Show but I'm Outside the Grocery Store I Work For Instead

It got bad today as I was counting money in the back office. You never know when it's gonna get bad. I'm usually doing something innocent, thinking about something trivial: Futon mattress', work politics....

I like to think that I've learned something from all of this. That maybe, if I knew who I used to know now, they wouldn't be a figure of the past-tense.

I want to be on Pendelton Street seeing friends from Kentucky and Georgia. I'm not. Back in Lowell? On the green couch with Nick? My body aches.

I like to think that I've learned something from all this. But for now I'm just waiting.

Accepting blame

Sometimes, I don't even recognize my hands. I'm scared to write such unhappy things. I'm like a lion in my empty apartment bedroom, wearing two sweatshirts, on the hardwood floor. In my head, I don't even want to go there. I just want my car back, and even that seems like a long stretch. My legs don't want to carry me from Spartanburg to Greer, and it's scary to see smoke escaping your engine, but I have no choice.

Not Everyone Has to Learn This Lesson

Like what I have in the coin purse of my wallet. Like what I have rushing through my veins, to my heart, into my soul. I can't remember a single thing from last September. I can't remember what it feels like to not want to go home, or to be part of something I was proud of, or be surrounded by people with personalties, or breath clear air. I can't...

I'm wearing a striped shirt. I haven't brushed my hair since I was last home. My teeth hurt. I guess going to a University full of intelligent people was a humbling experience. However, so is realizing your crumbling will right in the eyes as it falls apart, or watching you sleep on the couch.

Peaceful, unwaivering, the only light in my life. The only thing left, for all I am worth: good, or bad (even if it's mostly bad).

I think it's bad when I have to keep reminding myself what is actually in my heart. I believe there are a lot of people waiting patiently for me to fail. I wasn't humble enough to let them believe in me. I thought I could do it without them but they were right: We're all nobody.

You Have a Part of Me

Cause this is everything I know: This couch, these walls, this bed. This is the dresser that was in my first bedroom. "This is our new life." I can hear your voice ringing in my ears and I want to wrap my fingers in yours.

Within one week, I have been up and down, North in South. I have seen some things that no one should ever seen, I have romped in the woods with my roomate and his dog. I am not proud of myself or my mistakes. I have seen the great swamps of the Merrimack River valley and the Tyger River, just 1200 miles South.

I am tearing through my phone. I am hanging on your words. I left my heart with you.

New England air, Boston is breathing through me like a blanket that fails to keep me warm. I am crying now, both hands on my backpack straps like the first day of school, walking through the terminal to the bus stop to do things I shouldn't know how to do, like get back to Lowell in 2 hours without a car. I'm on a train, the same ones I used to ride to work. I'm in North Station, Downtown Crossing, The Gallagher Terminal, hugging my arms from the cold air, wrapping myself in my best friend's arms. I'm so sorry I ever left.

In my mind I'm in Spartanburg, in a car, or outside a pool bar in a bad neighborhood watching the grainers rumble past, with my fist clenched and my hood on. You're telling me you love me. You're begging me to come home.

We're in Charlotte, North Carolina at 4 AM. I'm waking up on the floor in the airport. My whole body aches, and I'm sweating.

You're home in bed, warm. I'm trying to find home. I'm trying to cope with my mistakes.

Gentlemen

I slapped myself in the face three times before I turned the key. The engine chugged and turned over. My knees were shaking with what you had just told me. I used to take the train to Boston, I used to live in Lowell. I wasn't afraid of anything, not the Future Barbershop, or walking through Haymarket Square, and yet I am entirely unequipped to deal with this. So when you ask me if I know what it's like, I don't. All I can muster is a half sincere, "It's going to be alright," and use the foggy mental compass in my head to get us home safely.

It's a stigma that has been built in my brain since day one. We're walking under a bridge with your hand at the nape of my neck. I should be mad, or scared, or something but we have a bottle in our hands and your expression is all business. My heads swimming and I'm watching you spiral. There is hissing coming from an empty truck bed. I think we're just looking for trouble. Waiting for it, just to see if we would know what do with it if it hit us.

And then I'm trying to see out the window but I have to keep wiping the tears from my eyes. My stomach is turning over, my lungs are inhaling and exhaling. You're still warm, but loosing it, spilling your guts, "Do you know what it's like?"

I don't.

If we had known that an hour later we would be in the grocery section of a Walmart, accomplices, acting belligerant, laughing, maybe we would have cut to the chase. We're in it together after all: alone in some state, miles and miles away from our rightful homes. You're not supposed to forget things like this.

Hallelujah It's Morning!

We're kissing behind your car, trying to pull away, trying to go to work, while the sun blinds us and turns our skin into golden embers. We're in this parking lot, and the world's not even awake yet. No one even knows where I am. Something in my belly tells me they don't care either, but I let that thought escape my mind, and let you heal my anxiety.

It's waking up in a pool of sweat, or on the couch and stumbling into your bedroom, even though whatever is dissolving in our stomachs prevents us from seeing straight. It's staring at each other in the eyes, unsmiling, while we play our instruments. It's watching the spider on your patio as it eats the innards of the fireflies. It's dancing to the Supremes, or moshing to the decline on your bed. It's sneaking me in because I'm homeless, or helpless: Like if you're not there, you're going to return to your old ways, or worse yet, disappear.

I keep looking at myself and feeling small, unhealthy, or ugly, like if I could take my skin off, I would. If I could jump into your dark eyes, I would. I wouldn't have been stuck here at work since 10, or have had to work so hard, just to be homeless another day, without friends or family to call on, without a car to fall asleep in. This is what I wanted...I guess.

Sharp

I am far too young to have seen your blood sucked up, flowing like velvet ribbons as it diluted itself into the water. I keep making that excuse for myself, like it is going to help me be anything but a helpless little kid. A helpless little kid without textbooks or a ride to class. I might be sitting against the wall in a grocery store with my phone plugged into the wall, but more than that I'm obsessed, and unable to look away, or less frightened when we talk about the past.

