a rat-tat-tat, a rat-tat-tat, where's this house? you passed it. (you never gave me gas money.
okay, you did once, but it still wasn't enough.)
here's to the pieces never fitting, here's to bending the edges to sleep better at night. to the wrinkled cardboard, we raise our glasses.
cheers, mistakes. cheers.
jimmy eat world softly whimpers through the speakers, and from your drunken slump against the passenger window you say, 'i love the smashing pumpkins.' 'this isn't the smashing pumpkins.' 'well, i still love them.'
i didn't say it then, but i should have. 'fuck you.'
always count the pieces of a puzzle before you buy it, and if it doesn't feel right when you're coercing the corner pieces to sit in the epicenter of the montage, burn it.
my best friend cups my face in her hands, and we cry. my best friend cups my face in her hands and my tears roll over her knuckles. (i'm here instead of home, and no, i don't want to talk about that, either.) she says, you're back, you're finally back, my kendall is finally back.
even if for a moment, i was back.
(don't take hope away from a person; it may be all they have.)
I dug my elbows into my knees and let my face rest in my palms, staring intently at my shoes. I pressed my left foot into the snow then raised it, having it hover while I analyzed the zigzag pattern imprinted in the snow.
We used to do that on the playground all the time.Press a foot in, pull it out slowly, delicately, look at my print. No no, look at mine. Mine is better; my daddy has an office job and can afford me these intricate soles. No no, look at mine: my daddy owns your daddy’s office.
Our own innocence overrode that of the virgin snow; we were branding nature for the sake of our enjoyment.
i have a nasty habit of documenting every single conversation i have and fixing it later on paper.
i have a nasty habit of reinventing my own history.
i make it more distant, more disconnected...or less?
i tell people the story, and they ask, why kendall? why do it at all?
because, i say. because. oh, and,
anyone who doesn't know how good it feels to be needed has obviously never been.
(update: currently unable to register how i feel/felt/will feel, but i'll keep the faith. haven't felt that good in awhile and i would very much like to feel that good sometime again.)
[park that car // drop that phone // sleep on the floor // dream about me]
found some old poems; found some old memories; found someone to read them. (some are newer than others.) (the poems, i mean.)
the snow: driving no longer procures any sort of rapture, driving becomes a task. the snow: attire must be planned in advance, getting dressed becomes a task. the snow: i take it i won't be seeing you anymore? (breathing becomes a task.)
she chopped up a centipede in her basement. she put the pieces in a ziploc bag and we watched them wiggle. later that day, i chopped up an earwig with a sega cartridge. the pieces didn't move. now that i think about it, that's probably where all of this began.
let's get reacquainted. i learned a new word, and it sounds like ... i digress.
at the end of the day, i need to know that you're thinking about me. that's not really a question you can or should evade; yes, no, never have, never will? (regardless, i'm calling affirmative. i need that.)
meander, depart. if i could focus on much of anything, i'd be more of a something.
i suppose it's a lack of intuition, a missing link or two in the chain of cognition. everyone else is able to tell which way each limb is twisting, the sounds of sockets popping so easily discernible. and there i am, waking up in the middle of the night, frightened by the unfamiliar auditory interruption.
i asked you once: how did you know? you told me once: i didn't. i just had a hunch. i just went out on a limb.
and i'll sit there. in that chair. in my driveway. in the middle of monroe falls. and i'll rape all the vegetation around me. but i must be way, way off: where the hell is that tree?
i feel...pusillanimous. but in reality, that's the word flashing above your head in neon lights. and the sign flickers. and it emits a drone. and it's a frequency i don't like. i don't like it and i don't know how to get away from it. the brakes squeak and your sign squeals, it haunts every fiber of my being.
you went out on a limb and you got what you wanted. i need to find that tree; within the bark and gum of that stick of wood i shall find the demeanor that i exhibit, and i have to kill it.
i have to find who i am and then destroy me.
maybe arsonists are just trying to find themselves. maybe forest fires are just brilliant epiphanies.
you traced every inch of my limbs with yours, and i, for the life of me, cannot find that goddamn tree.
back to the chain of command. a year ago i'm here, a year ago is now. when words lose their meaning, i'm back with these kids. they're fun. they're real. they're high. and high. you're always high. when the weather gets like this and i get like this and you get like this, i'm home. you're high, you're sweet, i'm sweet, i'm home.
if only, if only.
the question as of late: you down?
no. no, i'm not. but yes, yes i am.
