Beat Tape II

It's the difference between whole and hole.  Minute, but definitely not minute; in fact, infinitely not minute.  Or the difference between halve and have. Small things can hold a surprising amount of meaning; small things can hold too much meaning, the way you think you've only got a few books in your backpack and then it is so heavy, or the way you pretend things don't bother you, when they bother you so much.

I wonder if you're reading this in my voice; it's why I put in italics and made words bold.  The difference between my internal voice and yours is minute; but definitely not minute because with the wrong stressor, the wrong emphasis, everything changes.

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I've heard a lot of people say that, "it matters little what you say; it matters greatly what you do."  But both hold meaning.  There's this book called Everything Matters and everything does matter but in the end doesn't nothing matter and what are we even doing here?  We're fucking everything up and isn't the world ending? Finals are shitty and the world is ending and the presidential candidates have upset me and my face is breaking out and isn't everything wrong?  Read that in your best impression of an eighteen year old me, panicked college student just trying to make it through.

Everything matters.

Every thing matters.

Every. Thing. Matters. 

-------

I watered the plants last week, their yellowing edges started to fade,
and is it Sunday anymore?
You dealt me out a perfect 21, face and faceless card staring up
while the ring of condensation from my glass grew thicker,
and is it Sunday anymore?
Vacuum-cleaner lines were a perfect crisscross
flamingoes in the yard and elephants in the bed
of the littlest pair of feet in the house,
and is it Sunday anymore?
Coffee grinding through the old electric beast
piles of blankets now flick the fire on
spread your cold hands across my cheeks
watch the window like the sentinel you are,
and is it Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, anymore?
--------

"something you gave me

I focused on

A hundred moments ready drawn

Into my memory."

Beasts of a Very Different Nature // Now Is Good

I felt whole.  There wasn't another way to describe it, I was just whole.  And there were a bunch of laughing girls around me and the performances were in full swing and I was freezing but smoldering and everything was whole. Celebrations, a way to celebrate who I am.  What a good way to spend a thursday (avoiding my homework, lol).
Freezing, but smoldering. How, you ask? I couldn't explain, even if I wanted to.
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Fatal Flaw; mental or physical weakness.  I think everyone has one, especially in every book I've read.  Ifem is stubborn, Romeo and Juliet are both love-crazed idiots, Hamlet is too revenge-focused, Anne's is that she was too easily swayed by others, it goes on.  And mine? I'm afraid, terrified, petrified, whatever, of being in love.  God, I talk so much about love.  And I know I do, but I can't stop myself.  In the midst of so much love, from so many people, I can't help but be scared.  I can't help but be terrified.
It's easy, it's so blindingly easy.  Why is that?  It's overwhelming and all-consuming. And I have said for such a long time, that I never would, I never wanted to.  I was a cliche waiting happen, for god's sake.
Beholden.  My least favorite word.  I never wanted to find myself wanting to be beholden to anyone or anything.  Independent.  One of my favorite words, how I always describe myself.  I'm not.  I'd like to think I am, but I'm not, because I'm hopelessly dependent; hopelessly and incurably.
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Ocean eyes, steady and blue; she'd like to turn inside out.
Feel the world through a different skin; inside out.
And the sun is setting, pushing the world into a twilight
which knows not of you.
Radio silence no longer an option; she'd like to turn inside out.
Easy to pretend, she doesn't know what it tastes like,
biting to find blood but instead
wanderings flow out and she'd like to pretend.

Ocean eyes, steady and blue; she'd like to turn inside out.
Feel the world through a different skin; inside out.
Smooth, inky longing of something else, she'd like to pretend
it's unknown but ocean eyes sees more than anyone should;
texture of skin, curve of lips, feel of wanderings which flow.
Ocean eyes, steady and blue; she'd like to pretend,
she'd like to turn inside out and feel the world
through a different skin.

