I hate the evenings where I lay awake, trying desperately to fall asleep and find peace in my dreams. Instead I feel the energy of the past wrapping its arms around me like a comforting lover that might be a little too controlling. So I wake up in the presence of something I had long since told myself to forget, and I hate that space there. I hate the feeling of knowing that I am still, somehow, holding onto something that is no longer holding on to me. So I drag my ass out of bed two and a half hours early, brew a cup of tea, and realize that I woke up with an apology on my lips. Then I get to thinking why I would apologize and to whom, because last I knew I paid the penance by getting through the hand I was dealt for the crimes I had committed. Then I realize, while squeezing the lemon into my tea and showing a little too much interest in the water that is slowly turning green, that we are never even. I wish we were, but there will always be a balance - either owed to us or owed to the Universe for our silly human fuck ups. Shit. Yeah, I think I will just go watch the sunrise.
The sky is still gray from the memory of the night, and in the distance - far off behind the silhouette of at least a hundred trees, I see a faint line of pink. That is where I would live if I could - in that sweet hue that speaks to me of flowers in the Spring after the last of the snow has finally fallen and the smell of lasting sunshine starts to infect the air and my spirit. That is when I start to smile more.
But now I am stuck in that gray just watching and waiting for the day to begin and thinking about the treacherous holidays that are waiting not even a month away. That season where the snow falls perfectly on a dying or dead world. There is nothing on fire during the winter, except the passions that exist in our fragile little hearts. I was always a creature that liked the heat. So I slug through the season and through the holidays where people, for some reason unbeknownst to me, are ruder than they really should be. I watch the snow fall and I think it is beautiful when I don’t have to be standing in it and I think how nice it would be to have a cup of hot cocoa on the couch with someone I love. Then I curse myself for being vulnerable enough to want something so simple and so inevitably sweet. Fuck it. I will just get lost in the pink.
I stand there, outside in a gray wool sweater and my fabulously fuzzy slippers just waiting for the day to start. Waiting for the right time to throw on my clothes and get off to work where people will be waiting for their coffee and breakfast walnut cake. I will talk to these people and paint the charming little smile on my face and they will, for some reason or another, open up to me about their day or the ways that they miss their youth and I will think about the ways that I am rushing head first into this thing called being an adult. I will think about how, after work, I have nothing but a to do list to hammer through. The next day will be the same and I am just wishing for something to come and wake me up - to shake me and say - LIVE HERENOW. Here and now where sometimes faith falls short and your heart breaks with the memory of everything that once was and your soul screams at the myriad of possibilities of what could be. Instead I pour the coffee, think about the test ahead, and secretly shake with a fear I refuse to let show. Warrior, mom, I am a warrior. At least that is what I say to get through the day.
I am a 26 year old woman chasing down an 18 year old’s dreams - hell, if you count my dreams at 11 you would say it took me 15 years to get where I am and every day, well not every but damn close, I think about packing it up and running away into that soothing pink. I know those dreams may not turn out to be as glorious as they might have seemed. I think that is why I want to run. Some say it is a fear of failure or a fear of success but in the end the result is the same - I am filled with a fear I try to avoid or deny. I am struggling to put together the pieces of this shotgun shack I call life, and I might have lost a valuable cornerstone. Only I don’t know exactly what it is.
What do I know? I know there is a perfectly sweet, delectable man sleeping on the other side of my bed. I know I like the way he looks when he dances in his leather jacket, and I dig the way he pulls my legs against him when we are wrapped up on the couch. I also know that there is not an ounce of affection inside of me for him. Once a week I call him up, we cuddle and he does something unbearably sweet like make me a fucking cheesecake. I don’t even like cheesecake, but I like the attention. I watch him sleep a bit, silently cursing myself for the ice running through my veins and rush out of the room with my clothes in hand. I should shower and wash away the filth of my vanity. I should scour my skin and hopefully, in the process, purge my soul (or what remains there) of the selfishness running through me. I justify my actions by stating that I never asked for a damn phone call and I certainly don’t demand flowers of morning affections. I move through the days like a ghost in a trance and once in awhile I am able to touch something solid and I toy with it for a bit before that, too, falls through my hands. Right now this boy is solid and it makes sense to get a little return on my investment. It isn’t like I treat him bad - I kiss him well and make his drinks strong. I make him laugh. I never said I wanted more and I quite clearly remember my declaration that relationships are far beyond me - so why should I be feeling so guilty?
The answer comes while I stand exposed in front of the medicine cabinet mirror. My body is soft - some would call it large - I am not a pretty girl. I am not an ugly girl, either. I fall somewhere in the middle - I guess you could call me cute on a good day. My eyes are your typical hazel hue, my hair long, stringy and brown. It isn’t quite curly and it isn’t quite straight - you can’t call it wavy because usually half crimps, one quarter cramps, and the last quarter is pin straight. I usually just throw it up and pin my bangs to one side. Plain jane except for the ink that scratches up one half of my right arm.
Now let me explain why my image is important, because really you should always just focus on the soul (which I do believe I just illustrated was rather worthless as well), but here it is and listen well. This is a lesson they don’t teach you in school because the administration is too busy patting themselves on the backs for preaching about the “golden rule.” -- Good luck in this life if you aren’t beautiful. I had a coach in high school say that to me once. He marched right up, the creepy bastard that he was, and said “Bella, I respect you. Do you want to know why?”
I didn’t answer because I really just thought he was going to try and touch my breasts - he was that kind of a man. He was also a pompous ass, so my lack of response did anything but shut him up.
“Because you are going to have to work for everything you get in this life. Only the beautiful people get by easy, and you aren’t beautiful but you have something they don’t…”
Then he paused, thinking he had baited me in to wanting to listen to him when really all I wanted to do was kick him so hard in the crotch that his face turned blue. So, refusing to feed into his counterproductive psychobabble confidence boost bullshit I just looked up in his chubby, pink face and stared. Thinking the whole while how I would like to take that ridiculous ginger toupee right off his fat head and run it up the crack of his pervy ass. And, as it always is with bastards like that…he kept going.
“Will. You have will. No matter what comes your way you will meet it come hell or high water, and do you know why you have that will?”
I thought, after the last time, he would have realized that I wasn’t going to feed into this shit, but again I got that 15 second dead stare that only opened the door for more of my sadistic visualizations regarding ten different ways I could dismember him and where I could hide the pieces. Then he finally realized that I wouldn’t get interested, which worked against me because then he wouldn’t shut up.
“You have will because you aren’t beautiful. You have power because you have had to fight for everything you have. You have strength because you never belonged anywhere. You were and will always be the girl that no one understands because you are a bit different than the rest. You look, talk, and act different. You know what people say about you behind your back and you continue to stand out instead of stepping back to fit in. You know people snicker about your weight, which could use a little attention, but you still stand up straight. Your hair is wild, and you intentionally make it more so with the colors you dye it. You even make your own clothes! I swear I haven’t seen skirts as bright as the ones you wear since the seventies,” he snickered.
I thought he was done after making his ridiculous joke that only made me more resolute that the first think I cut off should be his manhood, but no - the ignorant never run out of things to say, especially when they have convinced themselves that they are right. (Which is all the damn time).
“So what I am trying to say is that I am going to push you harder than the other kids. I am going to be tougher on you, because you can take it and you need to learn that as cruel as this school is and as much as I will frustrate you with my demands - the world outside will be worse. You were born to be an outsider, Bella, and you keep yourself in that place. You pride yourself on how different you are - I see that in how you walk. But different isn’t beautiful, it is dangerous. So when you hate me because I am the way I am to you - just remember that I do it for you. I do it so when you get out of this place and see that the world doesn’t open its arms to overweight girls with crazy hair and patchwork skirts it won’t be as hard to take. I do it so maybe you might change your tune just enough to make this life a little easier on you.”
Of course at this point I was absolutely beside myself with rage. I could see his chubby little legs sticking out of a furnace I pushed him into - his feet kicking as the last of his screams sound and the smell of fake burning hair filled the room. I would never do that, for the record, but hell - I could dream. I mean, he did tell me in so many words that I was an ugly misfit. I did not need to be reminded of that, especially at that tenderly over-emotional age of 16.
But standing in front of that medicine cabinet mirror I somehow came to thank him. I came to understand that while he was and probably still is a pompous windbag far too in love with himself to realize that he, too, was an ugly little misfit - he was right. I tell people I care about who, for some reason or another, find it in themselves to care about me this story and I tell them that I know he was on to something.
They shake their heads and say “Bella, I really wish you wouldn’t think that way about yourself - you are a beautiful girl,” or some other sweet nothing that turns out to amount to nothing. The truth is - when someone loves or cares for you they are blind to the perceptions of the rest of the world. It is the same when someone loathes your ass. The opinions, even that of the mast majority, are worth less than a penny on a blackjack table.
I was not so blind to the majority opinion of me, and as I got older I really did stop giving a shit what they thought. I won’t pull one over and make myself sound like a machine by saying it didn’t or doesn’t still hurt to know that when you hit the town with a group of babes you are the one standing to the side and labeled the toad - but hey, there is something to be said for strength, right? Being the toad gave me strength - it gave me personality, buckets of it. Of course right here I want to say that I would rather have soul than a size 4 waist and tits that could stop a fast moving bus, but that wouldn’t be entirely honest, either. Oh the sweet vanities we keep. Like the one in the next room over sleeping in my bed while I burn a hole into the mirror. He isn’t around because I want him there and he sure isn’t around because I need him - he is around because it makes me feel good to be adored.
Stepping into the shower with these cinderblock thoughts I discover that I have finally found an answer to Dan’s relentless question about my belief in love.