This is how I remember you best.

You're escaping to somewhere darker, and colder. You're sitting with your back turned to me. You're staring into Autumn. You're in the Delaware River Gap. You're in the North. You are the North.

Waking up Crying

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

Red Skies in Kentucky

Canada Geese fly
Across the broad red sky line
We both migrate South

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.

Is never getting old.

I have a silly memory of watching my Dad in the rearview mirror of his car on our drives up to Maine: His facial expression tensed, shaking his head, no doubt playing out scenarios in his head. At the time, I thought of him telling my mother off, or selling salmon to a client that wouldn't take that extra case off his hands.

We're not so different, except I'm in a field with the sun beating down on me, picking cucumbers, accepting the scrapes and needle pricks of their leaves. In the scenario inside my head, I'm not so fragile. It's all a part of working through these anxiety attacks. It's all part of tying up loose ends so I don't have to wonder what went wrong when I remember this years from now, in Tennessee, on a warm, Indian Summer's night.

We're in the river with our suits, swimming in circles against the current avoiding our naked bodies. We're laughing and playing and I miss them already, but I can't wait to grow.

Going Back

I was standing in the rotunda with a piece of paper in my hand, clutching to it fervently. After eight years in the same building, how could I be holding the only shred of evidence that I had been educated there? My eyes scanned the courses that I had taken, and the grades I had received. I tried to remember how our class schedules were set up, what my plans had been, and how my teachers had always understood me.

It's easy to be a ghost walking through those halls, especially after so many years away. I stared into them empty classrooms: Mr. Sidmore, Mr. Ames, Mr. Borghesani, Mrs. Webber, Mrs. Manos, Mrs. Faust, Mr. Kreiger. These were all names that I had pushed from my mind as I moved on to other things. I resented Ipswich, and they were a part of it, even if they had given me the greatest gift of all.

There were desks that I had sat in, lockers were I had stowed my stuff. For the first time, I wondered about being a teacher. You meet so many students, how does it feel as they move on? At 20, I appreciate what they did for me. Is it requited? Did I bring anything to the table? Did I leave anything behind except a pretty transcript?

I ran my fingers over the white and black piano keys in the choir room, stood on a darkened stage where I had performed. Nobody would know that I had been there, wrapped in the forest green drapery, silently wishing I could thank the walls.

It's good to get closure on things. A 14 year old Ali may have been sickly obsessed with her love life. I've been too busy even to watch myself grow and change. There were times in my journal where I mentioned changing the world. There were times when I defended bands like Metallica, and Atreyu. Atreyu was the warrior who tried to save his world in the Neverending Story. I am not as brave, but I do know that without passion, without my teachers, or the Artspace, I may have never overcome the mellowdrama that consumed my early adolescence.

I'm leaving soon, but instead of denying where I am from, I will be thankful that I am from the North. I will be thankful for my teachers, thankful for Mr. Patch, and for all the perspective that Ipswich and Lowell have provided me with.

Helen and Steve

I'm on the email list for the Massachusetts Animal Rights Coalition, or MARC. I always imagine two people being in charge because of the email address...Their names are Helen and Steve.

I never challenge my friends beliefs in order to keep the peace. Here is an incomplete list of why I believe, deep down, with no ifs, ands, or buts, that veganism is the right way to go:

1. Animals have distinct personalities. Our cats and dogs do, but in China they eat them. Cows do, but we eat them, even though in India they do not. Nobody is right, or wrong...and everybody somewhere is eating an animal that is considered a pet somewhere else.

2. Chicken farmers are sharecroppers. That's one step up from Slavery. They take out massive loans on the behalf of the companies they farm for and never make enough money to earn it back. They make as much money as anyone in a minimum wage job, except for the eternal debt thing. Also, technology is constantly being updated, and farmers are forced to update on their dollar, no matter how inhumane the updates may be. Also, exposure to the antibiotics in the chicken feed puts them at risk for incurable infections.

3. Factory Farming is anti-nature. It has destroyed natural resources, spread preventable diseases, and fooled helpless Americans. There is no point in fighting nature because it will always win. In this particular case, it will destroy us. Animals should be fed what there stomachs were built to digest. Corn should not be subsidized because our food should not be paid for by our taxes.

4. The dairy industry is directly linked to the veal industry. In order for Cows to produce milk, they must be pregnant. Male calves are sent to become veal...which may or may not be the most inhumane form of meat known to man.

5. Chickens raised for eggs live in battery cages. There is no room for them to move. It is completely inhumane exploitation of their resources.

6. Smithfield, Virginia...

7. Our agricultural system is fucked. By not boycotting it, you are selfishly condoning it because you "like meat," or "really couldn't live without cheese." Buy your own cow, put your own energy into it, and stop being part of this unhealthy system.

Consent

I no longer see any point in learning out loud.

Once, I stayed home on New Years Eve and read an entire collection of short stories because I was too afraid to ask for what I wanted.

My most valuable possession is the body that I am in. Someone may ask permission to look through my record collection, or to borrow a book, but has anyone ever asked permission to touch me? Is silence consent? "No," has always come with guilt. For me, it is denying your partner of pleasure, and therefore happiness.

These are failed, one sided relationships with no thoughts to each other's boundaries, abuse histories, or triggers.

I can easily recognize signs of abuse in others, but I never looked for them in myself. I'm scared of feeling out of control. I'm afraid to say no...Terrified of saying no.

Sex has far too long been about connection and a gateway into the life of a chosen partner. I am confusing my feelings with my longing for the inclusion and affirmation that come with being part of a community or a group of friends.

The next step is learning respect in my relationships: respect for myself and for the boundries of my partner. After all, If you can't be happy on your own, how can you be happy with somebody else?