Ocean eyes, she knows more than anyone should,
Ocean eyes, steadily deep, steadily blue,
wades in too deep, turns herself inside out and
she'd like to pretend; but the world is changing colors,
and you can't stop the revolving.
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"Could be playing hide and seek from home
Can't replace my blood
Yeah, it seems I'm never letting go,
of Suburbia."

Life, man. Oh, life.

Little Broken Hearts

Relax.  That's what I kept telling myself, "just relax," as I was reading Paradise Lost, though inside I was smoldering.  Again, I was reading an epic about God and again I found myself hating religion.  Why is there a need to  justify everything with either repenting to God, or saying that God made you do it? And then, Milton felt the need to demean women through Eve and I was about ready to explode.  Explode is the wrong word; I was ready to grab my dagger and inflict some serious damage. I wonder what Milton was thinking, he who came from a woman,
The dick.
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And we're all pretty fucked up, you know?  We're all really fucked up, talking about the environment and the refugees and the government but then doing nothing and coming up with shit excuses for why not. I'm sure this is not news to anyone.  This can't be news to anyone.
I wonder what it would be like if people actually did shit about the problems in the world, myself included.
But you know what? It'd probably still be just as fucked up as it currently is because according to Milton, we're all doomed to Sin and subsequently Death, no matter what.
Thanks a lot Milton.
And you guys wonder why I have authority complexes.

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Relax.
Discordant and unbidden, they will come,
crawling into bed to fuse to the body.
Your arms, your legs, are not your own.
Sharpen the edges; batten down your hatches.
But, relax.
Lighting candles, to no avail
while sickly sweet smoke bubbles up;
The mind is the worst enemy created.
------

I hope you're all enjoying my recent bursts of desire to write- you have my procrastination to thank for that because I'm staring at my Norton Anthology right now, willing it to go away.

"Only human in the heaving heat of the animals
Bit of brown salt, stinging on my tongue
I will not waver, heart will not wait it's turn
It will beat, it will burn burn, burn your love into the ground
With the lips of another
'Til you get lonely, sure I get lonely
Sometimes."

April, Come She Will

Word of the day: Liberation
Word of the week: Liberation
Word of the month: Liberation

Liberals, liberation; Liberals, liberation.  There's a lot of it here, in my tiny little corner of paradise (ironically, right next to Paradise Pond).  I have become further entrenched in myself in as positive a way as could be possible.  I have a nose ring, which I call my one act of rebellion even though both my parents have told me they love it.
I am fully convinced I am turning into the person I was really afraid to be.  Afraid isn't the right word, maybe apprehensive? And I'm finding out that I never should have been apprehensive, I shouldn't have been afraid.
Words of the day: social construct.
My solution? Go to an all-women's college, you'll forget what they are.
No you won't forget, you'll learn to disregard.

---------
And I've never been more in love with everything. I've never been more stressed, but I've never been more in love and dammit I feel like I've really earned it even though I didn't really earn it.  It's ok to let yourself be happy, it really is.  It's ok to let yourself appreciate everything you have, it's ok to revel in finding yourself (I know, I'm so typical college freshman).  It's ok, it's ok, it's ok.

I am, I am, I am.
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Salvation came, just like April, in the form of words.  Salvation came in the form of someone willing to talk, willing to speak and not worry about what I was feeling and shy away but to speak to me.  Salvation came in the form of a decision.
It's not like it was a particularly emotional decision.  It's not like it was even a decision.  It wasn't a decision.  Salvation came in the form of Simon and Garfunkel, and April, coming like she always will.  And stupidly, I had never thought about it before.  And stupidly I always, always knew.  I was never immune, as much as I'd wanted to be, as much as I'd proclaimed to be.

No, salvation came in the form of words, a decision, never a real decision.
 "I'll never love you any less."
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"I don't have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And magnificently we will flow into the mystic"

"And together, together we will flow into the mystic."