Yes, today - like all other days, I believe in love. And today, like all other days, I believe it should stay the hell away from me, because I know it wears a pretty face. Love looks like a china doll until you get its clothes off and see the razorblade scars and monstrosities underneath.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Wake Up
10:47 a.m.
The phone rings.
You are on the other end, and you are here…a mere ten minutes away. Bus stop and I am frantically hiding everything worth any value. I am wondering what I will see when you look at me…how will all of this rage react when your big brown eyes find my slit style gray mysteries.
I want to kill you. I want to kiss you. I want to take you to the back door of my memory and show you EVERYTHING you did to me. I want to rage on you…I want to see you bleed and cry and fall down. Repeat. I want to feel you break. You cant break whats already broken. I have to remind myself of that elementary fact every damn day I think of you.
And what am I to do? How do I react? you call me…you are nine hours away from your home and hundreds of miles. Dead winter weather and twenty mile winds…I cant turn you to the streets. I guess I wish my heart was cold enough to say goodbye and holy hallelujah, but something inside of me still loves you. This mind state is abuse…its battery and I am kicking my own ass.
The clash. Do I stay, do I go. Do I hang up the phone? I go through the motions as I mix my coffee. I need a cigarette…I need a sedative…I need a heart of stone and ice running through my veins. I need to be brutal and harsh and cold and cruel. I need to be everything I never really thought I could be. But I love you. In some odd way in some weird corner of my mind all I can see is that one night when you made me feel like the world stopped turning when your lips found mine.
You called me perfect and I believed you. that was your worst offense. You found a girl who thought she was nothing…a zero...some lonely little lass on the side of the road but no one wants to pull over because you just don’t seem golden. You took that, knowing how much I hated myself, and you made me feel like a goddess. A fucking everything. You made me feel like traffic would stop just to let me cross. And then…finally feeling safe…secure…at home…like I could trust someone and believe that they would fight for me the way I fight for them…then you left me behind. Dust in the wind, brother…I was only dust in the wind.
Some one night stand…a holy hell I can fuck her and maybe find her later when i need need need someone to believe in me?! I believe in tearing you down…I believe in raw violence that equates to my tires finding your broken back. I believe in bleeding pores and shattered bones. I believe you were the worst thing that happened to me, but i cant regret you. I cant take you back…why? Because that night lying there unveiled to your deceptive eyes I figured that some boys are worth the fight, and some…are just shit waiting for you to break down so they can tell you that they need you and feed off of every genuine energy you possess for them.
Sharpie marker. I write FUCK YOU all over your forehead. If I was a tattoo artist I would make it bleed while I etched your bone.
Side b.
Baby you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. What can I say…I love it when you pop your collar and just start to sing. I love the way you dance. I love how you laugh. I wanna touch you in a million places because every stretch of skin holds a million flavors. I wanna write your story and make love to it with my imagination every night. I wanna protect you from every cold, heartless, bitter energy outside. I wanna hold you when you cry.
I want to be the girl you call the love of your life. And this moment drags on, but it breaks my heart to know that it will pass. You are there…across the room…dark hair hanging nearly to your eyes and i wanna rush over to you and ask that you never ever ever leave…no stay right here and just fucking hold on to me. This kind of need I have for you drives me nearly nuts. I don’t want to love you
*grab my hair and i pull. I run my fingers through the mess and i want to cry or break or believe. I just cant see what I believe in when it comes to seeing you. This is a massacre. You are holding the machete and lets just be honest for a second, babe…you would stick that bitch in my side the minute some decent money was paid.*
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How can he just show up here? Knowing what he knows? Knowing that night he left me in that bar in that city of sin was the worst damn night of my life. Knowing for three fucking years I rarely heard from him…never or not at all. Knowing that an apology was a long time coming…as a matter of fact it took too damn long.
I saw something inside of his skin. I just couldn’t shake his image out of my head. I thought that maybe there was half a chance that for once in this jaded existence i could maybe be worth it enough to someone. I thought maybe I could shine bright enough to be loved. And he made me feel so safe. he made me feel like I was worth every moment he could have gave.
And then he left me there…standing still with more than tears in my eyes. Gasping for air and I am trying ot understand how someone could speak so many words and react in such an insensitive style. Lets play a game…its called make a list of every sugar word he spoke to me and then lets place its weight on the mighty scale of justice and see if it outweighs the way he made me feel that cursed night he left me behind.
*amazing
*beautiful
*perfect
*angel
*all I want is you, flannel sheets, and a thunderstorm
*I think I love you
*I want you to lay next to me and just rest your head on my chest
*that’s why your middle name is nicotine (cuz girl im just so addicted to you)
Oh so addicted to me, right? Like he was addicted to the drugs, or the skinny girls or the old cars and fast times down Michigan roads. Oh yeah…he was real fucking hooked. Lord knows you always leave behind what you love the most…yeah, that makes sense.
The phone rings.
You are on the other end, and you are here…a mere ten minutes away. Bus stop and I am frantically hiding everything worth any value. I am wondering what I will see when you look at me…how will all of this rage react when your big brown eyes find my slit style gray mysteries.
I want to kill you. I want to kiss you. I want to take you to the back door of my memory and show you EVERYTHING you did to me. I want to rage on you…I want to see you bleed and cry and fall down. Repeat. I want to feel you break. You cant break whats already broken. I have to remind myself of that elementary fact every damn day I think of you.
And what am I to do? How do I react? you call me…you are nine hours away from your home and hundreds of miles. Dead winter weather and twenty mile winds…I cant turn you to the streets. I guess I wish my heart was cold enough to say goodbye and holy hallelujah, but something inside of me still loves you. This mind state is abuse…its battery and I am kicking my own ass.
The clash. Do I stay, do I go. Do I hang up the phone? I go through the motions as I mix my coffee. I need a cigarette…I need a sedative…I need a heart of stone and ice running through my veins. I need to be brutal and harsh and cold and cruel. I need to be everything I never really thought I could be. But I love you. In some odd way in some weird corner of my mind all I can see is that one night when you made me feel like the world stopped turning when your lips found mine.
You called me perfect and I believed you. that was your worst offense. You found a girl who thought she was nothing…a zero...some lonely little lass on the side of the road but no one wants to pull over because you just don’t seem golden. You took that, knowing how much I hated myself, and you made me feel like a goddess. A fucking everything. You made me feel like traffic would stop just to let me cross. And then…finally feeling safe…secure…at home…like I could trust someone and believe that they would fight for me the way I fight for them…then you left me behind. Dust in the wind, brother…I was only dust in the wind.
Some one night stand…a holy hell I can fuck her and maybe find her later when i need need need someone to believe in me?! I believe in tearing you down…I believe in raw violence that equates to my tires finding your broken back. I believe in bleeding pores and shattered bones. I believe you were the worst thing that happened to me, but i cant regret you. I cant take you back…why? Because that night lying there unveiled to your deceptive eyes I figured that some boys are worth the fight, and some…are just shit waiting for you to break down so they can tell you that they need you and feed off of every genuine energy you possess for them.
Sharpie marker. I write FUCK YOU all over your forehead. If I was a tattoo artist I would make it bleed while I etched your bone.
Side b.
Baby you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. What can I say…I love it when you pop your collar and just start to sing. I love the way you dance. I love how you laugh. I wanna touch you in a million places because every stretch of skin holds a million flavors. I wanna write your story and make love to it with my imagination every night. I wanna protect you from every cold, heartless, bitter energy outside. I wanna hold you when you cry.
I want to be the girl you call the love of your life. And this moment drags on, but it breaks my heart to know that it will pass. You are there…across the room…dark hair hanging nearly to your eyes and i wanna rush over to you and ask that you never ever ever leave…no stay right here and just fucking hold on to me. This kind of need I have for you drives me nearly nuts. I don’t want to love you
*grab my hair and i pull. I run my fingers through the mess and i want to cry or break or believe. I just cant see what I believe in when it comes to seeing you. This is a massacre. You are holding the machete and lets just be honest for a second, babe…you would stick that bitch in my side the minute some decent money was paid.*
-----------------------------------------------------------
How can he just show up here? Knowing what he knows? Knowing that night he left me in that bar in that city of sin was the worst damn night of my life. Knowing for three fucking years I rarely heard from him…never or not at all. Knowing that an apology was a long time coming…as a matter of fact it took too damn long.
I saw something inside of his skin. I just couldn’t shake his image out of my head. I thought that maybe there was half a chance that for once in this jaded existence i could maybe be worth it enough to someone. I thought maybe I could shine bright enough to be loved. And he made me feel so safe. he made me feel like I was worth every moment he could have gave.
And then he left me there…standing still with more than tears in my eyes. Gasping for air and I am trying ot understand how someone could speak so many words and react in such an insensitive style. Lets play a game…its called make a list of every sugar word he spoke to me and then lets place its weight on the mighty scale of justice and see if it outweighs the way he made me feel that cursed night he left me behind.
*amazing
*beautiful
*perfect
*angel
*all I want is you, flannel sheets, and a thunderstorm
*I think I love you
*I want you to lay next to me and just rest your head on my chest
*that’s why your middle name is nicotine (cuz girl im just so addicted to you)
Oh so addicted to me, right? Like he was addicted to the drugs, or the skinny girls or the old cars and fast times down Michigan roads. Oh yeah…he was real fucking hooked. Lord knows you always leave behind what you love the most…yeah, that makes sense.