_

You're being duped. It's hard to watch.

Florence

Music is everything: silence, white-noise, speech, vibrations, swift motions, growing apart, growing old. It happens slowly and you wake up with forehead wrinkles. Try not to look so distressed, you're accountable for your choices, and your worry lines.

I get analytics for the pages I manage every week. I'm responsible for far more than I am responsible for myself. I don't have to look closely to see what is happening, and I am sorry. I wish it was more genuine than just feeling sorry for myself. I wish it didn't motivate me to do more.

The family behind me didn't enjoy the recital tonight. Knowing and analyzing 20th Century Music has been like being let in on a big secret. My professors know it too, so when a boy knocks over a half-full glass of water in class, our eyes meet and we all know exactly what it means. Or when an abstract painting inspires 4 movements of music, the correlation is clear.

It wouldn't be difficult to admit that 8:15 AM hurt my head. I started crying because I dreamt you were there, but when I looked back you were gone. "I'm sorry, I'm late for class." We were going to stop with the apologies. I wish I could still feel.

Home

I was 15 and it was raining, or as if I had gotten no sleep. My head was up against an unfamiliar bed frame, staring at an unfamiliar wall with an uncomfortable scuff mark against it. I could have laid down on the mattress, I had time to take a nap, but I wondered if that would be betraying my old house, or my own room, where I would never fall asleep again.

I lived there in that house, so this is the 2nd time I've ever moved. When I lean my head against the wall, I feel safe because I know I'm home.

You are a stranger, but you're a friend of mine.

My fingers are burning from scooping scalding hot food indirectly onto them. I've figured out how to rock a baseball cap. Thank goodness for work this week. Thank goodness for busy hands and awkwardness. I'd rather learn Spanish words for dishes, vegetarian, and cold, than face reality.

I'm running on fumes, listening to Patrick Wolf with my headphones on, wrapped up in my sweatshirt. Still pushing, still trying.

"I saw you fall down the stairs this morning."

"Shit, I thought I got out clean," I responded. Strangers in the dining hall.

My Dear London, Goodnight.

Kemosabe (kiss my ass I bought a boat)

This is why it hurts so bad. I think about the friendships I have with people. While I sat, picking through pasta and string-beans, Nick stayed behind and talked to me while I cried. Tyler has held me, offered to save me, and driven in circles with me way past his bedtime, because I needed him. So when you ask if I need to go, it's true, I need to go. When you ask if anyone else had to do with it, I think Tyler is better, and stronger than that. I just keep going over and over our memories, trying to rectify the warmth they give me, trying to look back and see how wrong I was. How I should have been more patient, even though I was tired from doing my job. How I should have been more understanding. How I should have been a better friend to his friends. All I can do is learn. Learn to be a better friend, a better bandmate, and not drive away the people that mean the most to me. My head hurts.

It's like stubbing your toe. You just want to sit there and wince because it hurts too bad to do anything else.

Brown Lights

You don't look like the little kid who stood around in a circle with us. You're more filled out, more defined, with facial hair and a shaggy head of hair. I don't think I ever really knew you then, or ever. Not even on the couch when the power when out. You taught me how to feel used and broken. Is it supposed to feel as bad the second time around? You never told me. After months of devoting your daydreams to something, how is it supposed to feel when it walks out the door?

A young man in an office chair is snickering somewhere now with vindication on his tongue. I'm scared, and alone but I'll never drink that cup of poison. I'll start again somehow. One phone call and I'm bound to Tennessee.

I have a mental image of returning to the ghost town where I grew up. I'm sitting on my bed with a guitar on my lap, going over my high school memories in my head. I could call my old friends, but they're off living their lives and moving on in every way. I just don't feel finished here yet.

I have failed.

yesterday

The only difference between tomorrow and today is the calender, and I can't let that stand in my way.

Ramblin'

I was staring at it again: pins on a digital atlas in the shape of a running man. An 11 day route out towards the Mid-South and up the East Coast. My fists were shaking with excitement, but of course, I was the only one to feel that way. I-77, I-85, I-95...It's not like I haven't been there before. I just want more.

So I'm back in my head again, postulating whether or not I should just go by myself. Some androgynous human: if the car dies, the car dies. I can keep going.

I could find my pitbull Diesel, and we would get lost 50 miles south of Johnston City. I am as real as wanderlust can be.

Study

Writing lists helps you get things done.

Today I swallowed my fears and walked up to a factory door. I sat in a clear shower stall while they handed me chemicals to smell and showed me colors to identify them with. Just once I want to know what its like to be bitter, or to hold a grudge so innate, I would hurt myself to see it through.

Are we supposed to stay the same our entire lives? I've been practicing because I want to be better, reading cause I want to be smarter, answering phone calls and emails to act responsible, and most of all, moving on.

If you were still alive, and we met, I'm sure we would like each other. You would be able to see the battle raging inside of me. We would drive straight to Saratoga, New York and resolve it. We'd put our guns in the ground, and shake hands like gentlemen. If you were still alive, I am sure you'd understand. Therefore, I think its okay that I'm sad you're gone.

Romance!

I have never felt bolder than I do right now.

At 3 A.M. the world is sleeping: my friends are in their hotel beds, dreaming about long drives home, and marshmallow clouds. I'm awake, devising a plan for a better tomorrow, so that when I woke up this morning, and scrubbed the sharpie tattoo off my arm in the shower, I would be able to list all the things that make me constantly happy in life: contemporary music, dinner with my friends, riding my bike home from class, eating breakfast on the porch with Luke...

It's so easy to write when you're alone with the shades drawn. Creating is not hard when you're not in your right mind. Staying the same is simple... "All this passion and fruit," is a Mischief Brew quote, and no matter how much I've expanded my tastes, Erik Peterson still changed my life.