Bicycles of Bombay

Upside down, a turtle's back
that's where I'd like to be;
run my hands along the grooves,
that's where I'd like to be.
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A look. That's all it would ever take, one single, tiny, pause of the eyes and that's all it would take. And god, aren't we all weak?  And god, aren't we all weak?
Because with one single look, that's all it would take.
I hate that.
-----
consume me out from the inside,
I'd do anything you want.
let the gnomes break down my
sturdy picket fences,
pulling tulips along the way.
white-gold ships will float
and those violin strings can break-
please consume me, inside out
I'd do anything, to turn my skin
wrong side out. know me,
you can't,
but I'd do anything you want.
on the horizon, your mirage
will be tangled, mountain Rainer
jet-like and upended.
I'd do anything you want.
and broken violin strings will whisper:
It was all a dream.
-------
October break really was a dream, a never-ending haze of fall colors and Gabe, Ridge and Sarah and Zoe.  A never-ending haze of ease, of chardonnay and endless Vermont sunsets.  It was a haze of appreciation for being home-- of the impermanence of what this new life is.  October was a haze of remembrances, dropping Sophie off at school, and showing Sarah and Zoe around, remembering chilly mornings and Witches Hat, locker rooms and coffee runs. Of lake st. catherine and slate quarries and the breathtaking beauty of it all. October break was a haze blurred with Mary and Kara and Sammi, Mummy and Rob.  I loved it, I loved it.
------
Upside down, a turtle's back
that's where I'd like to be;
run my hands along the grooves,
that's where I'd like to be.
-------
"Once you get the feeling it
Wants you back for more
Says it's gonna heal it but
You won't make the call
One step back you're leaving it
Now it's moving on
Why won't you believe in it
'Till it's gone?"

"You are living, a reality
I left years ago, it quite nearly killed me/"

Keep the Car Running

This is weird.  This is weird. This. Is. Weird.
Not in a three year old me running through the house with my pajamas and a lightsaber screaming un-intelligible words kinda way.
And not in a kid who sits in the back of class picking the wings off flies kinda way either.
No, this is just weird.
Is it weird that I can't keep my emotions in check?  Is it weird that I want nothing to do with relationships but I want to hold someone's hand.  And I do mean a specific someone.
No, it's not weird.
Is it weird that my favorite movie is Spirited Away? Is it weird that I keep playing that night over and over and over in my mind even though I really am past it? Is it weird that temperature is the clearest reminder of possiblities? Freezing to warm, back to freezing to warm and then to buzzing.
Probably.
Is it weird that I am so afraid to become exactly what everyone teased me about? Is it weird that I hate love but I love so much?
"Honey, it isn't weird. It's life."
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This is weird (i'm sorry I've used that word so much) but I miss my mountains.  I miss my room and it's disorganized organization and I miss my mom.
I miss the predictable commute (not that my commute isn't predictable now, it's just long) and I miss catching glimpses of the sun rising over my mountains as I pass Anne Burns and reach the top of the hill to take me into Warren.
I don't miss the small town politics or even the judgmental grocery stares because yes, I am Rob's daughter and if you think I had anything to do with what went down in the school you're a close minded asshole.
I miss skiing. Not racing.  I miss skiing and being around everyone who could ski.  I miss adventures in climbing waterfalls at the bobbin mill, impromptu hikes, sitting on the porch at night and watching the sunset.
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It's weird, being so comfortable in your own space.  I miss my mountains and I've never been so stressed in my life.  I'm tired and I have two essays and a test in the next few days and my feet are freezing.  But it's weird, being so comfortable.  It's weird to be happy.
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Lionsbreath

20 deep in the hole and it’s a shovel-covered dirt

or a dirt covered shovel but it doesn’t matter;

20 deep in the hole is a stained,

glass half empty kinda view.

Alibies and snakes teeth, they’re one and the same

and riot is my favorite word

at 20 deep it’s not the words,

but the way you say them,

your cowboy hats can’t protect you—

they never could and stop

sending far-fetched cries because

20 deep in the hole is a new place to be

and you are not full grown,

stop pretending to be

let the dirt be your star studded overcoat

lay your hands down and give praise

at 20 deep for the ether.

