- ruddy, pink cheeks
- people saying, “Happy holidays!” instead of “Enjoy your weekend..”
- reading, sleeping by firelight
- all the men in my life yelling at a TV screen with more heat and passion than the prayers they mutter before supper
- wearing wool
- the stars seem brighter
- Texans begin talking about snow as if it’s a long lost lover
- being able to see your own breath
- allowing someone else to warm your hands, besides your coat pockets
Love this picture
Louis playing for his wife in Africa.
I have a box full of Sharpies and you have a box full of wine.
Let’s draw all over each other’s hands,
fingers, and toes
even though we both have work in the morning. Even though
we won’t be able to scrub the shit off if we tried and
they’ll say something. They always do.
I want to walk to corner stores with you
and buy packaged foods for ninety-nine cents,
paying with three quarters, two dimes, and four pennies.
We save dollars for the busses we take to the places
we’ve always wanted to go
or shouldn’t have.
At night, I want to find myself astounded
by the way you hold me
as if I’m a glance you think you missed
driving too fast down a road
you weren’t familiar with.
As if I’m an insect
you accidentally drowned down the drain,
and given a second chance to breathe.
January 21, 2013 at 11:36pm
I was just thinking how ridiculous it is to sincerely believe that people don’t exist outside your own world.
Odd run-ins with your teacher in a grocery store or a XXX store.
Seeing your mom drunk.
Not seeing your mom. Ever.
Watching movies and not actively thinking about the actors as human beings tied to a greater part of life. “I wonder if her parents watched this movie. I wonder if her ex-boyfriend watches it too much. I wonder what she sounds like when she orgasms. I wonder if she likes her toast burnt.”
Just odd, don’t you think?
I fell in love with a boy at a coffee shop today. He was wearing a green, itchy sweater and had a black eye.
He drank three espresso ristrettos in less than an hour and then fell asleep on his school books.
No one wants to be Daisy Buchanan…
and yet everyone wants a beautiful love story. You have to die a little to live a little.
"And when I was in the delivery room, waking up from the ether, I asked the nurse whether it was a boy or a girl. She said it was a girl - and I turned my head to the side and cried. And then I said, I hope she grows up to be a pretty little fool. That’s about the best a girl can hope for these days, to be a pretty little fool."
It hurt me that I couldn’t hurt the way she did.
Sometimes I wonder if pain is slowly leaving me or if I’m just getting used to it. As if, maybe, there is some truth to the saying, “Time heals all.” Little by little every day another tiny bone, another blood cell, somewhere in my body in all of its magnificent infrastructure, goes numb and the pain dies until I feel nothing at all. Is it like watching a large family’s home get ready for the night? One by one, a light turns off, blackening previously yellow windows until all that is left is a large, white block of black squares. The last light out is the one upstairs on the right, the parents bedroom…
When I cry it’s embarrassing. It’s not beautiful or poignant or any of that shit writers or film directors try and make it out to be. When I cry my body immediately reacts by shoving its hand where my eyes should be, my nose sniffs as quietly but deliberately as possible and my head turns to windows or blank walls on which to cast out all of that emotion. Send it somewhere and nowhere all at once; I don’t want it.
When my little sister, Emily cries it is much different. She sniffs and she wipes at her face and she stares at walls and windows, but mostly she tries to pull all that sadness back inside of her. She likes to hide it there where no one can touch it, where she guards each twinge of tear like a peice of gold.
On a night that was too long ago now for me to properly remember - Was it a Wednesday? Had I worked that day? Why were we at her place? What did we eat for dinner? - I saw my little sister cry and it was beautiful and it didn’t hurt me that she hurt. It hurt me that I couldn’t hurt the way she did. I wanted my sadness to be worth seeing and feeling. Seeing her that way didn’t beckon or beg or call me to ask her, “What’s wrong?” or “Are you okay?” It didn’t guilt me into any frenzy of worry or sympathy. It just meant for me to look and to see. It meant love and death and life and hate - it meant it all.
We had just finished watching a movie and drinking a bottle of wine - 60% me, 40% her - and the screen was so bright it lit up her entire face. Eerie, blue, and pale was her face as she stared off into nothing. The whites of her eyes shining like a thousand sparkling lights of the city that was inside of her.
Was I there? Was she even there?
She pulled her arms over her, as if to hug herself, as if her arms were the gates keeping in a flood that was threatening to burst.
"No," said Emily, "No, you can’t. I’m not ready for this yet. I’m not ready to let go of this. It’s too beautiful, it’s too perfect. It’s too sunny-day-in-the-middle-of-winter and it’s too more-stars-than-satelites."
The world bargained with her, a silent conversation going on in her head for what seemed hours until - the world reached its impasse - a tear slid down her face like a child on a bright, red slide.
"Oh, man, I’m beat," came her voice and her hand rubbed from chin up to her eye like she was trying to scoop that little tear back into her brain. She got up, wrapped in her quilt, and shuffled off into the kitchen where I heard her wash a few dishes and turn off a light.
I’ve always wondered,
did she save the tear, perched at the tip of her fingernail, so she could taste it in the quiet of her own room?
All of its salt awakening her tonque with stories of her past. All of its warmth feeling familiar as it slid down her throat and into the bed of her pink stomach.