life's too short not to be down. turn the car around, make arrangements, live and breathe and feel and touch. if you're down, you're not numb. bottoms up, hands down, this is ohio, this is home, being careful is for chumps, of course i'm down, you have my attention, and the sweetness will not be concerned with me.
i remember the day i heard of your arrival; you and nolan came into this world a bit earlier than expected. complication after complication after complication, but you boys kept fighting.
i remember the first time i got to see you when you were finally home with your mommy and daddy. i walked into laura's room where your cribs were set up. there in the darkness, i saw lights flickering from monitors and machines and i heard all this beeping and i saw all these wires and i couldn't help but feel that you were being cheated. cheated from so early on, cheated in ways that i couldn't even vocalize. a nursery shouldn't feel like a hospital. from day one you were cheated, but you didn't care. you kept fighting.
i remember seeing you once after one of your many surgeries. i was afraid to hold you, afraid to hurt you, afraid of the scars, afraid of moving your shunt, just afraid. your daddy grabbed you from me and tossed you in the air and you couldn't have laughed louder. he swung you down in front of me and pointed to a scar on your belly. 'see this one here?' he asked. 'this is from a shark attack!' he flipped you over and pointed to another scar. 'and this one? a crazy ex-girlfriend!' and he tickled you and your smile couldn't have been any bigger. your daddy never wanted you to be scared, bucky.
far as i can tell, you never were. you are one of the most courageous individuals i'll ever have the privilege of knowing, caleb. i have two decades on you...and i'm ashamed to say that i've never fought for anything as hard as you fought to live. you are superman.
you were cheated, time after time, but you didn't let anything get in your way. you never gave up, and neither did your parents. they took whatever news that came their way without batting an eye, and they are so proud of you caleb. so, so proud of you.
you are their hero; they are mine.
you were cheated. doctors gave you rules and restrictions, but before i knew it, you were holding your own bottle. then you were sitting up all on your own. then you were standing, and just last week? just last week i got to see you walk, and being in that living room that evening was one of the most important nights of my entire life. you've done more for people than you'll ever know.
on october 23rd, it was the world that was cheated.
when my phone went off saturday morning, i never...i just never thought...
i stopped believing in certain things a long time ago -- but i'd hate to think you went anywhere alone. may angels lead you in, caleb. may angels lead you in.
"An angel in the Book of Life wrote down my baby's birth,
and whispered as she closed the Book, 'too beautiful for Earth.' "
i sat on the toilet and she hopped up on the counter. with a constant thudding in the background and voices we didn't care to know, i pissed in the toilet and she pissed in the sink and we may or may not have had one of the best conversations of my entire life. she later lifted her shirt and her tits were so perfect that i had to confess explicitly that i hated everything about her, and she laughed. i laughed too. a few hours in the future, after i lost most feeling and self-respect and realized i didn't like who i was anymore, i told her i loved her, and she laughed, and i laughed too.
the following morning i texted her: 'my hoodie smells like perfume, beer, sweat, and deceit.' she laughed. and i laughed too.
chuck klosterman is perpetually affecting my writing. i now think like he writes, and i hate the way he thinks, but like the way he writes, so after a few left turns, i'm not mad about my train of thought.
chuckyboy: "i never understood the song 'infatuation,' just as i have never understood the concept of infatuation. it has always been my understanding that being 'infatuated' with someone means you think you are in love, but you're actually not; infatuation is (supposedly) just a foolish, fleeting feeling. but if being 'in love' is an abstract notion, and it's not tangible, and there is no way to physically prove it to anyone else...well, how is being in love any different than having an infatuation? they're both human constructions. if you think you're in love with someone and you feel like you're in love with someone, then you obviously are; thinking and feeling is the sum total of what love is. why do we feel an obligation to certify emotions with some kind of retrospective, self-imposed authenticity?...if my only way to understand the world is through what i think and what i feel, how can thinking that i'm in love and feeling that i'm in love be relegated into the category of 'infatuation'? what's the fucking difference?"
on a crumpled receipt in my wallet i find a note, from myself. past kendall to future kendall. i imagine it was something i wanted to write about, but i think it's best left standing alone. 'mustard hiding. poltergeist in my fridge. like my phone.'
words roll off of them well, they work great, but how do they look?
right now, a gash, bitten at best. like the sahara but chapstick won't work, and i carry the scar i know nothing about.
it's in you, kendall. it's pushing itself out. you're healing. oh. like a demon?
i remember ghosting with josh and joe once, missing out on the entirety of the experience because of the throbbing on my face. they'd whip out flashlights and i'd whip out abreva. they were scared and i was confused. origins, origins, origins, and i wield the cross.