Whispers and Bones
Bones. We are bones, which will someday be dust. We will fade away into the sky or ground or air or whatever the hell you choose to believe. What will we leave behind? What will be our legacy? You see, there are no guarantees. NONE. You want a guarantee - here is one and it is the only promise I will make. I promise you that you will die. I promise you that one day you will cease to breathe in this astral plane. I don’t know about the rest, because I don’t know about all that. I do know that the world will be no less full without you there, because you can sure as shit bet that there is a baby waiting to take up your breathing space - maybe two. You can bet that someone out there, somewhere, will cry for you - will lament for you. You can bet that someone out there that should be mourning is refusing to break down. You had better believe that everything you did or said somehow had some kind of consequence, because this death day - our doom - could be only a second away.
How did we choose to live our lives? What did we choose to say or do or feel or believe? Why must we jeopardize the everything because we believe it couldn’t possibly last and remain this fucking unbelievably good when we don’t truly know how long anything will last?
WHY NOT LAUGH RIGHT NOW - do it - I dare you to sit there and think of something that struck you as hilarious and call it to mind and let it take you over and laugh until you cry. It isn’t hard - I just did it, and if it was my last second on this world I know I went out with a smile on my face and a beautiful memory in my heart. I know that I loved people with every bit of me that I could spare - I know that I held a pillow to my chest because it smelt like someone I wanted to be near, and it felt fucking great to hold that bastard to my chest.
I know that everything I was was exactly everything I was meant to be. And I laughed. Do you want to know what? Just before that I danced in my mind and electricity ripped through my body like a tidal wave - like a current that powered the whole damn world. Why not? I have that power. I believe I have that ability - to light this planet - to light up my life and maybe help to illuminate yours or his or hers.
Why is it bad to believe so boldly in yourself? You want to hear a secret - take this one to press - I don’t want it anymore.
How did we choose to live our lives? What did we choose to say or do or feel or believe? Why must we jeopardize the everything because we believe it couldn’t possibly last and remain this fucking unbelievably good when we don’t truly know how long anything will last?
WHY NOT LAUGH RIGHT NOW - do it - I dare you to sit there and think of something that struck you as hilarious and call it to mind and let it take you over and laugh until you cry. It isn’t hard - I just did it, and if it was my last second on this world I know I went out with a smile on my face and a beautiful memory in my heart. I know that I loved people with every bit of me that I could spare - I know that I held a pillow to my chest because it smelt like someone I wanted to be near, and it felt fucking great to hold that bastard to my chest.
I know that everything I was was exactly everything I was meant to be. And I laughed. Do you want to know what? Just before that I danced in my mind and electricity ripped through my body like a tidal wave - like a current that powered the whole damn world. Why not? I have that power. I believe I have that ability - to light this planet - to light up my life and maybe help to illuminate yours or his or hers.
Why is it bad to believe so boldly in yourself? You want to hear a secret - take this one to press - I don’t want it anymore.
Installement three (NOVELLA)
1979 - full moon in July. There are two young lovers sitting just miles from the Pennsylvania line on the hood a rust red 1971 Buick Riviera. They are crazy about each other. The kind of crazy where the sun comes up but all they see is the light in each other’s eyes. The kind of crazy where every second is an eternity while they are waiting to get back to the place where they glue their bodies together and feverishly discover the dimples on each other’s skin. The kind of love that fairy tales preach of and parents warn of. They are dangerous for each other, and they know it. They feed off of it. You see, Dan just enlisted in the service and Mary has long since been dating another man. A family friend that got down on one knee and promised her the world on top of a diamond so big it could light up the sky. The fire is part of the attraction - the possible danger at what could happen if they were discovered - my oh my, it just makes every kiss taste sweeter than the last, because every fruit tastes better when it is forbidden.
“Mary, baby, what is it you see when you look at the sky?” He asks as he runs his smooth hand under her light blue skirt to tickle her thigh. She laughs the way pristine girls do, but she is not so pristine when she takes a big sip of the Thunderbird keeping them company tonight. She is not as pristine as everyone would like the think, and that is just how she wants it to be. That is just how Dan makes her feel when he comes by the park to pick her up in his battered old car.
“I see some white dots. That is all they are. People call them stars and I think that implies they have a beauty to them that is deeper than what you see on the surface. Really they are just big balls of gas lighting up the sky,” she says, hiccupping her way through the last bit. Dan thinks it is just so cute how his girl - who has more money than the Beatles have fans - knows about these kinds of things. It’s just so cool how she can talk schooling and take back some Thunderbird like a champ. He gets a little sad then, because he knows it won’t last. It can’t last. This is his summer of love before the day comes when he is rushed off to a camp that houses only men and breaks him into submission so he can get enough cash to get out of this place. He secretly hopes that Mary will go with him - somewhere else, somewhere far from where her parents can plan out her life and his own mother can inflict her anxiety on him. He doesn’t tell Mary this, because as bad as she wants to be, he knows she is good and loves that dirty diamond ring. He knows she likes the big houses and fancy bathrooms that are so extensive they have one of those things that wash your ass. He doesn’t understand why anyone would need one, because a rag and a shower always served him just fine, but he supposes that if he had the money for a fancy bathroom he might have one, too. The truth is is that he knows she wants him and he knows she wants him only because she shouldn’t have him, but it keeps the nights sweeter when he has her skin between his hands. This is love, he thinks, taking a little too much to drink, and before he can continue with the point that he was going to make she leans over and does that nibble thing to his neck that he just can’t get enough of.
But tonight, as bad as he wants it, he won’t let himself have it. He can’t have her tonight because he wants it to be more than just a few week fling. He wants her every night, and when he is away he wants letters that she would write while waiting, slightly heartbroken, for him to come home. He was always a romantic. He moans as her teeth nick his skin and her breath falls hot around his ear.
Stop it, he tells himself. You just stop it right now, because this can’t go on. This shouldn’t be happening here or now. There shouldn’t be a man waiting for her to be his when she is out here with me letting me in.
“Mary.”
She doesn’t stop. She presses her hand against his crotch. Now the Thunderbird is kicking in. God, she feels so good, but he knows it has to end or begin. This middle space won’t work for him.
“Mary, stop. We need to talk.”
She giggles and presses her hand harder still.
He is throbbing and she is sweet and the night is young and they are, he thinks, in love. Why the hell not? Why, because it is wrong and this is going to be a heartbreak even if they don’t stop here and no one will come out on top. He comes from a broken home and the last thing he needs while sweating with a million other men in the hot sun while he scales a wooden wall to build his muscles to alright is to think of her here, like this, on this night. Then to think of her wrapped up with another man in between sheets he could never afford while that guy bears into his girl. He shudders and the moment is lost.
“Mary. We can’t do this anymore,” he gasps.
She stops. Her face is still near his neck, but she is still. He can feel her breathe and god he wants her so bad. He wants to throw her to the ground and rip off her blouse and taste every honey she has. He just wants her so damn bad.
She stands up, shaken. She has never been denied. She has never been pushed away. She grabs the bottle, takes some down and hands it to Dan. He takes the largest single drink he has ever had. This hurts. It shouldn’t hurt, because it has only been a month, but damn - it was one hell of a month. The liquor burns his throat - he welcomes the pain. Mary walks away - only a few feet - and stares into the sky.
“Just large balls of gas,” she says. The reality that the end they both wanted to pretend didn’t exist was finally upon them was hitting her. Now she knew that Dan changed her, too. She would never be the same. A tear falls - just one, because her mother told her it was improper to cry. “We don’t even have magic to believe in anymore.” She turns her back to Dan and shakes her head.
Dan takes another drink - the bottle is gone now. He feels good and he feels bad. He walks over to Mary and puts his arm around her shoulders. He wants her so bad, and he knows now it is a want he will never fully have. He can’t live his life only having half of the heart that made his whole. He repeats that this is for the best inside of his head, even though he secretly thinks this is the worst thing he has ever felt. Now is his time to be strong, though. Now he gets to play the part of leading man.
“Come on, Mary baby, let’s go for a drive. Let’s take up what is left of the night.”
He leads her to the car - his hand lightly touching her center back. He is telling himself to keep this more friendly and less encompassed with the fire that burns. How do you act like a friend when all you have been is a lover, though? How do you turn the dial back? Time kept ticking and they kept kissing and, lost in their dream and each other’s heat, the summer ran away from them and now they have to go back to June and pretend, somehow, that it never went down this road. That they never saw each other naked and vulnerable. At least the game is just for the night, Dan thinks, because he knows that after he drops her off at home he will never see her again. No, this will be the last time her sweet smell of daisies and orange spice fill up the interior of his car. This will be the last time his summer girl spreads her energy around him and chokes him up in all of the pretty little things she does when she thinks she is being bad.
Dan sighs and opens her door. She places her hand on his chest and looks up at him with those chocolate eyes that bring him to his knees. He won’t buckle this time, he thinks. But damn, man, she is standing there so pretty under the moonlight and her face is begging me for a kiss and oh, god, what am I ever going to do without this? He touches the side of her face and tucks her hair behind her ear.
“I am going to take you the long way home,” he says as he walks away.
Mary looks down at the ground again, the only place her eyes can seem to find, and sits down on the brown seat, tucking her feet underneath her. She has never been denied.
Dan gets in the car, turns on the engine and lets it purr. He loves the way a car sounds when it starts - it soothes him with the raw power of mechanics. The radio blasts out Zeppelin’s new power hit “All of My Love,” and Dan nearly loses his nerve. He loves this song, but right now the thought of it is breaking his heart. He turns the dial down. Mary doesn’t object - she was more of a disco girl.