June 10, 2012 at 10:21pm
only you can prevent forest fires
There are a few things in life that no one can prepare you for; your childhood home being bought by a couple of methheads, the loss of a toe and its impact your ability to hold your body upright, or running into your ex at the grocery store. Specifically the ladder, but not at a grocery store, at your friend’s apartment party. Apartment parties are all the range these days, with their red plastic cups, tokers collecting in a bedroom behind a shut door and somewhere - always - there are some Christmas lights (whether strung over your head, wrapped around the porch railings or the ends of the bed post where you may find yourself with another lonely, drunk person searching for answers in the lent of eachothers’ pockets and the dead cells in eachothers’ hair strands).
Yes. That’s something life can’t prepare you for - running into your ex at a friend’s aparment party. Your father never sat you down to tell you not to look too desperate, don’t get too drunk, don’t find yourself alone in a room with them, and if it’s a costume party, don’t decide to go as Smokey the Bear (if anything, go as a cowboy, understated sexy). Your father never, after the awkward and altogether confusing ‘birds and the bees’, added a, “Oh, and by the way, for the future, when you ever run into your ex-girlfriend at your friend Carl’s Halloween apartment party…” Maybe if your dad was Doctor Who or Marty McFly, but he wasn’t. Who are we kidding?
That night I was dressed as Smokey and feeling pretty awesome about because a bunch of drunk 20-somethings were giving me “Koo-dos, man!” and high-fives and taking shots of whiskey with me. By one o’clock it might as well have been six because I was almost too drunk to stay awake. Pathetic.
And then my friend Carl comes and sits down next to me on the couch, looking exhilarated, looking like he was an athletic person, having just ran 20 miles and still smiling ear to ear.
"Great party, huh?"
"You know…" I began and rolled my body slightly to face him. "It’s a little off to say that about your own party."
He shrugged and kept looking around him. Surveying his kingdom, a sultan on his throne, bursting with pride, bursting with the feelings drugs and alcohol were feeding him. “Oh, hey!”
I had dozed off and opened my eyes and lazily blinked at him. “Wut…”
"I want you to meet this girl I work with."
"Man, no, I’m drunk right now."
"Exactly. You’ll be nice and loose. She probably is right now, too, if you know what I mean?" He gave me a look. I started thinking about how awesome it would be if she was dressed up as Volcana or maybe Hestia.
So we both stood up and I followed him, stumbling every now and then, to the back little balcony (only three stories up) where the white Christmas lights were wrapped around the railing, adding to the backdrop of the city lights and passing cars. There were only about four people out there, smoking cigarettes, talking about their favorite bands or how drunk they got last weekend or how they had work in the morning, but I saw her immediately.
Blunt blonde hair, her little chin, her dark eyes that caught any light that she stared at or stared over or stared into - so much light. She was the brightest thing I’d seen all night, amongst the Christmas strings, the bottoms of glass bottles, the reflection in toilet bowls. I think I probably did a dumb smile and awkward wave. She didn’t even move. She let us come to her.
"Emma, this is Brad. Brad, this is Emma." Carl introduced us without further and then walked off to the kitchen where people were calling his name, people were calling, "Carl, come take a shot with us!" Carl, love us. Come be young with us. Carl. Carl.
I pretended to be extremely interested in where Carl had gone off to and almost followed, but stopped myself when I heard her voice start.
"What?" I turned.
"Well, it’s funny, isn’t it? That among his friends he would choose you. And choose me."
"He’s just drunk," I dismissed.
"Aren’t we all?"
I smiled into my cup and then I couldn’t help myself any longer but to look up at her.
"So who are you?"
"Who’s that? Your dead grandmother or something?" And then I laughed, like my joke had even been funny at all.
"Margot Tenenbuam, Bradley. Like from my favorite movie. Remember?"
Jesus. Nothing about her had changed. Not even her favorite movie. Which, by the way, is a horrible movie. It’s utterly depressing and has a shit ending and she’d always hated that I hated it.
"So how do you know Carl?"
"Uh, met him here actually. At a party he had a few months back."
"You came with Whitney."
"How is she?" Stiff. Shoulders like glaciers, heavy on her tiny frame, sharp and melting under the heat of her beating heart, trickling down her leg and forming a puddle of shame under her tennis shoes.
I shrugged. “Fuck if I know. We’re not together.”
"Oh." She said and then turned away from me to face the city. A breeze came in and I swore I could smell her shampoo. "Oh, I see. Well it’s all for the best, I guess."
"Jesus, Em, it was years ago."
"Year. Not years, Brad. It was a year ago." She downed the rest of her Stella Artois, layed it down on the concrete by her, with the tiniest little clink and then swiftly walked inside, through the apartment and out the door.
How was Whitney?
I’m sure Whitney was three bottles and five pisses down the drain.
And Emma was walking herself to her car below me in a fur coat.
That’s when the snow started coming down, and you could hear the drunken excitement inside and suddenly the balcony was cramped, shoulder to shoulder with people pointing and laughing. And me. Not pointing. Not laughing.
Just watching Emma start up her car and wondering if The Velvet Underground was still her favorite band and if it was playing in her car right then.
Nothing’severgonnastandinmyway (Again) - Wilco
We’ll find a way, regardless.
To make some sense out of this mess.
Well it’s a test, but I believe,
a kiss is all we need.
All the above for being in love.
Shouldnt that alone be enough?
Oh, It’s tough when loves a weed,
it grows inside of me.
Frog and Toad were one of the first socially accepted gay couples.
My favorite too.
I loved this episode.