i also remember the day the resolution came about. we were wrestling in your room, the smell of suburban basement flooding the air, and up on the bed we fought, back down to the floor, my mouth hit your shoulder and i pulled away to see blood dance down your chest. we watched it together find its way to your navel. it took too long to realize it was my blood and not yours, and i was ushered into the bathroom and i painted the walls red. the color fell from my lip without hesitation and i watched as it filled the sink, not amazed so much by the blood itself but by the fact i felt nothing at all. you left the room, panicked, the mess, your mother not knowing i was down there with you at all, and now this? evidence of my existence everywhere, on the floor, on you, on the towel, sink, and nearly on the mirror too before you stopped me from finger-painting (you never let me have any fun).
right now? a fender bender, not nearly a car crash. when i feel one coming on, i crouch and wait, then attack. i stand over the sink and wait and watch, but it'll never be the same again. you're not standing behind me searching frantically for clothes and towels, you're not blaming my lack of concern for anything and everything, you're not there at all.
[you trained these lips when they were champs, and now they're itchin' for a comeback: so come back.]
it is absolutely terrifying what feelings certain songs can evoke within you. things we thought were long gone in the dirt come crawling back out, and we've got no control over it. i've said it before and i'll say it again, aside from increased cranial capacity and shifts in mastication, we haven't come that far at all. edwin mccain starts screaming at me through the beast's radio, i swerve off the road and slap the round radio knobs, but it's too late. i'm already kidnapped, taken back to a time i'd rather not be, a time i'd do anything to have back, a time i'm in now and a time i never knew.
[go on just say it: you need me like a bad habit. ]
back to ambiguity: i see a meteorite strike a neighboring farm and i now have justified means to contact you in the dead of night. our walk is warranted, our meeting acceptable, and you come up behind me in a stranger's lawn and by the light of the moon we tell ourselves that this is a healthy relationship that we've got going on. a bush protects us from the street, nothing but dumb luck protecting us from the owner's house, when we're done we walk home and you preach to me again about how everything is a fucking mess and we can't see each other ever again, and (approaching clarity) i want you to know that there was a time when i would have done anything for you.
i didn't set out to write about shooting stars this afternoon, but that's what a stupid song can do to us. we can conquer plagues and destroy mountains with our bare hands, but all it takes is a text, a flash in the sky, a song, and i'm back to nothing.
in a glass tank, a poor imitation of where you should be.
trapped, for my amusement.
so i guess the question is, whose jellyfish are you?
***
It’s been proven: there are a certain number of things that are guaranteed to make the most rational, sane person lose all control of their self. The amount is low but the evidence couldn’t be more tangible. Being trapped in a small space with other people for a significant amount of time is sure to make the most calm and collected resort to cannibalism. No one wants to be hungry. Having someone you care deeply for, someone whose existence defines half of yours, die? Proof of gravity: the tallest will fall to their knees. No one wants to be alone. And relationships: anyone who thinks they have a grip on reality just needs to fall in love, just needs to trip over infatuation. Things stop making sense, idle hands and irreversible brain damage. There is someone out there for you: someone to drive you absolutely fucking mental.Find them, and you’re set for life.No one wants to be happy.
***
i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
from my window i can see sights i dare not describe,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
in the past few months i've added masks to my masks,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
we're all waiting for the punchline of a joke that isn't funny,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
nothing deep today, just complaints. bragging: i always have awesome shoes. admitting: that's the only reason i chose this picture.
baby, i'm not negative. you've just caught me at a bad, bad, bad time.
there's something about the body, there's always something, you know? if it's not your back, it's your teeth, and if it's not your teeth, your sciatic nerve doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up, always something.
trying to clock in, trying to tally up, my schedule says today is just two miles, just pack in two miles. dad and i ended up at the most beautiful trail today in mogadore. fucking, wow. the water, the trees, the weather, you can't make this shit up. but it's not about the perfect state of everything around me, it's about me. my calves hurrrrrrrrt, and it's great. current city: emoville. i've unpacked my suitcase, i think i'll stay awhile, the one thing i've been loving lately is now taken from me, woe is kendall.
cement walls slope gently and stop the water, because we're human and we can do that (sometimes). the trail wraps around the edge of the reservoir, and i stared at the lake and i became upset. i realized i didn't have a way to describe, with words, the way parts of the land jut out into the water. i'm making the motion with my hand right now, but i can't dictate it how it needs to be dictated, and i'm upset.