I have a fuzzy memory of running around on the playground playing Redwall: Little Heather Leadbury told me she didn't want to be my friend anymore. I was crying because I didn't understand. 9 years old, climbing over a iron caterpillar, buck-toothed and wild with a blue-bandanna to keep the hair out of my face. We were seen holding each other's hand only a day or so later.

Mrs. Burke is standing behind her desk with a younger Ali explaining that it doesn't feel good to be excluded, or ganged up on. I might have gone home that Friday and pretended to hurt my ankle so that my Mom wouldn't make me vacuum the stairs.

And that was me on the tour bus in upstate New York with my head phones on listening to a New Found Glory CD with my face pressed against the glass. I was watching a freight train, this intense love and curiosity welling up inside of me: this great mechanical snake, confined to a road where no humans go.

3 years later, I would cut class and board a train to Boston to get my first job. I would work hard and excel. I would learn to watch out for myself, value my possessions, and get home safely. Then 3 years later, when I felt overwhelmed by the commute, I would learn how to get another job, and another if I was unhappy. So that I could by myself a new pair of sneakers, or a cellphone when it broke, or put a deposit down on apartment.

So in the end, I'm not bitter that my Mom forced me to keep vacuuming...even after throwing myself down the stairs.

Mom Tattoos and Other Great Things in Life

It's Our Spot and We Found It.

I'm under fire today.

Like those times when you try to be so good but your big tail is wagging and books are falling from shelves, glasses are tumbling to the ground.

Like the girl who's sweet to everyone except for you because of that rough patch you went through, because of your bad jokes, because she never wants to loose her best friend.

Like trying to do your job, then finding out that nobody wants it done that way. Or putting the wrong numbers into excel equations. Like telling you happy birthday, when your birthday was weeks ago.

It was me who broke down the gate in the Faculty Lot while trying to park my car this afternoon.

Two blue-eyed brunettes, running to that spot in the woods on your property, in that town where I no longer live, to bury treasure and pretend we are elsewhere.

Life is Beautiful...Even When its Ugly

I'm listening to your recordings just to hear your voice of reason. I'm sitting in a corner behind a guitarist that never quits, but has quit on me. I'm studying for a test that I hope that I wont fail.

I woke up with a bloody nose this morning. I ate my bowl of cheerios with rice milk. I no longer have enough money in my bank account for that train ticket. I guess I have the whole summer to figure out if I'm gonna leave or not.

I wish I could stick my head in the dirt and let myself bloom, but the air is too cold, and I am too afraid of staying in one city my whole life.

Also, my friend's boyfriend looks like an alien.

Norfolk, VA

Maybe it was yesterday's rain, but today, the trees in Lowell bloomed white flowers, like the trees 3 weeks ago in North Carolina. We've finally caught up to what is perfect in my mind, but we're still so far behind.

The sun was going down, and we were racing, Tyler at the wheel and me right next to him with the warm GPS in my hands...."300 miles doesn't seem that far". By the time we hit Virginia, it was dark. We were both alert, listening to the engine of my blue car, and trying to see the exit for route 15 to take us East towards Norfolk, where a boy was born by my brother's name, raised, and wrote music that touched hundreds of people before he died, too young.

I know someone with shaggy hair and square-rimmed glasses who still believes in this life. He's never been broken down in Walterboro, or locked out of his car in Ipswich, Massachusetts. But he can laugh at himself when he sings out of tune, and wrap his head around the way his parent's made him feel.

He knows, that when you say goodbye because you are going to your next destination, your sadness is countered by anticipation. When you say goodbye to someone that is leaving you, it makes your head ache, and your heart long.

Everyone was leaving today...and I wasn't going with them, so what was I supposed to do?

Can't we talk about sound? About Dr. Lloyd's sound world? About time-graph notation and the knowledge that comes after 2 years of training? I can't study. I could go work on the farm, but it would only take me 3 tanks of gas to get south and I have that kind of money in my bank account. So what do I want more than anything?

It might be time to move South. A semester or 2 of community college. Music that makes my heart feel warm...singing the way I want to sing, no matter how out of tune, to the words that I want to be singing. I am a young mountain, a factor in the equation without a solution, and 45 minutes from Baltimore, MD.

Freezing on My Bike

Thanks MHSDG. Is that what they wanted me to say? Even though I'm not on stage, I still dream about it like its my job: The lights are on, the horns are blaring. I'm wearing a wig and staring wide eyed into a sea of darkness. What was my line again? Mrs. Faust is there in faded-black jeans. Mr. Ames...they are all there and I am thanking them for pointing me in the right direction and for hugging me when I was crying by the piano.

I'm riding my mom's bike down Market Street in downtown Lowell. It was sunny this morning, but now its dark and windy, and I'm cold despite the motion of my legs. I almost wish I was in Richmond, on Bell Isle, but who could I tell that to? These cities in these states are like high school crushes: you love them, and then you move on.

Besides, the humidity would crush me.

I would probably adopt a Pitbull mix named Diesel and we could hop from city to city. Or I could apply for an internship somewhere and learn how to be professional. I would wear a suit, drink bitch-beer, and comb my hair.

What kind of battle is this? In the end, will wistfulness conquer all? I know what feels right and easy, I'm scared of regretting some turn down the road. I don't know if I was born to sit still, or be quelled by daily operations. I'm a fighter, and a traveler. We're both fire signs, both born in July, and both ruby red on the inside.

One of these days I'll make some money
and buy myself those things that I want:
acrylic paints, acoustic guitar strings, a new bicycle seat
for my ride over to your house each night.

One of these days I'll look Mike Kinsella in the eyes and thank him for being so right.

It's a Habit

My enjoyment of biting my nails has transcended my desire to keep my nails short.

Incommunicado

Now my lip is bruised from trying to choke it back. I hate how ugly they make me look. I hate the shade of crimson my eyes turn. This is truly isolation, not even being able to call someone who could talk some sense into you. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

But I almost really believed that you would be there to talk to me when I got back. I was almost looking forward to it.

