Started sick
Spirits lifted
Quiet landing.
Category: Uncategorized
Who is she?
WHEN I SEE THIS GIRL, I remember her ways. She took the elevator each day to the sixth floor, lived at a desk, ate cereal for every meal. She fashioned her hair according to her mood and seldom drank, borrowed her anger from lost experiences, sank. Transition was insipid, and she could hardly fathom direction.
This girl took the walk of shame. Her self perception was minimal and her confidence, at best, clouded. She made mistakes on her face, with disgrace, every night. She veered to realms her parents wouldn’t approve, and she knew. She didn’t miss home.
This girl, she took things as they were taken, generally: Literal, cynical, dilapidated. She walked alone in the dark twice a night, keys between her knuckles, eyes toward the crosswalk. She said yes, she said no. She changed.
When I see this girl, I feel strength because she was strong, but weaker than I am today. And she has proved herself wrong.
Thank you!
Hanging on, to all I’ve left to hold on to
WHEN I FEEL LIKE GARBAGE, I listen to U2—specifically, Joshua Tree. I’m being inundated by deadlines, sickness, sleeplessness, criticism, and more deadlines. I feel poor, I’ve no desire to hang out with anyone, and it’s been days since I’ve had a nice laugh. I’ve fallen into habits of taking the long way and in the end, getting the short end of the stick. I feel like the only thing keeping me alright are the cards I’ve received from my mom. I really, really need me time—whatever that necessitates, I don’t care. I just need a break.
My craze has been brought on by the domino effect meeting a vicious cycle. I’ve put things off too long, had to stay up too late to catch up, gotten stressed about it, spent money to make up for the stress, worked to make more money, haven’t had time for homework because of work, on and on and on and on. I feel crazy, honestly. The other night I couldn’t think straight, so I went to the grocery store—where I go when I need to remove myself from frustration. I can tell you few details of the visit other than I stared—literally—at cookies in the International Foods section for about 20 minutes, longed for Europe, then moved on to the jelly section. After that I spent another 20 minutes choosing a loaf of bread. I bought it and walked out, sights swirled and feeling as though I might fall over. I feel crazy.
This is no way to live. And needless to say, I’ve been listening to Joshua Tree all day.
I want to live
I want to give
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold.
It’s these expressions
I never give
That keep me searching
for a heart of gold.
Psycho MarchTime Love!
SINCE I MADE A BIG DEAL ABOUT the first of February (on account of it being one of my favorite months), I suppose I should put in a good word for March.
March 2010 is going to be the next big thing. No, no! March 2010 is the next big thing. It’s a big long month with 31 days, seven days a week that end in the letter ‘y,’ and 24 hours in each day. Surprising? March also boasts the Ides of March, when Caesar was murdered. As if that’s not excitement enough, there’s St. Patty’s Day (Leprechaun Awareness Day, because we should be excessively aware of something every month), the anniversary of getting my braces (I always celebrate this), a few breakup anniversaries in there…somewhere…, and of course, SPRING BREAK, where everyone and their small dog go to celebrate at the MTV Beach Party. I know my small dog does.
March is also the birth month of my eldest sister (who is easily one of the biggest deals I know), the most annoying girl in my class during grades K-11, and, as some worthless website is now informing me, rock drummer Robert James Affuso of Skid Row (whose hit song was “Psycho Love.” Anyone? Anyone?)
What more excitement could you ask for in one month? Really.
Natural Disaster
EVER SINCE I BEGAN LIVING without a CD player in my car, I’ve been listening to nonstop Minnesota Public Radio. I can’t believe I didn’t take heed to this simple fulfillment before. It’s like a current events carnival.
Over the past few days the MPR airwaves have not been overwhelmed with word form Haiti or national crisis. The word is all about the new disaster—Chile.
Dear Lord. First Moth’a Nature decides to throw Hispaniola into a hamster wheel and roll it around for a bit. Now this?
What’s next? I feel as though someone is about to drop a house on me, or the Red River will overflow.
I. Simon and Garfunkel visiting Fargodome, 07 May
II. I am going
III. End of story.
My favorite stories to tell
I USED TO FIGURE SKATE. Yes, true, it was a brief stint, but it always stands out as a defining period in my life. I had an awesome pair of skates that I got for a birthday or something, and some nice skateguards, too, that I often forgot to take off before I stepped on the ice. I even had a sweet bag to carry them in, one that was supposed to be for my rollerblades but it had my name embroidered on it and I couldn’t resist putting my figure skates in it.
I excelled at figure skating, I like to think. I passed every level and collected a badge reward to sew on the jacket I never bought. I used to pour over my skating report cards before putting them in the file folder that held my birth certificate and social security card. I made nice fishtails—those were my favorite, and in fact, I did them with the gusto of a over-caffeinated walrus. I did waltz jumps like a fool, and likened myself to Michelle Kwan when I did them. Tara Lipinski was my favorite, I had a book about her that I read on a weekly basis (or just looked at the pictures). I thought I did a hockey stop better than a hockey player. And seeing the great Zamboni charge around the ice, taking the tarnished white to a glossy finish, brought on a wonderful, most unusual sense of renewal.
One day I decided I didn’t want to do it anymore, simply because a coach (her name was MISSY, I’ll never forget) snapped at me. And I’ve never really skated much since then, and I’ve since realized that I would have never looked good in the spandex bedazzled suits, and my waltz jumps looked like shit.
But the badges and report cards are still in my permanent file folder.
2.
One summer when my family went camping, my brothers and I decided to catch every single frog in the creek and keep them for ourselves. We gathered together our ice cream pails and marched toward the water, where we crouched by the bridge for hours and captured approximately the entire amphibian settlement.
My parents decided that we had to go somewhere—and the frogs couldn’t come. So we placed our teeming buckets beneath a shady tree and went on the way. When we returned hours later from a muggy afternoon out, we discovered each catch belly up, motionless; frog stew.
The procession back to the pond was not to catch, but to release. And it was a sorrowful release.
III.
I could never reach the top of the refrigerator, but I tried. The only people that knew what went on up there were my parents. I once deemed it necessary that I find out what lie in this formidable space, and so jumped up along the fridge, fishing my fingers on its top. There were things up there alright! During one attempt I caught a rotary saw blade, and it slid and spun from the fridge’s heights, then clashing with my face. Bam!
I have the scar to boot.
Four
I was in first grade when I noticed a man walking his dog on rollerblades one day. It looked really cool, and he looked good, and thus, I wanted to try it.
Clover wasn’t quite broken in at the time. The sheltie pup was hardly a year old, and probably about the same age as me in dog years. My older sister had a really cool pair of roller skates that were splashed with soft pink and purple, four greased wheels and long laces. The combination of the dog and the skates were utterly irresistible, and I set out along the curvy concrete sidewalks one day, determined to be seen by the neighbors.
Clover and I got no more than three houses up from our home at No. 19, before I lost control and spilled in front of No. 15. It was a bona fide face plant if I ever saw one. I felt as though every thread of skin was dangling from my chin, and proceeded to skate, screaming, home. Never mind the dog that had escaped, that dumb pup could have been hit by a car for all I cared (the irony is, she later was). My mom was so dumbfounded at my dumb, spontaneous decision to take the dog for a walk on rollerskates that she did as any mother would do. She patched me up pretty good, my face littered with sympathetic band-aids, and set me up in front of the TV with a Squeeze-It. I watched a movie (a treat at our house) and basked in the glamour of being hurt, a survivor of the nonsense.
Clover died shortly after, when she ran into a nearby street and was struck by a car. Karma.
I vividly remember my siblings and I lined up in the bathtub, bawling out of control.
approximatelyes.com 