i collapsed. plopped right down in the middle of the trail, in the middle of nowhere, and i cried.
well, i tried. nothing came out but the few whimpers i could muster. they were pathetic. dramatic. (drathetic. pathatic.) the way a toddler whines when they don't get their way, but no one is around to listen? that was kendall today; kendall didn't get her way. on my back, i covered my face with my hands, i whimpered again to hear the sound of my voice. and you know what?
it felt great. i sat up, looked at the water, appreciated the perfect temperature, sucked in the fresh air, soaked in the beauty. it felt great.
then i stood up, resumed my shittastic mood, heard the medial tibial stress syndrome shout my name, told it to fuck off, and felt sorry for myself all over again. it's back to emotown, and though it hurts like hell, i think i'll run for mayor.
calling card, calling all heartbreaks, calling card, ten pounds down the drain, i told you about this magnificent graffiti that asal and i found, and you said: K.
and how fitting. i'm your problem. K? K.
i walk up behind you, squeeze your shoulder. and not just your shoulder: that part of your body between the base of your neck and the end of your collarbone. does this spot have an actual name? yes. do i care to google it? no.
i'm empty today. i was empty yesterday. the forecast cries that i'll be empty tomorrow, too.
K? K.
we've all got our own explanations. baby, it's not you, it's me. baby, you'll find someone, someday. baby, you're just a good time. baby, baby, baby, baby, you're great, really, baby, shit's gonna fall into place, baby, everything's going to be okay, K? K.
(it's the song in the background that's doing this to me, not you.)
we turned the corner, trip somewhat of a bust so far. she's like, lemme take a picture of this, and i rolled my eyes. she takes pictures of everything. i'm like girl, you can't live like this, you gotta live in the moment, but when i saw what she was talking about, i threw my kodak at the world.
when i die, who will paint something for me?
and when you've got nothing else, OR, when you've got ALL the answers, just say: K.
my pretty baby makes me so happy. there's something about having a shitty day...you know, when the going's good it's great, but when the bad's going bad, you can't fucking breathe...there's something about having a shitty day, the world's not spinning at the rate you want it to and nothing feels right...you know, there's something about having a shitty day, but when you feel those tiny little arms wrap around your neck, nothing else in the entire universe matters at all except that tiny little heartbeat melting in sync with your own.
deep sigh. extended pause. pretty, pretty baby.
moving on, to less important things. birthday: tomorrow. best birthday ever: 21st. why: anticlimactic on all accounts. in a good way. why: few souls in europe understand the importance of being twenty and some change; the alcohol on my lips was bittersweet. i should have turned 18 over there. why: on the shores of loch ness, and she didn't even come out. i said, hey nessy, it's my birthday, show yer fucking face, but she didn't. and i'm not mad. i was, sort of. i mean, i came really, really far to see that lake, and she didn't show, but i know she was there.
m's like, you gotta try this. i was hesitant. it was blue. no no k, she said, you gotta try this. lo chimed in, kendall, this shit is good. (loved the way she said my name.) so i slid over two pounds and a shaky voice, and i got it. minutes later, i'm swimming. you feel funny? yeahhhhhhhh. that's what i like, m said, i like that.
i never get sick, but i got sick once. the sickest i ever got was in scotland. veggie pakora, maybe, or maybe something else. it started with a burp. the air got trapped between the computer screen and my face, straight up stomach acid stench. i ignored it. evening, a thursday, i go to stand up, and shit, i'm weak as well. then it hits you, hits you like a fucking microburst, man. to the bathroom, your body is a fucking warrior and every cell is trying to get that shit out of you. i remember moaning, crying, yelling, public bathroom, the best. at 21, i recall actually yelling for my mom. mommy, make this go away. good god, the pain, the fucking pain, kept thinking, boy, won't this feel good when it stops hurting. i woke up later with a blanket on me. someone had the decency to push my feet in the rest of the way and shut the door, covering me, but i ruined their blanket. there are some good people out there, and i ruined their blanket. why kendall, why on earth would you feel the need to revisit and dissect the night you puked and shat all over yourself, why would anyone ever want to hear about it? because. because, when you're in that kind of pain, nothing else in the entire universe matters at all except your explicit desire for that pain to go away.
my best friend had her baby boy on november 11th. 42 days later, i got to see his beautiful face. his perfect little toes. his perfect little fingers. pretty, pretty baby. you know, she got a shitty hand of cards. she got the cards from the deck we had taken great pains in throwing away when we were little. we planned our lives out with our chosen spades, our clubs... we had the kings and queens and jacks right where we wanted them. but the game sped up, the cards fell out of place, a frantic phone call in the middle of the night and me realizing that nothing was turning out like i had planned, but she's making it work, and when i get to hold that pretty, pretty baby, nothing else in the entire universe matters at all.
only myself and a small percentage of the population understands the significance of this title, this picture, this post, this evening, this girl, this divisive moment, this everything.