The song hums low in the background, the only noise besides the crickets outside. The silence is awkward, but as the yellow lines drift by in the side mirror they both realize that the conversation would be worse. Mary keeps her eyes on those yellow lines - backwards, she thinks, they have this whole thing backwards. You are a child growing up to believe that when you finally grow up the world will be great. You can’t wait to get older, to fall in love, to drive a car - all of these little tasty things they tease you with and you, suckered in, eagerly wait for. Then you get there and it just isn’t that good because love isn’t free, as you get older your face starts to wear an wisdom you aren’t quite comfortable with, and every car eventually breaks down. Now I am older, she thinks, and I want to be young again. I want to be far away from these choices that will some day be recollected to an audience who doesn’t really care - I want to be far away from status and society. I just want to be with him, but I know I never could.
She thinks these things and gets lost in the song. The song she never really cared for, but now knows she will love until her days end. She will love it in that heartbreaking way that turns a girl into a woman. She will buy the record and listen to it from time to time, when she is alone and free to cry or scream. She will remember the summer night, the hopeless talk of stars, and Thunderbird. She will feel the warm wind comb her hair as she focuses helplessly on passing yellow lines.
She knows she will never be the same.
That is when something big and dark runs in front of the car. That is when Dan screams and the brakes screech and the alcohol that blurred his senses takes revenge on their consumption.
There was no one on the road except that old Buick Riviera, but if there were, if the owls that watched could talk, they would have spoke of a loud crunching noise and a car that spun in circle until it landed against a large pine tree that sat 20 feet off the road. They would have spoke of the sound of breaking glass.
“Mary, baby, what is it you see when you look at the sky?” He asks as he runs his smooth hand under her light blue skirt to tickle her thigh. She laughs the way pristine girls do, but she is not so pristine when she takes a big sip of the Thunderbird keeping them company tonight. She is not as pristine as everyone would like the think, and that is just how she wants it to be. That is just how Dan makes her feel when he comes by the park to pick her up in his battered old car.
“I see some white dots. That is all they are. People call them stars and I think that implies they have a beauty to them that is deeper than what you see on the surface. Really they are just big balls of gas lighting up the sky,” she says, hiccupping her way through the last bit. Dan thinks it is just so cute how his girl - who has more money than the Beatles have fans - knows about these kinds of things. It’s just so cool how she can talk schooling and take back some Thunderbird like a champ. He gets a little sad then, because he knows it won’t last. It can’t last. This is his summer of love before the day comes when he is rushed off to a camp that houses only men and breaks him into submission so he can get enough cash to get out of this place. He secretly hopes that Mary will go with him - somewhere else, somewhere far from where her parents can plan out her life and his own mother can inflict her anxiety on him. He doesn’t tell Mary this, because as bad as she wants to be, he knows she is good and loves that dirty diamond ring. He knows she likes the big houses and fancy bathrooms that are so extensive they have one of those things that wash your ass. He doesn’t understand why anyone would need one, because a rag and a shower always served him just fine, but he supposes that if he had the money for a fancy bathroom he might have one, too. The truth is is that he knows she wants him and he knows she wants him only because she shouldn’t have him, but it keeps the nights sweeter when he has her skin between his hands. This is love, he thinks, taking a little too much to drink, and before he can continue with the point that he was going to make she leans over and does that nibble thing to his neck that he just can’t get enough of.
But tonight, as bad as he wants it, he won’t let himself have it. He can’t have her tonight because he wants it to be more than just a few week fling. He wants her every night, and when he is away he wants letters that she would write while waiting, slightly heartbroken, for him to come home. He was always a romantic. He moans as her teeth nick his skin and her breath falls hot around his ear.
Stop it, he tells himself. You just stop it right now, because this can’t go on. This shouldn’t be happening here or now. There shouldn’t be a man waiting for her to be his when she is out here with me letting me in.
“Mary.”
She doesn’t stop. She presses her hand against his crotch. Now the Thunderbird is kicking in. God, she feels so good, but he knows it has to end or begin. This middle space won’t work for him.
“Mary, stop. We need to talk.”
She giggles and presses her hand harder still.
He is throbbing and she is sweet and the night is young and they are, he thinks, in love. Why the hell not? Why, because it is wrong and this is going to be a heartbreak even if they don’t stop here and no one will come out on top. He comes from a broken home and the last thing he needs while sweating with a million other men in the hot sun while he scales a wooden wall to build his muscles to alright is to think of her here, like this, on this night. Then to think of her wrapped up with another man in between sheets he could never afford while that guy bears into his girl. He shudders and the moment is lost.
“Mary. We can’t do this anymore,” he gasps.
She stops. Her face is still near his neck, but she is still. He can feel her breathe and god he wants her so bad. He wants to throw her to the ground and rip off her blouse and taste every honey she has. He just wants her so damn bad.
She stands up, shaken. She has never been denied. She has never been pushed away. She grabs the bottle, takes some down and hands it to Dan. He takes the largest single drink he has ever had. This hurts. It shouldn’t hurt, because it has only been a month, but damn - it was one hell of a month. The liquor burns his throat - he welcomes the pain. Mary walks away - only a few feet - and stares into the sky.
“Just large balls of gas,” she says. The reality that the end they both wanted to pretend didn’t exist was finally upon them was hitting her. Now she knew that Dan changed her, too. She would never be the same. A tear falls - just one, because her mother told her it was improper to cry. “We don’t even have magic to believe in anymore.” She turns her back to Dan and shakes her head.
Dan takes another drink - the bottle is gone now. He feels good and he feels bad. He walks over to Mary and puts his arm around her shoulders. He wants her so bad, and he knows now it is a want he will never fully have. He can’t live his life only having half of the heart that made his whole. He repeats that this is for the best inside of his head, even though he secretly thinks this is the worst thing he has ever felt. Now is his time to be strong, though. Now he gets to play the part of leading man.
“Come on, Mary baby, let’s go for a drive. Let’s take up what is left of the night.”
He leads her to the car - his hand lightly touching her center back. He is telling himself to keep this more friendly and less encompassed with the fire that burns. How do you act like a friend when all you have been is a lover, though? How do you turn the dial back? Time kept ticking and they kept kissing and, lost in their dream and each other’s heat, the summer ran away from them and now they have to go back to June and pretend, somehow, that it never went down this road. That they never saw each other naked and vulnerable. At least the game is just for the night, Dan thinks, because he knows that after he drops her off at home he will never see her again. No, this will be the last time her sweet smell of daisies and orange spice fill up the interior of his car. This will be the last time his summer girl spreads her energy around him and chokes him up in all of the pretty little things she does when she thinks she is being bad.
Dan sighs and opens her door. She places her hand on his chest and looks up at him with those chocolate eyes that bring him to his knees. He won’t buckle this time, he thinks. But damn, man, she is standing there so pretty under the moonlight and her face is begging me for a kiss and oh, god, what am I ever going to do without this? He touches the side of her face and tucks her hair behind her ear.
“I am going to take you the long way home,” he says as he walks away.
Mary looks down at the ground again, the only place her eyes can seem to find, and sits down on the brown seat, tucking her feet underneath her. She has never been denied.
Dan gets in the car, turns on the engine and lets it purr. He loves the way a car sounds when it starts - it soothes him with the raw power of mechanics. The radio blasts out Zeppelin’s new power hit “All of My Love,” and Dan nearly loses his nerve. He loves this song, but right now the thought of it is breaking his heart. He turns the dial down. Mary doesn’t object - she was more of a disco girl.
The song hums low in the background, the only noise besides the crickets outside. The silence is awkward, but as the yellow lines drift by in the side mirror they both realize that the conversation would be worse. Mary keeps her eyes on those yellow lines - backwards, she thinks, they have this whole thing backwards. You are a child growing up to believe that when you finally grow up the world will be great. You can’t wait to get older, to fall in love, to drive a car - all of these little tasty things they tease you with and you, suckered in, eagerly wait for. Then you get there and it just isn’t that good because love isn’t free, as you get older your face starts to wear an wisdom you aren’t quite comfortable with, and every car eventually breaks down. Now I am older, she thinks, and I want to be young again. I want to be far away from these choices that will some day be recollected to an audience who doesn’t really care - I want to be far away from status and society. I just want to be with him, but I know I never could.
She thinks these things and gets lost in the song. The song she never really cared for, but now knows she will love until her days end. She will love it in that heartbreaking way that turns a girl into a woman. She will buy the record and listen to it from time to time, when she is alone and free to cry or scream. She will remember the summer night, the hopeless talk of stars, and Thunderbird. She will feel the warm wind comb her hair as she focuses helplessly on passing yellow lines.
She knows she will never be the same.
That is when something big and dark runs in front of the car. That is when Dan screams and the brakes screech and the alcohol that blurred his senses takes revenge on their consumption.
There was no one on the road except that old Buick Riviera, but if there were, if the owls that watched could talk, they would have spoke of a loud crunching noise and a car that spun in circle until it landed against a large pine tree that sat 20 feet off the road. They would have spoke of the sound of breaking glass.
Ghost Town
We need that love - the ghostly one that could never last but remains lodged deep inside of whatever we are like an angry fish-hook dug iinto the skin. You see that person, as perfect as the best dream you could remember, walking away. Somehow they are always silhouetted by a sunset and in the memory you wish to yourself that you could have seen then what you see now - that they are walking away and that day, the special day that makes you believe in fairy tales and leaves you on all fours like a rabid animal just craving more - that day will most likely be your last. But everything was perfect. The laughter, the dinner, even the sex - it was like some kind of manifestation of a childhood wish that was completely induced by the thought of knights in shining armor and fair ladies with their hair all a mess because they ran screaming from the beastly dragon. And the sun set behind them.