I wonder it has something to do with the holes in my sneakers. When I walk through the rain, the water gets stuck between the rubber of my sole. I skip over puddles, and tip-toe down sidewalks, but my feet are always wet, and I am always cold.

Or maybe its the hair in my face. Its so shaggy I can move it from side to side. I can hide behind it in class. I use it as a pillow, as a place saver: "My Armor," Jeffy might have said once.

I'm not watching him scream bloody murder in a parking lot in Lowell. I'm dreaming of the mountains, and of moving home to Asheville.

Breakfast Cerial Enthusiasts

The only time I've ever seen Luke run, is for the puddle before the canal bridge on Pawtucket Street. He waits for a gap in traffic, braces himself, then sprints past it. If he didn't, he would surely be soaked by the tidal wave that the passing cars spin up.

It reminds me of driving to Oak Grove in my red car, 17 years old. By the time I had walked to the T, it was pouring rain and I showed up to work soaked, hardly saved by a stranger's shared umbrella. I went home early that day anyways.

My job was so safe, my life was so certain.

Now I'm choking back tears so Paul wont hear me cry over a cellphone, over my limited capacity to understand accounting. Maybe I'll see things different when the sun comes out. Every day that it gets pushed back, my head hurts, my heart yearns.

Its a long way down from the branch where everything is balanced. I'm eating chex out of sandwich bag on the way to class wearing a purple rain jacket. It looks like someone spilled milk on the sidewalk, or maybe that's just Lowell.

Hello Stranger

I'm searching for rooms in different states...keyword 'vegan.' Somewhere bigger: I'm too big for my bathtub, to small for my jeans.
I'll bring a pillow for your head and my feet. I'll curse block lettering. I'll skip class, and homework, and...oh god, I'm not transitioning well are I? What am I? A student, or a traveler?
If it is going to disappear, maybe I should too? I am ever going to be happy in one place? Will I ever settle?
Maybe its the rain, or the real estate prices in the Carolina's. Maybe its the contempt I feel when I tell someone I don't feel right, or the overwhelming complacency from all of my friends. I could give up my car, be happy doing some shit job. Is this degree even necessary? Or should I just start my life...
College has given me direction, but my compass is out of whack. What part of this country needs me, and do I yet have the tools to do what I need to? Or is it just the vision?

There Are No Bike Punks in Miami

"What does it take to get one of those little yellow lights down there?" I would certainly say if I was a bird flying high above the greater Miami area.

When I was 14, I was reading a fantasy novel on an airplane inbound Miami International Airport, my family on either side of me. I was scratching my neck because the stagnant air irritated me. Someone should have given me Dramamine (then I wouldn't be crying in your arms right now). I woke up sunburned on the beach.

I'm 19 and I can do things by myself, like reserve an airplane ticket. I could call anyone, just to hear the contempt in their voice, but I'm calling Joe, just to hear his accent...and maybe to pretend that I'm 300 miles to the north.

I'm probably just bitter at the cost of a sandwich or the lack of vegan choices in a place so full of glamor. It might have been too loud to take a good nap on South Beach. It may be too crowded in paradise for me to see the beauty. Isn't it the people that make a location so great?

Tour Pt.9

Tour Self Portrait/Going Home.

I'm back in my dorm room. Its been 4 days since I've showered. I'm tired, I have homework to do but I've been editing pictures all day, reliving our east-coast tour. Undoubtedly, we'll be on the road again soon, doing some kind of similar route. We're releasing a split 7" with the Gnarly Whales, which we will be touring to support.

We played in New Brunswick, New Jersey last night with the Frontbottoms. They played in Lowell a little while ago and I coordinated with Brian to set a show up. They are so good. Tyler and I agreed, Brian has a really interesting way of describing things in his lyrics. They have awesome energy. I hope they come back to Lowell soon.

After we left Virginia Beach, we got to drive over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel. The Eastern Shore is a weird area of the country. That's where Purdue murders Chickens. People become slaves to Purdue when they agree to raise chickens for them. They take out extensive loans to build the chicken houses and pay gigantic percentages of their income to Purdue in order to pay off the loans. Any updates or maintenance is payed for by the Chicken Farmer and anything done out of line puts them at risk for breaching their contract. Its like share-cropping, except completely condoned by the government (mostly cause Purdue is far more wealthy than the US gov). Its a land of old plantation homes, with acres and acres in between each one. I suppose they feel awfully isolated from the rest of the state out there. There is also a lot of poverty around there and I get the feeling it is the beginning of a corporate takeover.

On a lighter note, it was a really beautiful drive. I was sad to be heading north, away from all of our new friends and wonderful memories. I really hope that some of the bands we played with on tour will make it up our way. I know we're both dying to help people out.

I feel like we were the witness to the birth of some wonderful things for music on the east coast. I have my fingers crossed for the continued success of Internationalist Books, The Hangar, The Great Valley, Artman's Skate/Arcade, The Bathhouse and everyone else who helps make music accessible to everyone. Music builds communities and changes lives. Tyler and I are the luckiest people in the world to be able to tour and bring our music around the country. We wouldn't be able to do it without the communities that welcome us so warmly.

I don't want to be here in my dorm room. It's true that I would rather be on the road, but when I think about WUML, Mt.Vernsworth, the Sockhop, the Ant Cellar, Lowell and Behold, and all the fantastic things that are happening in Lowell, Massachusetts, I realize that we are no different then the places I mentioned above. We are community of people who love music. We want to hear it in Lowell, we want to make it in Lowell. This is our place, and our time to do what so many people around this country SHOULD be doing. There will always be a place for musicians to play in Lowell, and so long as I reside here, there will always be a warm meal and a floor for touring bands to sleep on.