[everyone has a secret, aw can they keep it? oh no, they can't.] friday night: conversation number three. (2 outta 3 ain't bad.)
i should stop such talk, it's getting too close. at damn near three feet away, it's too damn close. boy oh boy, what am i to do with you? what's an antonym for magical? you owe me.
end scene.
pan left.
so she's running, running for a cause. girl's got hammies and six-pack like you wouldn't believe. she's running with her father-in-law, for her father-in-law, her father-in-law's got MS and her father-in-law's got nothing but deterioration and decadence in his future. so she's running, running for a cause. she runs all the time, girl's got a body like you wouldn't believe. bitch is running, running, running, her kids and husband waiting at the finish line, and she's running, running the shit outta the MS 10K. she's running, running, and her leg, right? her leg starts to go numb. she's like, hey hey hey, hold up, everyone, hold up a second...hold up just a goddamn second, and she slows to a jog and this leg of hers, this leg rippled with definition, it's numb, it's fucking numb. she's gotta walk, thinking it must be some cramp or something, or something, or something...just a cramp or something in the middle of this 10K race for MS, the run for the cure, the run, and she was just running, running...just running, running, running, and her leg goes numb...
i think this is what them folks in the city call 'irony'...
a better phrase to employ is certainly 'situational irony,' but it's not as dramatic.
and i'm all about dramatic. [i'm an addict for dramatics; i confuse the two for love.]
rubber city, a crippling economy. rubber legs, crippled for life. rubbers, our broken secret.
and he looks at me from across the party and refutes my statement, like he would know. like you people know anything about me. like anyone knows anything about anyone else.
i saw the hammurabi code once, with my own eyes. one of the earliest known written records of laws that gave order to human society. i took a picture and moved on. TALK ABOUT EXEMPLARY, BYTCH.
joe says they are making buildings. buildings for the future. magnets, cables. to hang between and above our current manhattan giants. they'll be high enough. high enough above... magnets. cables. they will have water tanks. the energy will come from the tides. the tides...
you could read that as a miracle, yeah. exemplifying our progress as humans. from the hammurabi code to buildings that will survive the rising sea levels, we're unstoppable. humans? fucking unstoppable.
one and one-half acres of rainforest are destroyed every single second.
kendall: those are bubbles, not bugs. kendall: no one asked. kendall: kendall, can i tell you something? kendall: shoot. kendall: nothing feels right. kendall: did it ever?
the people that i need to read these words never will. they don't exist; i haven't made them up yet.
our memories are always played out faster than they occurred. it's a blessing. when you remember that 8-hour plane ride, you remember the sun hitting the wing and destroying any view you might have of the atlantic, you remember getting the wrong meal, you remember the sudden case of restlessness leg syndrome you came down with, you can remember each and every single detail of that journey, but it doesn't take you 8 hours to remember it. it's a blessing.
and the best night you ever had -- whatever that may be: on your back or on your knees or in some arms or in some heart -- you won't ever watch that movie in its entirety ever again. it's a curse.
i'm trying too hard. is this who you wanted to be? are these the things you thought you'd be lying about?
you can't ever completely recall the most sound argument you've ever had in your head. you can extricate remnants, pieces, points, but never the entire dialogue, word for word, and if you do, the words come back quicker than they were spoken. the movie's always shorter the second time around.
kick the city of green in the dick: working on arlington and massillon road at the same time is a brilliant idea, really. if nothing else, i have, for once, a legitimate excuse to navigate those back roads like i was born to. 'how do you even know where to go?' time, practice, patience, and a lot of really bad fucking nights. these roads out here give you the sense of security no man or book ever could. turn the music up, scream out the wrong words, you're alone and it feels right. sometimes it's more than north and south. it's more what feels right and what feels wrong. 'do you ever look at the stars?' no, not anymore. i look at this bench here, this pond --my dad's midlife crisis manifested into an object of productivity -- and that is all. i don't like looking up. after an entire semester of facts and figures on a blackboard, i see no point. i'm nothing, you're nothing, and what is happening here? it's whatever. accept it: it's whatever, nothing more, nothing less.
the roads. my sentiments, or lack thereof. the way i feel, or don't. the numbness, the tingling, the constant inebriated state i'm stuck in, it's all whatever.