You let it in - all of it - the weather, the music, the rhythm, the scent of their skin left tickling your own. It unfolds itself throughout you - taking on your blood. Your heart beats for that one day, the one person - the moment that takes whatever tiny morsel was left of your innocence and chews it up to shit it out. It’s a fantastic thing - that love you wanted but knew you would never have. It instantly takes down your walls, comes inside to play and leaves you crawling for a door you may never find again. Then it runs away, taking whatever sense of self you had. Then, to great chagrin, you realize you are less than you were - which is really saying something because chances are you didn’t know what you wanted or where you were or even how you got there; so really you had no possible way of knowing who you were.
But it takes that precious glass bead you kept on a string in your pocket and it crushes it to bits. Like a junkie heel coming down on a red and blue artery. You watch it break and you fumble on the floor for that bit of crazy glue you lost behind the coach months ago. Just like the love you know you will never find it, but you are praying to whatever God there is that you can be the hero here. Busted, again. Didn’t your parents ever tell you that fairy tales are just made up stories invented to fill an empty reality?
Somehow that love, brutal and shockingly all-knowing, holds onto you. That is why you need it. So when you find the person you know is safe - the one that is nice to look at, sweet to touch, and great for a night when you don’t want to say anything at all - when you find them you have something to turn back to. It’s not that you are wishing for it, persay. Not at all. You are remembering the touch and the laughter and that temporary moment of complete insanity that became your first REAL love. Then you remember the fall and realize that that kind of crazy roller coaster ride could have never lasted even if you weren’t the one standing on the side of a deserted street with your thumb in the air and crazy glue, found two years too late, jammed in your back pocket while you wait for the next ride to come around the corner. It couldn’t have lasted because if it did you wouldn’t have that still memory of that gorgeous creature (perfect, ahhh yes) silhouetted by the setting sun. Suddenly they wouldn’t perfect, and we need that ideal. We need that beautiful break down to build us up and make us realize that sometimes we need exactly what we have and when we need it bad enough to want it we then see that it is exactly what was designed to fit in the first place.
You let it in - all of it - the weather, the music, the rhythm, the scent of their skin left tickling your own. It unfolds itself throughout you - taking on your blood. Your heart beats for that one day, the one person - the moment that takes whatever tiny morsel was left of your innocence and chews it up to shit it out. It’s a fantastic thing - that love you wanted but knew you would never have. It instantly takes down your walls, comes inside to play and leaves you crawling for a door you may never find again. Then it runs away, taking whatever sense of self you had. Then, to great chagrin, you realize you are less than you were - which is really saying something because chances are you didn’t know what you wanted or where you were or even how you got there; so really you had no possible way of knowing who you were.
But it takes that precious glass bead you kept on a string in your pocket and it crushes it to bits. Like a junkie heel coming down on a red and blue artery. You watch it break and you fumble on the floor for that bit of crazy glue you lost behind the coach months ago. Just like the love you know you will never find it, but you are praying to whatever God there is that you can be the hero here. Busted, again. Didn’t your parents ever tell you that fairy tales are just made up stories invented to fill an empty reality?
Somehow that love, brutal and shockingly all-knowing, holds onto you. That is why you need it. So when you find the person you know is safe - the one that is nice to look at, sweet to touch, and great for a night when you don’t want to say anything at all - when you find them you have something to turn back to. It’s not that you are wishing for it, persay. Not at all. You are remembering the touch and the laughter and that temporary moment of complete insanity that became your first REAL love. Then you remember the fall and realize that that kind of crazy roller coaster ride could have never lasted even if you weren’t the one standing on the side of a deserted street with your thumb in the air and crazy glue, found two years too late, jammed in your back pocket while you wait for the next ride to come around the corner. It couldn’t have lasted because if it did you wouldn’t have that still memory of that gorgeous creature (perfect, ahhh yes) silhouetted by the setting sun. Suddenly they wouldn’t perfect, and we need that ideal. We need that beautiful break down to build us up and make us realize that sometimes we need exactly what we have and when we need it bad enough to want it we then see that it is exactly what was designed to fit in the first place.
Transparency in a Crowded Bar
Her lips were neon
Beacons of wonderlust
Emeralds breaking through night clouds
He wanted her
So badly
He licked imaginary lipstick from his mouth
He could feel his hands on her hips
Rolling down the curve of that barely there leopard print dress
The passerbys whispered predator
A nasty man with a sinful mind
It was clear in his eyes the ways he would try to please her
Somehow those glances missed
The way she shook herself when he looked her way
How she would glide that delicate body forward
Pressing her young breasts together while she moved in tune with the music
Hungry for the way he never failed to look for her there
Anxious for the beat of his longing
Like a dirty, pretty thing she wanted more
So every week she would come
Closer
Batting those eyelashes over mint green eyes
Throwing that golden hair around
Giggling just loud enough that he could hear the sound
And imagine…
A western mating ritual drawn from reality t.v.
Disastrous beauty magazines
Then she reached the stool where he sat
Stealing side glances and capturing them in his memory like a picture show
She leaned over, kamikaze in hand
Dusty pink lips wrapped around her bendy straw
While she sucked
Licked
Smiled
Cosmopolitan gave the execution a perfect 10
Flawless
“Aren’t you going to buy me one of those PBR’s”
She whispered, tapping her blue shoe in time to the thump of the bass drum
He motions frantically to the bar keep
But she doesn’t come
She saw the motion
The way she saw every wasted glance he gave that little toy girl
The way she remembered the shirts he wore in every week
The way she cradled his voice in her mind after the night ended
And it was time to bid the drunks goodbye
In time she walked over, footsteps heavy on the checkered floor
“One more?”
“Make it two”
It isn’t quite a smile, but she manages something while she grabs the cans
And when he didn’t leave alone she knew
It wasn’t going to be one more heart broken tonight
The dirty, pretty thing was sure to make it two.
Beacons of wonderlust
Emeralds breaking through night clouds
He wanted her
So badly
He licked imaginary lipstick from his mouth
He could feel his hands on her hips
Rolling down the curve of that barely there leopard print dress
The passerbys whispered predator
A nasty man with a sinful mind
It was clear in his eyes the ways he would try to please her
Somehow those glances missed
The way she shook herself when he looked her way
How she would glide that delicate body forward
Pressing her young breasts together while she moved in tune with the music
Hungry for the way he never failed to look for her there
Anxious for the beat of his longing
Like a dirty, pretty thing she wanted more
So every week she would come
Closer
Batting those eyelashes over mint green eyes
Throwing that golden hair around
Giggling just loud enough that he could hear the sound
And imagine…
A western mating ritual drawn from reality t.v.
Disastrous beauty magazines
Then she reached the stool where he sat
Stealing side glances and capturing them in his memory like a picture show
She leaned over, kamikaze in hand
Dusty pink lips wrapped around her bendy straw
While she sucked
Licked
Smiled
Cosmopolitan gave the execution a perfect 10
Flawless
“Aren’t you going to buy me one of those PBR’s”
She whispered, tapping her blue shoe in time to the thump of the bass drum
He motions frantically to the bar keep
But she doesn’t come
She saw the motion
The way she saw every wasted glance he gave that little toy girl
The way she remembered the shirts he wore in every week
The way she cradled his voice in her mind after the night ended
And it was time to bid the drunks goodbye
In time she walked over, footsteps heavy on the checkered floor
“One more?”
“Make it two”
It isn’t quite a smile, but she manages something while she grabs the cans
And when he didn’t leave alone she knew
It wasn’t going to be one more heart broken tonight
The dirty, pretty thing was sure to make it two.
Installment Two (LA NOVELLA)
I leave work two hours before I have to be at class. My routine is disgustingly boring, and the weight of its monotony is getting heavy to bear. I come home, I eat something and I take the dog out and then I lose myself in a myriad of social networking sites or astrological information and prepare to dull my mind for the three hours ahead of me. I, like an estimated 70% of college students, am getting myself into a deep debt simply so a paper can hang on my wall that says I am an intellectual.
Meanwhile, I sit in class writing letters to my Grandmother or thinking about the day that just passed and never really absorbing what the teacher says. And, for the debt that I have accrued, why don’t I listen? Why don’t I take it in? Because the teacher is reading off of a damn powerpoint that spells word for word what I just read in an overpriced book. I have five classes, and four of them are this way. One of the teachers actually rewards us for reading our textbook by bringing in juice and granola bars. Maybe I am a tad bit rotten when I refuse the juice and mutter under my breathe that I can’t believe I am paying for this and “oh my jesus, are we five?” Then I realize that half of the students, who thanks to my five year break, are all a little too much younger than me, don’t even know who the hell Gandhi is. Then I really feel like I am wasting my time - wasting my days, and I sink deeper into my chair and dream about the park on a 70 degree day or a party where my closest friends from home will be, the ones I left to go chase down this journalism dream, and we will dance all night and laugh and take down drinks like they might be our last. Of course these are things that, in November in Western NY - 250 miles from home, will not happen any time soon. I will not walk out of class and into a beautifully warm park, and I will not be seeing my friends that night. So I dream of it, because our dreams keep us keeping on. I swallow up the memories and sometimes even catch myself closing my eyes and smiling and thinking of the days I didn’t come home to plug through homework or stare mindlessly at a blank screen while wishing, hoping beyond all clear bounds of hope, that some sweet little angel will come along and distract me from all of these grown up thoughts.
When did getting older become such a drag? When did I lose my ability to just fly by the seat of my worn jeans and take off into the night? Was it an ability or an innocence that kept me moving like a gypsy through this graveyard life? Everything dies - god, the truth of that kills me. No pun intended. Everything and everyone will someday cease to exist, and that death doesn’t always come in the form of one last breathe. I just learned that lesson all to well. I mean, who the hell am I, at 26 years old, to take off from a city I know and people I adore to the arctic armpit of NY where I have only two things - my dog and a dream. I will tell you the truth of it - every day the loneliness creeps in and takes a hold of me around the throat like a greedy beggar squeezing the last nickel of life out of me, and I choke. I think - man, what I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee and a long conversation. And it is all out there for the taking, that is what the wise women say - that I just need to march on out my front door, say hello, and spread some of my charisma around the room like a starlet who just got her first big break - just exuberate that electricity.