That's all for now. Thanks again to everyone who helped make this tour a success. We weren't disappointed in a single show. I can't wait to hit the road again.

Tour Pt.8

Car Troubles/Sunburns:

We got up at 5 this morning to drive to Virginia Beach from Paisley, Florida. Tyler slept for the first couple of hours while I drove. I like driving in the early morning when nobody is on the road. The sun was rising as we went through Jacksonville on Rt.9A. We finished our Mary Higgens Clark novel. It was about a wealthy New Jersey estate and a few connected murders. Of course, the last person we expected was guilty of all the crimes.

In South Carolina, we got off the highway and coasted up the hill. Tyler looked at the dashboard and said, "oh my god, the car is off." I didn't panic...my red car did that once, "Okay, just turn it back on." When he tried the engine didn't turn over.

This was the beginning of a 4 hour adventure. My timing belt had broken, and the men at the garage told us it would be a while. We spent the time writing music. I'm glad Tyler wasn't freaking out. Bubaloo is my baby. She is my wheels... my independence: everywhere I want to go, and everywhere I need to be. I thought about how much I wish we were closer to Greenville when we broke down.

We thought we would have to cancel our show, but we made it to Virginia Beach. When we walked in, everyone clapped. It was good to be out of the car, and good to play our instruments.

Everyone here rules! We played with Folk the System, and now we're staying at Rusty's house. They have a snake, 2 dogs, and 2 cats. Jack, is a humongous cat. Lydia, and Jane are the doggies (Jane is a pitbull/border collie mix.... ridiculously cute). The also have a snake, Michelle. She hung out with me while I wrote most of this.

We're going up to New Jersey tomorrow. We have to get the oil topped off cause they lost a little oil in the process of fixing my car. Its idling a little funny, but running pretty smoothly regardless.

Okay I'm sleepy and I'm having fun...Goodnight!

Tour Pt.7

Porter, Tyler, and I hanging out before our 5 hour nap.

Artman's Arcade and leaving Florida:

I finally felt tired today. We drove from Orlando to Umatilla Florida, the town where Florida's Natural is packaged and manufactured. I hate factories, and now I'm afraid to drink orange juice (Especially after this kid Chad told us horror stories about new workers falling into the vats..yuck).

Artman's is wicked cool though. This guy Art opened a skate-shop and arcade in a town that has absolutely nothing going in it. Porter and Andrew from the Gnarly Whales approached him about doing shows there and he agreed. I'd consider him a convert in the effort of making local music accessible to everyone. The young people that go to his arcade also attend the few shows that have happened there. He enthusiastically told Tyler and I his plans for expansion, and how he wanted more music there. If there is a place to play, people will want to play. I think he is doing a great service to the town.

Tomorrow Tyler and I drive 13 hours to Virginia Beach. That is our longest drive. Porter made us linguini and vegetables tonight after our drive to Paisley from Umatilla. We'll have to get up at 5 AM tomorrow. I can muster, but I know Tyler will be sleepy. Not that that is a bad thing. Tyler and I complement each other's strengths and weakness'. This is why we make such a streamlined, efficient, and totally awesome team. I know I have the energy and optimism to pull through for the next couple of long days that we have.

I will write tomorrow, in whatever sleepy haze I am in!

Tour Pt.6

This is Gator. He's a Jack Russell Terrier, and the next animal in our great dog tour of spring break 10'.

Today was St. Patrick's Day. Tyler and I played as the Dreadnaughts in an Irish Pub in St. Cloud. I felt underdressed in my train tee-shirt and red cardigan. Everyone was in green: green shirts, green wigs, green sweaters....and eating corned beef and cabbage. We played the best that we could with only a few days of practice, and the lack of experience on my part. I felt a certain pride for my heritage as we played the classic songs of Ireland. There is a kind of joy about Irish Music. You can feel it throughout a room of people sipping on stout and laughing amongst their friends.

Tomorrow we'll be playing at a skate shop in Umatilla, Florida. We're holding up really well. I'm stoked on everything. I was thinking about how much I love being on the road. I could just do it forever.

(SC is totally still on my mind)

I'll write tomorrow!

Tour Pt.5

We're in Florida, and people are singing along. Thats a cool feeling.

Our show last night went really well. We were greeted immediately, even though we were hours early. We played really well (no broken strings). The whole night was a lot of fun.

Today we're playing Irish music in St. Cloud. I'm having a sort of anxiety attack, not being so comfortable on the tunes. It doesn't help that Tyler doesn't seem to have much faith that we'll do well either. This is going to be a huge help to us though so I want to pull through and make it worth their time.

Joe called me from the Hangar last night. I checked my phone and recognized the area code. I frantically rushed outside, pressed talk, and smiled when I heard his exaggerated southern drawl. He started in on his traditional prank call line. "It's too early to prank call me. I've only been gone 10 hours," I protested.

Last night we stayed at Andrew's new place. Florida smells the same no matter how old you are when you visit. Their dog, Gator, came in and humped my leg this morning....GOOD MORNING!

It was good to get a shower, and a little fresh air this morning. I'm glad we don't have to drive too much today. I'd like to do the East Coast again soon. Every show has been golden. I'm also glad I have a job again so that I can support this touring bug I have. I'm the luckiest girl in the world, the happiest girl alive.

Tyler and I are going to practice our set for later until our fingers turn blue.

Tour Pt.4

Haikus:

You love potatoes,

Tempeh curry sandwiches,

You remain this place.

Will you remember?

I'm scared I'm just passing through.

I will though. It's true.

South Carolina,

I am driving away from you,

Where's New England now?

Bubaloo is safe.

She ran 9 hours today.

She'll run me back home.

Couches and warm meals,

I'm not a stranger to you,

I'm in love with you.

Georgia, you're a peach

I'd stay, if not for the heat,

And the miles till sleep.