the trails and blankets make twists and turns. what if you're lost, and you're okay with that? i don't want anyone to follow me. maybe i like being sad. maybe i like being the victim.
a magnet on the fridge has little bo peep, alone, all alone, on the back roads. it reads 'life has been so much easier since i've given up hope.' behind her trail the sheep, so i'm right there with her.
we're bored. we can only tolerate so much. we sit, waiting, for what? look at him, look at me. bored. tired of waiting. sitting still has never been so exhausting.
but maybe the real limit's placed on the amount of excitement we can handle. something happens: you see his truck a few houses down, you see a pointless text from her on your phone, the stupid crap that gives you butterflies and plasters a shit-eating grin on your face for a week.
because when that happens -- something so stupid and so small -- something to keep you going, you have to wonder: what would i be doing right now without this? what would be turning my stomach into knots without that glance? that text? that wave?
if i didn't have this, what else would be launching me into this adolescent state of nirvana?
maybe life is a cruel pulley system. someone knows how much we can tolerate, on both ends. our breaking points concerning both happiness and pain. when we wholly exert ourselves on either end, they pull us back. but that's shit, too, and i don't like it.
i don't like it and it makes me sleepy to think about. after i drive you around in my car and make you listen to every single song that i've now attached to your existence, will you tuck me in?
but don't say anything too sentimental. there's only so much bullshit i can tolerate.
warning: neither term will be employed correctly here. the phrase i wanted to use doesn't make much sense at all. 'visceral impact.' it's about the guts. i wanted ears. tonight, it's all about the noises.
we went back to the playground at young. i can barely fit in the doors of my elementary school. like alice, but not. like: kendall. give me some magic potion so i can shrink, keep shrinking, shrink until there is nothing left.
i swung. swang? i leaned back, i let the night sky swallow me, i kicked the shit out of the stars. and i bled on the woodchips. and she listened.
just give it one more day, she said. a day at a time.
a ball. was this here when we got here? yes. oh.
a little too less air, the sound of the bounce was off, but i sunk it. the chain-link net raped the rubber and i think i came. what a beautiful, beautiful fucking sound.
i have to pee. so? go pee.
i found a shadow that was dark enough, leaned back against the rusty fence, and pissed a good piss. i stared at the parking lot, painted orange by the lights, a hissing in the background coupled with a relieving sensation, and i thought, i don't do this nearly enough.
intonations, modulations. the sounds: a ball getting sucked into a mitt. whack. the first heartbeat radiating from a computer. woopwoopwoopwoopwoop. the blood pumping in your ears when you know what you're doing won't make sense in the morning. inflections to die for.
uplifting, for once. soon to be disheartening, for sure, but for now? smylez. for now. for you, for now.
journey's right. everybody wants a thrill. sometimes, i turn the thinking switch off. and i just go. go, go, go. thrill.
but what about when they're so hard to read? retinal failures? man, screw it. read with your hands, braille the shit outta that boy.
i hate the people i'm not.
[what finds you is not yours,
what leaves you is not stolen]
i'm jumping all over here, and i'm embarrassed. not a single coherent thought today. at all. every single day has the potential to be the greatest day of your life.
or the worst.
contents under pressure.
avoid contact with eyes.
i'm the description on the back of a bottle of raid.
The most vicious cycle of life arrives in the midst of pimples and newly discovered hormones; between perky breasts and cracking voices, we learn to tear each other apart from the inside out. Extended, lanky limbs coupled with greasy foreheads allot the freedom for the destruction of others. Adolescence is a period on the timeline when we find out who we really are and—more specifically—who we would much rather be. A cruel, cruel segment of life, the cruelest of all, but not even that excuses us. When the blood dries and the bones stop stretching, we find that our behavior was hardly permissible. We find that it’s already too late.
Everyone was mean to Shawn.
I was mean to Shawn.
He was awkward, short and ugly, with crooked teeth that were confused by their own placement, running into one another, creating a chaotic scene behind his puffy lips. His eyes were set too far apart and his nostrils were too big for the nose they were on, which was spread across his face in a hurried fashion. His hair was short and greasy, matted to his small skull like a helmet, though random hairs fought desperately for freedom, dancing under the ceiling fan. An immense birthmark resided on his right cheek which everyone claimed was shit he must have forgotten to wipe off; it was large, right next to his eye, extending down his cheek, brown on white. They came up with some ingenious and innovative nickname, something to really leave them speechless: if I recall correctly, and I do, it was poo stain. Poo Stain Shawn. They couldn’t say it without laughing; red faces hot with blood twisted and contorted, the words exploding from perfect lips with spit and breakfast, followed by that silent laughter that rocked the bodies.