I think I would rather stay in my damp living room and contemplate how fuzzy the inside of my slippers are and how wonderful it feels to roll my toes around in them. Why? Because people are a fucking chore - they are a task and I am tired. Back where I came from a big portion of that task had already been completed. My friends knew me and I didn’t have to fancy foot “look at me I am just so cool and new school” around them. They knew I am a good girl and they knew I could be bad. That was enough for me because they accepted it. Now to go out that goddamn door and prove that to some other gang of people that I know won’t stick around because I somehow know I don’t belong in this town - the effort fails. I think I would rather sit here and just stare or turn on the record player and trance while immersing myself in those delicious dollar store memories - the ones that are fragile and disjointed and diverse like the plastic toys you buy for .99 cents - you know they won’t last and sooner or later they will fade from your mind, but for now their bright colors just draw your eyes. Oh, those delicious memories.
Then I hear the voice of so many before me that beckon for me to go out and make this world mine. Take a little corner of it and place a stamp on it that says Bella is here and she won’t turn back. Extend a smile or unfold my hands and let someone walk right through that door.
Bullshit. I tried that and I don’t know if I have room for it anymore. Now I know I sound like a bitter old lass sitting around at home knitting and petting a cat while brewing a green tea and thinking about the fate of all my lost loves and cursing the day I let them into my heart (I do all of the above except knit), but really - I am not. I am open to every day, wait, that is a lie - we all say that. We say that every day is a new one and we are open to the experiences that time brings. Not so. We are open to the laughter, the love, the great memories that fill us up and make us puff out our chest and declare that TODAY WAS A GREAT DAY. Some of the unfortunate few (and who am I to call them unfortunate - the jury isn’t out for me to judge) open themselves up to every mishap or break down and hold it in while they desperately fumble to pick up the pieces - all the while loving the fact that something was destroyed that they have to clean up and rebuild. Anyways - my point is - I am not open to every day, but I wish I was. Now someone clever would say - then go out there, girl, make this day work for you. That clever person would be right, that is exactly what I should do. Yet I would retort this to said clever person “and how many times have you walked out the door into this great, wide open world, when the memories tasted sweeter than today? How many times have you left the solitude and comfort of a room with a stereo that was blasting out your favorite record so you can embrace the wide unknown ALONE after placing a faint line of faith into the human race only to have it snipped away by cruel scissors crafted by the judgment of society?”
It just isn’t that easy my friend, because sometimes - not all of the time - the safest place for us might just be in our own head. I didn’t say that was the best place, because the mind is an angry demon who wants to stir you up to break you down when you are already feeling like you can’t get your brain off the pavement. But that demons taunting are safeguarded because we almost always know what the little bastard is going to say. We know that space and that makes the space safe.
I think of all this while waiting for the second hand to spin, spin, spin -- click click click -- around the clock. Then I will walk out my front door and into the dark (its six p.m. in Western NY in November but it looks like ten) and I will wrap my purple scarf tight around my neck, shiver at the cold and the thought of another holiday season alone while smiling graciously at the naïve fools in love, put my earbuds in, turn the music loud and walk in the crisp night to a class that thus far has only taught me that I like coloring with markers and writing letters that fill up the entire blank space of a card.
The walk is short - only a mile to school - but the vicious wind tests my endurance because the knee I abused throughout my life is screaming at me while I continue to place one foot in front of the other -- all while dreaming about the day and the way that this place is going to feel better. That this stage is going to be divine. What? No, I tell myself - I am only here to get some things done. I want nothing more than my mission completed and my name on the magazine street. Liar - I lie a lot when it comes to this - this thing - this devil called
Love.
Meanwhile, I sit in class writing letters to my Grandmother or thinking about the day that just passed and never really absorbing what the teacher says. And, for the debt that I have accrued, why don’t I listen? Why don’t I take it in? Because the teacher is reading off of a damn powerpoint that spells word for word what I just read in an overpriced book. I have five classes, and four of them are this way. One of the teachers actually rewards us for reading our textbook by bringing in juice and granola bars. Maybe I am a tad bit rotten when I refuse the juice and mutter under my breathe that I can’t believe I am paying for this and “oh my jesus, are we five?” Then I realize that half of the students, who thanks to my five year break, are all a little too much younger than me, don’t even know who the hell Gandhi is. Then I really feel like I am wasting my time - wasting my days, and I sink deeper into my chair and dream about the park on a 70 degree day or a party where my closest friends from home will be, the ones I left to go chase down this journalism dream, and we will dance all night and laugh and take down drinks like they might be our last. Of course these are things that, in November in Western NY - 250 miles from home, will not happen any time soon. I will not walk out of class and into a beautifully warm park, and I will not be seeing my friends that night. So I dream of it, because our dreams keep us keeping on. I swallow up the memories and sometimes even catch myself closing my eyes and smiling and thinking of the days I didn’t come home to plug through homework or stare mindlessly at a blank screen while wishing, hoping beyond all clear bounds of hope, that some sweet little angel will come along and distract me from all of these grown up thoughts.
When did getting older become such a drag? When did I lose my ability to just fly by the seat of my worn jeans and take off into the night? Was it an ability or an innocence that kept me moving like a gypsy through this graveyard life? Everything dies - god, the truth of that kills me. No pun intended. Everything and everyone will someday cease to exist, and that death doesn’t always come in the form of one last breathe. I just learned that lesson all to well. I mean, who the hell am I, at 26 years old, to take off from a city I know and people I adore to the arctic armpit of NY where I have only two things - my dog and a dream. I will tell you the truth of it - every day the loneliness creeps in and takes a hold of me around the throat like a greedy beggar squeezing the last nickel of life out of me, and I choke. I think - man, what I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee and a long conversation. And it is all out there for the taking, that is what the wise women say - that I just need to march on out my front door, say hello, and spread some of my charisma around the room like a starlet who just got her first big break - just exuberate that electricity.
I think I would rather stay in my damp living room and contemplate how fuzzy the inside of my slippers are and how wonderful it feels to roll my toes around in them. Why? Because people are a fucking chore - they are a task and I am tired. Back where I came from a big portion of that task had already been completed. My friends knew me and I didn’t have to fancy foot “look at me I am just so cool and new school” around them. They knew I am a good girl and they knew I could be bad. That was enough for me because they accepted it. Now to go out that goddamn door and prove that to some other gang of people that I know won’t stick around because I somehow know I don’t belong in this town - the effort fails. I think I would rather sit here and just stare or turn on the record player and trance while immersing myself in those delicious dollar store memories - the ones that are fragile and disjointed and diverse like the plastic toys you buy for .99 cents - you know they won’t last and sooner or later they will fade from your mind, but for now their bright colors just draw your eyes. Oh, those delicious memories.
Then I hear the voice of so many before me that beckon for me to go out and make this world mine. Take a little corner of it and place a stamp on it that says Bella is here and she won’t turn back. Extend a smile or unfold my hands and let someone walk right through that door.
Bullshit. I tried that and I don’t know if I have room for it anymore. Now I know I sound like a bitter old lass sitting around at home knitting and petting a cat while brewing a green tea and thinking about the fate of all my lost loves and cursing the day I let them into my heart (I do all of the above except knit), but really - I am not. I am open to every day, wait, that is a lie - we all say that. We say that every day is a new one and we are open to the experiences that time brings. Not so. We are open to the laughter, the love, the great memories that fill us up and make us puff out our chest and declare that TODAY WAS A GREAT DAY. Some of the unfortunate few (and who am I to call them unfortunate - the jury isn’t out for me to judge) open themselves up to every mishap or break down and hold it in while they desperately fumble to pick up the pieces - all the while loving the fact that something was destroyed that they have to clean up and rebuild. Anyways - my point is - I am not open to every day, but I wish I was. Now someone clever would say - then go out there, girl, make this day work for you. That clever person would be right, that is exactly what I should do. Yet I would retort this to said clever person “and how many times have you walked out the door into this great, wide open world, when the memories tasted sweeter than today? How many times have you left the solitude and comfort of a room with a stereo that was blasting out your favorite record so you can embrace the wide unknown ALONE after placing a faint line of faith into the human race only to have it snipped away by cruel scissors crafted by the judgment of society?”
It just isn’t that easy my friend, because sometimes - not all of the time - the safest place for us might just be in our own head. I didn’t say that was the best place, because the mind is an angry demon who wants to stir you up to break you down when you are already feeling like you can’t get your brain off the pavement. But that demons taunting are safeguarded because we almost always know what the little bastard is going to say. We know that space and that makes the space safe.
I think of all this while waiting for the second hand to spin, spin, spin -- click click click -- around the clock. Then I will walk out my front door and into the dark (its six p.m. in Western NY in November but it looks like ten) and I will wrap my purple scarf tight around my neck, shiver at the cold and the thought of another holiday season alone while smiling graciously at the naïve fools in love, put my earbuds in, turn the music loud and walk in the crisp night to a class that thus far has only taught me that I like coloring with markers and writing letters that fill up the entire blank space of a card.
The walk is short - only a mile to school - but the vicious wind tests my endurance because the knee I abused throughout my life is screaming at me while I continue to place one foot in front of the other -- all while dreaming about the day and the way that this place is going to feel better. That this stage is going to be divine. What? No, I tell myself - I am only here to get some things done. I want nothing more than my mission completed and my name on the magazine street. Liar - I lie a lot when it comes to this - this thing - this devil called
Love.