20 deep in the hole and it’s a shovel-covered dirt

or a dirt covered shovel but it doesn’t matter;

20 deep in the hole is a stained,

glass half full kinda view.

--------

All I can say is, it better be mountain day on monday or tuesday or I will do some serious damage.  Kmac, I'm looking to you.

"Every night my dream's the same, 

same old city with a different name"

Choice; i.e. Life and Love

I'm supposed to be writing an essay.
I'm supposed to be writing an essay.
I am the subject, writing is the verb, the essay is the object, or the most important noun.  Supposed is the implication. Beowulf is the catalyst.  Fuck you, Beowulf.

Realistically, there wasn't another way for that sentence to go.  I mean I could have said I was procrastinating writing the essay, but the already-written sentence implies that I am procrastinating, with it's use and emphasis on supposed.  I guess I could have opened with, 'Fuck you, Beowulf' but that would have seemed entirely too aggressive to me.  And contrary to popular belief, I am not that aggressive.  Or at least I try not to be.
I could've opened with a description of my first week or two of college- but I don't want to talk about that.  I'm entirely bored of talking about college.  I could've even just talked about brunch.  I love brunch.
Or, I guess I could have just gone straight into Beowulf itself.  We would have had an honest and open, and introspective, if you will, talk about this titan of a Norse mythology poem.  And you would have enjoyed it because while I don't like Beowulf itself, I like discussing it and generally when I like discussing things I become extremely animated and laughably excited.
But, I didn't.

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"We are the pirates!"
Francie's eyes drifted to me and smiled.
"The radical posse of pirates."
Her face lit up more and more as she chanted.
"And everywhere we row,"
Sweat was glistening, we were dirty and tired.
"People wanna know,"
Someone (Piera) pinched me.
"Who we oar,"
Lauren started to say are, until Francie shouted over her.
"And where we climb!"
Francie's eyes drifted back to something behind me.
"We are the Pirates, the Radical Posse of Pirates!"
I couldn't help feeling impossibly small.
------------
You could ask why.  You could and you'd probably get an answer, albeit a vague one.  Or you could just sit and stare, looking at the raised marks and wondering.
"Get out of your own head." Francie, the vegan, said that a lot.  "I'll let you borrow my fleece, you're shivering." And I wasn't going to eat beans, therefore I was not going to eat at all. "Eat the nuts I brought, you need protein."  I didn't need protein, I needed to be left alone, but no was not an acceptable answer, that night in the middle of the Massachusetts wilderness.  "Also, there's a pool just sitting over there, look! It doesn't have a fence.  No fences can lead to regrettable choices."
I made what could be considered a regrettable choice.  But I couldn't regret it.
------------

Said he who knew [how]
[the] origin [of] men from far [time] [to]recount
said that the Almighty [the] earth wrought
beauty-bright plain as water surrounds[it]
set triumph-glorious sun and moon
beacons to light [for] land-dwellers
and adorned   [of]earth[the]grounds
[with]limbs and leaves, life also[he]created
[of]kinds  [for]each  [of]those who living move about.

Can We Go to Your House for Dinner?

When I was a kid, we moved a lot.  There were two houses, in Belmont and then Cambridge, surrounded by houses with only boys, and I pushed my sleeves up and for all intents and purposes, became one of them.  And then we made our big move, to Vermont.  I really have lost track of the exact amount, but there were about five or six houses in between those and the house we built, or as the five year old I babysit would call it, "our Forever house."

Thanks, Liesl.  I think that's a pretty accurate term.  There's a lot wrong with this house, including my hotter than hell room and our perpetually broken roof and sliding bathroom door. There's a constant stream of people in and out, especially in the summer when a bunch of boys pile into our basement to work for my dad every weekday from 8-4ish.  There's no noise protection, there's always old men playing electric guitars and singing badly into microphones.  The dogs are constantly barking and the phone is ringing because the UPS guy is refusing to drive up the driveway.  There are fireworks and guns and the cars of a million people who came from who knows where.