Maybe I'm sleeping.

You're on the phone with someone.

I wish it was me.

I am roving now.

Your voice echoes through my ears.

May we always sing?

Tour Pt.3

Welcome to the Hangar.

I wonder if I ever had any teachers that shared in my ideals, but were never in the capacity to tell me about them. I suppose its possible, seeing as those who teach are interested in nurturing young minds. I still long for adult companionship I guess. I still try and find teachers who will share conversation with me, push me in the right direction, and help me justify my overwhelming desire to equal the playing field.

Ryan, who booked us in South Carolina, made me begin to think about that. When he got home from teaching his 4th grade class, with groceries in both arms, I was already engaged in conversation about sustainable farming and the importance of small business'. He shook my hand and explained that the growing season began earlier in South Carolina and that he would make us dinner after he put some early-season seeds in the ground.

The Hangar is what it sounds like, I suppose: an old hangar, approved for residential space, with a kitchen in front, and a sort of bike-collective in the back. The walls are painted yellow and green, and multiple times per week, they invite local and touring bands into their home.

We were touched by their immediate kindness, and interest in us as people. Everyone who walked in greeted us warmly, and shook our hands. They had the best animals too! 3 dogs: Tuesday, Grace, and Rambo, and one cat: Moo Moo, who seemed to enjoy his playful fights with Tuesday. I can't tell if he really believed that he was feline, or canine. Either way, he shared in eating Apple Jacks with me.

Tyler and I played, what we believe to be one of the best shows we've ever participated in. Not that we even played that well (Tyler's guitar needs to be set up real bad and he broke 3 strings!), but the amount of support from everyone their was incredible. I only dream of shows where no one touches alcohol, and everyone watches all of the bands, and finds something about all of them that they like.

Later that night, I would be sitting at a kitchen table with Joe and Marcus telling them how much the accessibility of local music meant to me. I told them about the Artspace, and kids who would smoke/drink in the parking lot, and about the quarrels outside that led to the distrust of the Gloucester PD and eventually the town.

...Not the Hangar. The shows are well organized, and well attended, but everyone is there for the music. It's not a social event for people to get hammerfaced and rip butts in the parking lot. It is a genuine, earnest place for people to come and experience live music as it is meant to be heard, amongst friends.

It starts from the top too. The folks at the Hangar are ethically sound: vegan, straightedge, you can call it whatever you want, but they live healthy, and promote a healthy life-style just by doing what they do.

Joe, Marcus, and I walked to a dumpster about a mile and a half from their apartment. We raided the dumpster for bagels that Tyler and I could have for breakfast. Yeah we're are touring band, but how is it that the whole world has our back?

I've realized a couple things about music and community:

- Its vitally important to young people, but even more important to their futures.

- Always cook for touring bands.

- Ask questions. People want to talk about themselves...and, its how we learn.

- Open your door to strangers. Help whoever is there to be helped.

- Music is the glue that holds walls together.

- If you have shows, don't let them loose their true purpose.

- If you have shows, be there watching them... It starts from the top.

If I had to run away from home today, I'd go to South Carolina. I think Tyler agrees. We could have stayed there forever.

Today, we drove 9 hours to Orlando, Florida. We're playing at this hip little joint called the Stardust Video and Cafe. They made us an eggplant sandwich, it was delicious (but expensive).

The show is about to start any minute now so I will post later!

Tour Pt.2

I'm getting used to long car rides again. Leg cramps, head-aches, you get the drift. We tried to keep the drive interesting, but we've driven up the east-coast before. It looks like New England, despite the different chain restaurants, and trees emerging from broken down dump-trucks.

Tyler had a lesson in standard shifting during traffic this morning. It set us back 30 minutes or so. We stopped in Durham, North Carolina in the search for guitar strings. Apparently, there are no music stores in the entire state. From Durham, we drove down to Chapel Hill.

I was getting excited, we rolled the windows down, took pictures, and made car noises with our mouths....you know, fun tour stuff.

We played at Internationalist Books, this anarcho-book store in Chapel Hill. According to some of the volunteers, the founder was shot by some of the town-fascists. It was a cool little place though, with a great balance between independent literature, established, writings, local artistry, and zines. We played with two of the guys, outside in a round robin sort of setup.

Afterwards, we met up with my friend Dan and his friend Andy for pizza at this joint called the Mellow Mushroom. We got yummy veggie pizza (no cheese on my half). Now we're sleeping here for the night.

They have the cutest cat in the entire world!

Hanging out...I just got a shower, thank god.

The Hanger tomorrow night!

Tour Pt.1

I've found the Susquehanna, seen the Chesapeake Bay. So when we're driving down College Drive or Darby Street, it just feels like home to me.

On the road you develop a certain preservation mentality. My ears become attuned to my car. "Was it making that sound yesterday?"

When we got dinner in Connecticut at China Pan (omnom), on Friday, It had started to make this hollow clicking noise. Really, it sounded more like a mac truck than my bubaloo car. It hadn't overheated yet, so we turned the music up and kept going (in my mind, overheating is a sure sign of a breakdown, everything else is just the prologue).

We took the long way to Philadelphia: down I-287 and then U.S. Highway 202. It was pouring rain. We thought for sure we'd miss our show. We were playing a Haiti Benefit at Haverford High. When we got there, our friend Tim Sweeney met us outside and helped us run all of our equipment in.

Tyler would say to me the next day, "I still find it incredible that anyone could like us." We played the best set that we could after 8 long hours in the car with no time to stretch our legs. Still, afterwards, a bunch of people came to talk to us, buy our tee-shirts and our music.

We stayed the night a Tim's house.

In the morning I looked up auto mechanics on Superpages and found a place called Fay Auto Repair that had gotten really good reviews. I called ahead, explaining that we were just passing through and were worried about a sound my car was making. They told us to come right in.