Gag Reflex
Feed the machine. Don’t stop. It is hungry. Soul soul soul - LESS. I feel so tired. Like a hemorrhage in my brain
I can’t stop the throbbing
Pain is a tool we use to build strength
Character
Stamina
Mighty warrior don’t you drop your sword and shield
You have some slaying to do, dear
Get your mighty round rumpis
OUT IN THE FIELD
But be prepared
Little warrior ghost girl
Fading forever from the shades of thought
Ambiguous transient
Seek what you lost
So long ago
When you were told exactly what and how and who to be
*whisper*
You have no power over me.
Oh sweet fairy tale
You broke me before I realized I could fall
Stand tall
Little big one
Don’t let them crush you
Weight
Suffocation
Wrapping around me
It’s just my gag reflex -- ology
Reading every last word
Your disappointed expectations
Etched across your face.
I can’t stop the throbbing
Pain is a tool we use to build strength
Character
Stamina
Mighty warrior don’t you drop your sword and shield
You have some slaying to do, dear
Get your mighty round rumpis
OUT IN THE FIELD
But be prepared
Little warrior ghost girl
Fading forever from the shades of thought
Ambiguous transient
Seek what you lost
So long ago
When you were told exactly what and how and who to be
*whisper*
You have no power over me.
Oh sweet fairy tale
You broke me before I realized I could fall
Stand tall
Little big one
Don’t let them crush you
Weight
Suffocation
Wrapping around me
It’s just my gag reflex -- ology
Reading every last word
Your disappointed expectations
Etched across your face.
Requiem for a Douchebag (Or Angry Midnight Rantings)
I am not what you want me to be. Furthermore, I don’t care what you really want me to be because in all honesty I am finally at a point where I can quite certainly say that I am more than happy just being me.
Step back before we wreck this. Please, just think about this. Think about what? A word is hardly worth the precious little penny you throw on your car’s console. Really? Did you think that repeated sweet talk was going to keep me around? I won’t lie - I dig the way you dig everything about me, but you obviously don’t dig it enough to declare it, which is really all I wanted. You see, I never really trusted you, and can you blame me?
You throw your charm around the room like the drunks pop confetti bombs on New Years. The shit is all over the place, hell, I think I may even be able to smell it in my hair. You bat your eyelashes and wink, too. I fucking hate that. It’s not that I think it is unattractive - it is cute in its way, but in truth all it tells me is that truth is something a little too relative to you. Dangerously relative…
Do…you….get…it…
(breathe)
God I really enjoyed exposing everything to you - (you can’t catch my witty sarcasm because of the print) - lying there completely unfolded before your hungry eyes, and what did you do? What did you do?
Think on this -
Wait, don’t, you may fall asleep again.
I am tired of being sweet here - I am making myself sick. Not because of the things I do, but because the way you never seem to appreciate how genuine they are - they come from a sacred place, and I am only starting to realize that you are not worth the first emotional investment I have decided to make in the last five years.
You…suck…me…dry
Silly that I would allow it to happen, but I am holding my head up while I realize that this time I only let this go on for a month before I dropped the bag of shit like the dirty little no no that it is. Hey, in the end, I see it this way -- it was a good way to transition myself to a new city. I had the distraction I needed to keep on keeping on, and baby, at least I got a little bit of love out of the deal - even if it was - by all means - a LITTLE bit. (You must use your imagination here, or else I am quite sorry to say you will be let down).
Ahem. Now, back to being proper. Let’s talk.
I don’t dig how many women you keep around on the backburner while you wait to find your favorite tunnel of love. As you said - one million only looks good until you see two, and BOOM - like a fucking ra ra ah ha moment it hits me - I am your one million. Of course, it is quite possible I am your two - and you will most likely argue that that is the case, but how long will it be until we start scoping around for three? More than that - how many twos came before me? Of course I shouldn’t care, and I don’t, but it is critical here that you understand my point.
Women are not some throw away toy that you fuck and forget and grab another to satisfy your “please make me feel better about myself” fit. Well, maybe some are and they paint their lips special for their shelf date, but that is not me. That will never be me. I know myself well enough to know that it isn’t just about liking it when I am number one -- no -- I NEED to be number one. That is right - I need to be the Queen, because the lesser stature doesn’t jive with me.
Now here is the deal - not everyone can be Queen to everyone - do you know what I mean? I mean that I cannot be Queen to every guy that I meet - only a select few, and that I understand, accept, and say please and thank you. Here is the important part - you must be included in that select few. If you are not, will not, or refuse to be -- well then, the bottom absolute sea level line is that you cannot be with me. Harsh? I don’t give a shit. So I am a bitch because I refuse to give in or say “please sir, knock your boots around on me some more?”
Well, the tricky dicky duck to this, sir, is that I stood tall and declared (a long time ago) that I will be no one’s whipping post anymore. Tragic? No, the most tragic thing you could throw at me is that others refuse to love themselves enough to let others be kind while opening their arms to the small gifts that are given every damn day in this life. You can slap a yellow corn label on that statement if you like, but the truth of it is is that I am not that girl anymore. I deserve more than just a daily smile - I am worth a glow. That’s right - I love myself enough to know that the sun can shine in my corner alone and it wouldn’t be a waste of the light.
So here is where we have a problem. You see, you take me for the kind of woman (girl?) who doesn’t know her own worth. In return - you are a selfish, thoughtless, and insensitive bastard. Well, maybe not bastard, but I am less than impressed.
I mean, really, four weeks and you can’t even spring for dinner or take me somewhere unexpected and sweet? Really?
Well, you are a jukebox of sweet talk and I have a pocket full of quarters, but I am tired of feeding the beast my change. I am tired of hearing but never feeling just how wonderful I am. Action, my dear - you need a little more action to bring your lady some satisfaction. Dig or dive or dunk. We are done.
Step back before we wreck this. Please, just think about this. Think about what? A word is hardly worth the precious little penny you throw on your car’s console. Really? Did you think that repeated sweet talk was going to keep me around? I won’t lie - I dig the way you dig everything about me, but you obviously don’t dig it enough to declare it, which is really all I wanted. You see, I never really trusted you, and can you blame me?
You throw your charm around the room like the drunks pop confetti bombs on New Years. The shit is all over the place, hell, I think I may even be able to smell it in my hair. You bat your eyelashes and wink, too. I fucking hate that. It’s not that I think it is unattractive - it is cute in its way, but in truth all it tells me is that truth is something a little too relative to you. Dangerously relative…
Do…you….get…it…
(breathe)
God I really enjoyed exposing everything to you - (you can’t catch my witty sarcasm because of the print) - lying there completely unfolded before your hungry eyes, and what did you do? What did you do?
Think on this -
Wait, don’t, you may fall asleep again.
I am tired of being sweet here - I am making myself sick. Not because of the things I do, but because the way you never seem to appreciate how genuine they are - they come from a sacred place, and I am only starting to realize that you are not worth the first emotional investment I have decided to make in the last five years.
You…suck…me…dry
Silly that I would allow it to happen, but I am holding my head up while I realize that this time I only let this go on for a month before I dropped the bag of shit like the dirty little no no that it is. Hey, in the end, I see it this way -- it was a good way to transition myself to a new city. I had the distraction I needed to keep on keeping on, and baby, at least I got a little bit of love out of the deal - even if it was - by all means - a LITTLE bit. (You must use your imagination here, or else I am quite sorry to say you will be let down).
Ahem. Now, back to being proper. Let’s talk.
I don’t dig how many women you keep around on the backburner while you wait to find your favorite tunnel of love. As you said - one million only looks good until you see two, and BOOM - like a fucking ra ra ah ha moment it hits me - I am your one million. Of course, it is quite possible I am your two - and you will most likely argue that that is the case, but how long will it be until we start scoping around for three? More than that - how many twos came before me? Of course I shouldn’t care, and I don’t, but it is critical here that you understand my point.
Women are not some throw away toy that you fuck and forget and grab another to satisfy your “please make me feel better about myself” fit. Well, maybe some are and they paint their lips special for their shelf date, but that is not me. That will never be me. I know myself well enough to know that it isn’t just about liking it when I am number one -- no -- I NEED to be number one. That is right - I need to be the Queen, because the lesser stature doesn’t jive with me.
Now here is the deal - not everyone can be Queen to everyone - do you know what I mean? I mean that I cannot be Queen to every guy that I meet - only a select few, and that I understand, accept, and say please and thank you. Here is the important part - you must be included in that select few. If you are not, will not, or refuse to be -- well then, the bottom absolute sea level line is that you cannot be with me. Harsh? I don’t give a shit. So I am a bitch because I refuse to give in or say “please sir, knock your boots around on me some more?”
Well, the tricky dicky duck to this, sir, is that I stood tall and declared (a long time ago) that I will be no one’s whipping post anymore. Tragic? No, the most tragic thing you could throw at me is that others refuse to love themselves enough to let others be kind while opening their arms to the small gifts that are given every damn day in this life. You can slap a yellow corn label on that statement if you like, but the truth of it is is that I am not that girl anymore. I deserve more than just a daily smile - I am worth a glow. That’s right - I love myself enough to know that the sun can shine in my corner alone and it wouldn’t be a waste of the light.
So here is where we have a problem. You see, you take me for the kind of woman (girl?) who doesn’t know her own worth. In return - you are a selfish, thoughtless, and insensitive bastard. Well, maybe not bastard, but I am less than impressed.
I mean, really, four weeks and you can’t even spring for dinner or take me somewhere unexpected and sweet? Really?