And then there's us.  The five of us, technically the nine of us.

I remember building the house, especially when it was just a skeleton house.  We ran through it and brushed our fingers along the wood, marking out the areas where our kitchen and bedrooms would be, where we would eat breakfast and dinner, watch TV.  It wasn't a real concept, each having our own bedrooms and a basement we could play ping pong on a handmade and slightly uneven table.  And then when they started putting plywood on, we'd try and crawl out onto it until my mom and whoever was around would yell at us.  Gabe and I climbed up to my room and threw wood blocks down and then I fell all the ten feet down to the ground.

The first night we were in our house, we were too scared to sleep in our own beds so we piled into our mama and papa's bed and read, The Night Before Christmas.  I don't think I slept at all that night. But life went on, as it always has.

My parent's dream was always to create a place like this, a home for everyone who wants a place at our dinner table.  My friends are always begging to be at my house for meals and nights and some of them are even in our Christmas card.  Most parents build their family around a single concept, have it all about their children, have it all about themselves or their relationship or whatever.  But ours is about us.  It's about us being together and hating and tolerating each other and to me, family means my five people, Micah and Elsa and Leo and Otto.

I know I'm lucky.  I really know it and sometimes I forget it.  I have to leave in a month and while I've never been more excited for anything, I don't want to leave my people.  I use the term "my people" because they are and I've never been as prouder to be a part of anything as I am to be a part of them.  And there are so many bad days, when the laundry isn't done and we are all mad at each other, when the dishes are being fought over and the animals haven't been fed, the house smells of cat pee and the TV is broken, yet again.  But there are days when I come home and all I want to do is eat dinner and laugh and forget that the rest of the world exists.

So, let's eat dinner at my house.
We'll eat and fight and clean up.  We can grab drinks and sit on our (probably wet) porch furniture and watch the sun set over the valley we live in, on the wood we stained and watched being constructed. And we'll never say it, but I know, we all know.  Life is beautiful.

"Time's are changing, I know, but who am I,
If I'm the person you become
If I'm still growing up?"

ALSO:
totally forgot in my crazy busy whirlwind of a summer, but Misadventures of a Teenage Renegade is officially three years old! just a lil tidbit of information, now carry on.

Needle and the Damage Done

Sertralin Hcl 25 mg (Self Portrait)

My bare bones have been stripped down to their atoms

scraped with the vicious energy of a junkyard dog

freckled and teeth yellowed slicking his way through.

With muscles underneath a mirage of a pelt

twitching towards the piles that adorn a spinning sphere

I was a commodity, a pile of worth to be disregarded

until I was a quantity of bones and only then would it matter.

----

I took a poetry class during my last semester of high school, and although the above poem was not one I wrote during that class, I am forever grateful to Mary for telling me that I could write something and like it.  And here's one of my most favorite poems ever that I've written (and yes I know, that was in no way grammatically correct).

----

On Brothers

I was ocean eyes and you, the cowboy of the west,

fearless and always ready for a fight.

In between daydreams you painted pictures

on the sky, turning the world to a kaleidoscope,

colors swirling in on themselves and revolving

through the ever present dandelion dust.

The cowboy left his mark, etched like a

fingerprint into the lines between

those ocean blue eyes. 

His horse was instead a marble-shooter

yet his ferocity was the size of ten thousand

Spartans, charging off to battle.

And in between daydreams, a thousand

lanterns were lighting up the sky like

the irises of those deep ocean blue eyes.

While tiny fingers held onto the world

on a kite string, twisting and untwisting

to catch it in the wind.

Fiery red leaves rained down

blanketing the ground to leave no tracks.

And in between daydreams, the world

was suspended on an elephants back.

While the cowboy and ocean eyes

drew pictures on the sky.

----

"I caught you knocking at my cellar door, I love you baby can I have some more?"