He ran like a crippled duck, and for some reason, this was funny. Boys would chase him down the hall to make the rest of us laugh, the yellow tile of the basement hallway mirroring and mocking his futile and gawky escapes.
And they all laughed. I laughed.
Our laughter bounced off the tan bricks and followed him up the stairs to his next class, where more laughter waited around each corner. Laughter followed him everywhere. My laughter.
One time he tripped down the steps in Graves’s classroom and he heard about it for weeks. (Have a nice trip, Poo Stain?) The steps were uneven and he didn’t just fall, he fell hard, papers running from their folders and air jumping from his lungs. A shin crashed painfully into the edge of the step and the binding of a book cracked like an egg. I remember tripping in the same spot not too long after, but only hearing mere acquaintances inquire about my well-being, genuinely concerned; someone picked up my papers for me.
His chest stuck out exceedingly far and everyone mimicked him, poking fun at it, at him, at the instrument of his imminent death.
Shawn got a nasty cold one Monday and died that Friday from an enlarged heart.
I went to his calling hours on a cold December night, my mom waiting patiently for me in the car. I crossed through the stream of exhaust expelled from the back of the Taurus with my Letterman’s jacket—a public announcement of both my academic and athletic achievements—wrapped tightly around me. The funeral home was trying to be comforting and inviting, but its doors were intimidating and its carpet too soft.
I remember standing over his dead body, dressed so nicely in a suit without wrinkles. My eyes traced the length of his corpse down to the shiny, spotless shoes, never walked in, never ran in, never used to run away. His hands were folded awkwardly at his waist, simultaneously unnatural and natural; fitting in a disheartening way. His hair was combed to the side, not a single one was trying to get away. Not a single one. His eyes were closed, but not tightly; not the way he closed his eyes when he was covering his ears, trying to make us disappear, painfully running away inside of himself, creating darkness so dark that it made light.
A teacher from school came up behind me and thanked me for coming. I returned a blank stare with crooked eyebrows. Scanning the room, I saw it was empty. A few relatives sobbed quietly in the corner, but the guestbook held only my name.
It stood there by itself, screaming infidelities and imploring urgently for forgiveness. It was shaky and small, not confidently sprawled across the page like it was on my jacket. It was timid and tiny, the hand behind the pen forever reliving the taunts and the apathy and the failure. It wanted to remove itself from the page and again join the ranks of the crowd, far away and distant, in a group, without a name and without guilt.
I looked back at the box that held Shawn. I had laughed too.
We kept his seat open in every class for the duration of that year. The empty desk stared at us with accusing eyes, a fear of retribution, the overbearing castigation. By leaving the seat untouched, we were beseeching the unseen, begging for vindication. It was as though we were trying to make up for what we had done, for what we didn’t stop, for what we caused and allowed to happen, because we all had laughed.
no excuse for my neglecting this here outlet for my mangled and stifled emotions.
we've been typing away, fingers on a rampage, but not here. typing stories that dig up things i'd rather not investigate, hence the dirt on them. brush, brush, brush it off.
some visits, some ideas, some cataclysmic events. but that's no excuse, either.
they spotted a UFO over a chinese airport. all of a sudden, my life made sense again.
things to do: formally renounce catholic faith, mainly for shits and giggles.
oh, and for women everywhere.
i make enemies to break enemies. also, donate some bone marrow, sort some lives out and fix my own. where am i? no excuse.
and you'd think that, after all of this, after all the patience, actions, and right words dropped at the right time, you would have fallen in love with me by now.
there's this house off of 619. it sits there, it's comfy, you know? just sitting there. you get some siding, a nice garden, a bit of grass, then the curve in the road. my mom would always take that road, and each time, without fail, would tell me the story. the story about how, one day, when a mom, dad, and five-year-old daughter were sitting down for dinner, a car went off that curve, over the bit of grass, over that nice garden, through the siding, into the table, leaving broken dishes, a brand new five-year-old carcass, and a mess.
i saw the international space station last night. N to NE, a bright blob. it passed over, quickly and quietly, billions of tax dollars above the earth, and faded away. not to get all homer hickham on you, but damn.
what's worse. six people, in there, above me, all i ever wanted: the ultimate escape. instead, a laugh in front of the entire school, failed calculus tests, and the truth.