Well, you are a jukebox of sweet talk and I have a pocket full of quarters, but I am tired of feeding the beast my change. I am tired of hearing but never feeling just how wonderful I am. Action, my dear - you need a little more action to bring your lady some satisfaction. Dig or dive or dunk. We are done.
The Beginning PART 1
Hey there, folks. Welcome to my blog and thanks for stopping by! Ha! Anyways, a couple of things -- if you followed my notes on Facebook you may have read this stuff. This is the beginning of my novel that I am working on. I will post three consecutive installments and then random snippets. They will be titled as such so you know what you are getting into. Enjoy and if you wanna rip it apart - I am ready!
There is an old man that comes into my coffee shop every day. I don’t know exactly how old he is, because I have never asked. I don’t even know if he is technically an old man, and what exactly is old? At one point are we no longer young or middle aged but instead a senior? I digress…anyways; I have never asked him his age so I don’t really know how many years he has under his belt. I know he rarely smells pleasant and is missing his front teeth. Sometimes when he walks in I have to tell myself to breathe through my mouth and forget that my nose exists. I worry when he doesn’t come in, because his face carries a weight that both frightens and exhilarates me. His eyes are full of the storm - you know the kind - the damp, dull gray that suffocates the sky. He has the kind of eyes that warn the unknowing majority away. They whisper out to me - they say that he has been to his personal end and he almost, only almost, gave it all away. He almost said “fuck this show - I am going to the rock and roll circus in the sky.” Then he turned around and realized that the minute he makes up his mind, does the deed, says his goodbye - the very moment that his heart stops…
That is the moment that life is going to look up. That is the moment that he will take a glance around and smile and his eyes will lose some of their overcast and a strange light will fill whatever he has inside and for the first time in a long time he will feel warm.
That is the secret that his eyes tell when he looks at me. I smile and say “hey Dan, how are you doing today?” and in his transient way he responds that he just doesn’t know yet because he hasn’t had his coffee. So he hands me his cardboard cup - the one he keeps and uses time and time again until the bottom is stained brown and nearly falling out around itself, and I fill it almost to the top. I leave room for cream. He follows me to the coffee station and after I hand him the cup he asks how I am, and he almost always asks me if today I believe in love. When I tell him I am fabulous, which I almost always do, he asks if he can have some. So I shimmy a little, and I shake, and then I throw my hands toward him and sprinkle him with a little bit of fabulous. This almost always makes him laugh.
When he laughs I can see what used to be a good looking man, before the heartache and the desolation crept into his soul and made its way to his face. Years before the lines made etch a sketch patterns around his mouth and the cold NY winters took residence in his heart. I envision Dan as young man, his hair not greasy, long or gray. His gold plated, square framed glasses as one whole piece instead of held together with tape. His hands (those are the best part about him) are not crusted over with dry skin and calluses, and his fingernails are trim and clean - not outlined with the grime I see when he hands his cardboard cup to me.
But now I see this scrap metal man digging in garbage cans and talking into a remote control like it is the newest and coolest cell phone.
He always sits down at the same table - it is by the window and far away from the counter where I take routine six hour residence. The table has four chairs - each of them have a circular seat and black wrought iron backings. He always takes the one furthest away and closest to the window. Sometimes he talks on his remote control, sometimes he writes frantically in a small crossword puzzle book, but most of the time he just keeps his eyes wide open and observes the outside. I rarely ever catch him watching me, but when our eyes meet he stands up and comes over and talks to me while I stock cookies or cut brownies.
“So Bella, do you believe in love today?” He will ask.
“Now Dan,” I flirt. “Why do you ask? Are you hoping to take me out to dinner or win me over with your modern romance?”
“Well,” he smiles and says as he wipes a bit of the grease from underneath the brim of his stained, once was tan cap “I did use tah be quite ah charmer in mah day.”
Then I laugh and he continues with his daily dose of philosophical jargon.
“I only askh,” he begins, “because I know, and I will tell you what I know bechause I know it and have leahned it well - that liffe is short. That is ahl. Time is not as long as anyone thinks. We walk around with our head in the clouds - like do dah do - I know because I like to dream, too. We walk around with our head in the clouds and ahl of the time, every minute, the day is getting away. It never comes back to us. We never get ahnother chance at the minute we just lost. We never know if that was our last minute. We just know one thing, Bella. Do you know what we know?”
I smile my warmest smile because, despite Dan’s wretched after smell of onions, body odor and the occasional dip down ganjah’s green path, he really is a swell guy. I smile with everything I have because I know he is dismissed as a bum or a ramshackle man, but sure as the night is dark he throws a dollar in my tip jar twice a day while the conservatives who wear fancy suits and turn their nose in the air at my dependable Dan might throw their $.21 of change in that jar, and that is only if I was a very good girl indeed.
I smile because Dan makes me believe that even after the dark there is still light. Dan makes me realize that even in pain there is love. You see, Dan loves us - us coffee shop kids. He adores us, and that is why, two to four times a day, he comes in to see us and throw a little money in our jar and spread his pearls of wisdom across the counter in the hope that it might, one day, guide us.
“What do we know, Dan?”
“That rock and roll is dead. Barbara Streisand killed it.”
There is an old man that comes into my coffee shop every day. I don’t know exactly how old he is, because I have never asked. I don’t even know if he is technically an old man, and what exactly is old? At one point are we no longer young or middle aged but instead a senior? I digress…anyways; I have never asked him his age so I don’t really know how many years he has under his belt. I know he rarely smells pleasant and is missing his front teeth. Sometimes when he walks in I have to tell myself to breathe through my mouth and forget that my nose exists. I worry when he doesn’t come in, because his face carries a weight that both frightens and exhilarates me. His eyes are full of the storm - you know the kind - the damp, dull gray that suffocates the sky. He has the kind of eyes that warn the unknowing majority away. They whisper out to me - they say that he has been to his personal end and he almost, only almost, gave it all away. He almost said “fuck this show - I am going to the rock and roll circus in the sky.” Then he turned around and realized that the minute he makes up his mind, does the deed, says his goodbye - the very moment that his heart stops…
That is the moment that life is going to look up. That is the moment that he will take a glance around and smile and his eyes will lose some of their overcast and a strange light will fill whatever he has inside and for the first time in a long time he will feel warm.
That is the secret that his eyes tell when he looks at me. I smile and say “hey Dan, how are you doing today?” and in his transient way he responds that he just doesn’t know yet because he hasn’t had his coffee. So he hands me his cardboard cup - the one he keeps and uses time and time again until the bottom is stained brown and nearly falling out around itself, and I fill it almost to the top. I leave room for cream. He follows me to the coffee station and after I hand him the cup he asks how I am, and he almost always asks me if today I believe in love. When I tell him I am fabulous, which I almost always do, he asks if he can have some. So I shimmy a little, and I shake, and then I throw my hands toward him and sprinkle him with a little bit of fabulous. This almost always makes him laugh.
When he laughs I can see what used to be a good looking man, before the heartache and the desolation crept into his soul and made its way to his face. Years before the lines made etch a sketch patterns around his mouth and the cold NY winters took residence in his heart. I envision Dan as young man, his hair not greasy, long or gray. His gold plated, square framed glasses as one whole piece instead of held together with tape. His hands (those are the best part about him) are not crusted over with dry skin and calluses, and his fingernails are trim and clean - not outlined with the grime I see when he hands his cardboard cup to me.
But now I see this scrap metal man digging in garbage cans and talking into a remote control like it is the newest and coolest cell phone.
He always sits down at the same table - it is by the window and far away from the counter where I take routine six hour residence. The table has four chairs - each of them have a circular seat and black wrought iron backings. He always takes the one furthest away and closest to the window. Sometimes he talks on his remote control, sometimes he writes frantically in a small crossword puzzle book, but most of the time he just keeps his eyes wide open and observes the outside. I rarely ever catch him watching me, but when our eyes meet he stands up and comes over and talks to me while I stock cookies or cut brownies.
“So Bella, do you believe in love today?” He will ask.
“Now Dan,” I flirt. “Why do you ask? Are you hoping to take me out to dinner or win me over with your modern romance?”
“Well,” he smiles and says as he wipes a bit of the grease from underneath the brim of his stained, once was tan cap “I did use tah be quite ah charmer in mah day.”
Then I laugh and he continues with his daily dose of philosophical jargon.
“I only askh,” he begins, “because I know, and I will tell you what I know bechause I know it and have leahned it well - that liffe is short. That is ahl. Time is not as long as anyone thinks. We walk around with our head in the clouds - like do dah do - I know because I like to dream, too. We walk around with our head in the clouds and ahl of the time, every minute, the day is getting away. It never comes back to us. We never get ahnother chance at the minute we just lost. We never know if that was our last minute. We just know one thing, Bella. Do you know what we know?”
I smile my warmest smile because, despite Dan’s wretched after smell of onions, body odor and the occasional dip down ganjah’s green path, he really is a swell guy. I smile with everything I have because I know he is dismissed as a bum or a ramshackle man, but sure as the night is dark he throws a dollar in my tip jar twice a day while the conservatives who wear fancy suits and turn their nose in the air at my dependable Dan might throw their $.21 of change in that jar, and that is only if I was a very good girl indeed.
I smile because Dan makes me believe that even after the dark there is still light. Dan makes me realize that even in pain there is love. You see, Dan loves us - us coffee shop kids. He adores us, and that is why, two to four times a day, he comes in to see us and throw a little money in our jar and spread his pearls of wisdom across the counter in the hope that it might, one day, guide us.
“What do we know, Dan?”
“That rock and roll is dead. Barbara Streisand killed it.”
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