It was a quick diagnoses, my ac compressor was corroded, and in the process of breaking. When it broke, it would break my belt and I'd loose all power to the engine. He estimated a new ac compressor would be about 1,000 dollars. I was beginning to accept the fact that our tour might not become a reality.

I was considering calling my dad when they proposed another solution. They told me they could reroute the serpentine belt so that it left out the ac compressor. I would loose my ac, but we could keep driving. Also, it was a 100 dollar fix. They were the nicest, and totally saved our tour.

By the time we got to Baltimore, the rain had subsided and blue skies were breaking through the clouds. I was elated, hoping we could avoid more rain and wet feet (we hadn't really packed properly).

We drove to Scott's house were he had cooked a vegan burrito masterpiece. He made saitan, which takes a real long time, TVP, a lime creme, and veggies. They were so yummy! Also we hung out with his dog, Dash, who is gigantic and adorable.

I have a better picture on my for-realsies camera. I'll upload it when I get home. He is seriously the biggest dog I have ever met.

The show at Scott's was awesome. Everyone who comes here is so supportive. I love to think that I can be so far from home and people are doing the same thing we're doing back in Lowell. Music is such a powerful tool that brings people together. We're the luckiest people in the world to be networking with the U.S.'s finest.

We played with Jawesomesaurus Rex (Scott's band), Boomstick, and Factors of Four (our best-band-friends).

Its 10:45 in the morning. Tim and Tyler are sleeping around me, Naomi is on the couch. We'll be on the road again pretty soon, headed to North Carolina. I'll be sad to leave Scott's, and to say goodbye to Naomi and Tim. But we still have miles and miles to go!

Defend Your Right To Learn

The Rising Cost of Education at UMASS Lowell from Ali Lipman on Vimeo.

Half-Moon Mouth, Caterpillar Lips

I've been avoiding my bed like a cat avoids water, seeking sleep in all the wrong places.

I woke up in a car, my head aching, my arm asleep, annoyed. It was cold and I felt heavy, like an anchor drawn into the seat. I couldn't escape. I needed to scream, I needed the car to go faster so that I could shed the evidence of my nightmare. When we got home, I pushed and pushed the weight out of the car. I used all my strength, my fists clutched shut, and my teeth barred to make it go away.

Once I was free, I didn't want to speak again.

5 things I am grateful for?

5. Elliott Smith
4. My Professors
3. My Family
2. Student Activists and PHENOM
1. Luke Steere

I love you it's true Haiku

At war with myself,
Then you walk into the room.
I love you, I know.

Romance in Michigan

The first time I formally met J.T. was on my walk home from school when I was 15. I remember how he said my name aloud: "Aimee Jolouise?"

He was sitting on the front porch of his home, the afternoon autumn sun beaming down on him. All the houses on that street are small houses and his was no exception.

"Are you going straight home? Its beautiful out, and I have something I'd like to show you."

I hesitated, and then walked over to him, "oh yeah? Like what?"

He jumped up, "follow me!"

Teenaged, and rebellious, I followed him into the muddy cornfield in his backyard. My feet began to sink and I cried out in protest, but he was walking quickly so I abandoned my shoes and followed behind him.

I suppose sometimes its better to say nothing. I was in the company of a stranger, we were in a forest, tip-toeing barefoot along side a river. I tried to read the expression on his face. He looked peaceful, like this was where he belonged.

He jumped down from the bank onto a sandbar crafted by the river's current. I followed and my feet sank into the cold sand. He was searching for stones to skip. I looked into the icy-clear water and noticed a dark black stone. It reminded me of a trip my father took me on when I was little and a stone I had kept that had been smoothed by the water of Lake Michigan. I reached down and picked it up, squeezing it in my palm.

"J.T.?" I asked. He looked up at me and I handed him the stone and then skipped back up to the bank and tried to find a path around a thicket. He grabbed my hand and showed me the way through a patch of sumac trees and into a clearing of golden grass.

He lay down on his back, and I followed suit, making eye contact with sky.

Some memory, some simpler time in Michigan followed with romance and adventure and ending with bitter resentment. When they're done with you, it is just that.

They are done.

Jane and Grover

"Ok, the way I see it, if we were an old couple, dated for years, graduated, away from all these scholastic complications, and I reached over and kissed you, you wouldn't say a word, you'd be delighted, probably, but if I was to do that now it'd be quite forward, and if I did it the first time we ever met you probably would hit me."

"What do you mean?"

"I just wish we were an old couple so I could do that."

Punching, Hitting, Scratching

When I walked outside this morning, something had changed. I thought at first it was the lukewarm arm that met my face, or the lack of cars on the road, but I was walked farther up the hill, I realized that the birds were out.

The birds were singing.

I'm not sitting in a cardboard box. I'm listening to Waltz #1, over and over again, trying to deal with my feelings. It doesn't matter that my mind is stuck somewhere West of here, it doesn't matter how broken off I feel because I wasn't put on this earth to hurt people,

Or to break wine-glasses in a dark living room.

I can't say more. I can't write more. I want this to be over. I don't deserve to feel guilty. I don't deserve anyone.

10 things I hate about me.

First of all, I am not being pessimistic.

I sat with my head buried into my backpack today and realized a bright future for myself. If I can organize a blood drive, a concert, a protest, whats standing in my way? I saw people who looked to me for directions, for the next step. Its egotistical, or its healthy ego, I'm not sure. I'm not ready yet, but everyone is leaving me so I'm going to have to step up.

Its gonna be quiet next semester.

Its just those little things about yourself that if you told people they would say "ew..."

Like that I don't wash my hands after I use the bathroom.

Or those things about yourself that if you told people, they would know that you are more than a blood-drive, or a student activist...

You are evil, pure-blooded evil.

So everyday I remind myself how good my life is and how much I love Luke and all of my friends and family...so I can forget that I am pure-blooded evil.