the truth? he likes her, more than anticipated, she doesn't know what to do with a good thing, another she and another him, the pronouns screwing themselves, the human eye can distinguish between one million and ten million different colors at any given time, but i bet i can't. i can't even do math. kid, you'll never go into space if you can't get this down. a B. an F. pulls out by .016 of a point, and you (i, me, she) didn't even deserve it. practice makes perfect.
what is this mess?
the truth? i just wanted to be happy, and the former occupants of the house off of 619 just wanted a quiet dinner together.
i think that, more than anything else, it was about friendship. sitting and talking, just talking, for hours. hours on end. about nothing at all. about everything you've ever needed to say and never needed to hear. substance: you wouldn't think it, but these kids have it. and the worst part about it? the kid doesn't know how beautiful he is. my fix, gotta have it.
i think that, more than anything else, it's in the denial and the proposal. what could you possibly want from me at 2 in the morning? we can sit and talk, just talk, for hours. hours on end. heat lightning, plans for the greatest summer ever, heavy air and cold raindrops. i'm home, come over. windshield wipers on, locked and loaded, falcon to raptor, over. my fix, gotta have it.
i think that, more than anything else, it's in the lies. more truth than you can handle, in ambiguity and in metaphors. in stretched stories and twisted adjectives, there you have it folks, last chance. i've captured something here, but you can have it back. next to the power rangers is the greatest summer i ever had, but this will be better. we planned it, after all. summer fucks and fuckups, my fix, gotta have it.
reassurance to live on, a vibration on my left thigh: a reminder that i am desired at 3 in the morning. and without that? nothing. what's so great about being a girl? well, let me show you.
what i am doing is wrong, and i haven't cared since.
fractions! figures! issues! what a beautiful atrocity!
besides,
the day was too short to not stop and talk to the dog.
...
“Why do we only fuck when we’re drunk?”
A pause, then a thoughtless, moreover, careless, answer, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, don’t give me that. You know exactly what it means,” I answered in a soft, nonchalant voice. The entire dialogue was soft-spoken, the implications too heavy and neither one of us really cared much at all, I am sure. Rather, some sort of heartless conversation to take up space in the night sky. We were both all about the continuous cycle of regret, accepting that that’s what life was all about: one giant regret, or many tiny regrets all piled together, else you wouldn’t have something to toss and turn about every night. “Now finish this fag and shut the hell up,” gently placing the cigarette between his slightly parted lips. His lips gave a bit, the cigarette leaving a minimal impression on the pouty surface. I kept the cigarette at the left side of his mouth, biting my own lip as I concentrated on the matter. Then I rose, purposely swinging my right leg over to momentarily straddle him before standing up. He bent his neck to raise his head and let loose one of those exasperated grunts, but I paid no mind as I continued to rise and then walk away. The grass was cold and wet and splashed as I shoved my feet through it and I didn’t turn around—you can never turn around when you’re the first to go. I learned that from him some time ago, that turning around meant you were weak and that you actually might give a shit.
And I gave a lot of shit. A ton, actually. Two thousand pounds of steaming, hot shit.
The key went into its home and the engine of the Victoria purred, headlights illuminating the shadow of his lanky body, but he didn’t look either. Instead, I saw a puff of smoke rise, the same puff that rose after a mistake in the early morning. I turned the boat around and sailed on my way, the taste of him by way of a cancer stick lingering in my mouth. I gave weight to the pedal and the white dashes on the road became solid lines, the trees dancing in unison with the sounds of cars passing by, a constant whoosh of air. It was nights like these where I wonder how I ever made it home safe, dizzy and blurry and speeding and sad. Really, really fucking sad. Sad outweighing the fuzziness of vision, sadness outweighing the delayed dexterity of my fingers as I tried desperately to find a fitting song on the radio. A song to change everything, a song to remind me of some other mistake, some other starry night, anything but this.
...
mmm i hate titles, but i have chosen the title for my future autobiography:
existentialism is a bitch: the chronicles of steinle.
i rest my hands on my hips with the tips of my fingers flirting with the opening of my pockets. i hear waves, rather, i want to hear waves crashing on the shore. that would make this gray mist appropriate. this man, he sat across from me, with his little notepad. inquisitive. about my future. about my secrets. i don't want to tell you anything, i don't want to give you any part of me. but i will say: i just want to be okay.
my pockets give up and my hands take advantage. i close my eyes and feel the cold, smooth rocks. and what are rocks? just the most powerful things we have at any given time. from rocks you made the axe, from rocks you made the wheel, and from rocks i took all that i was away from you.
from rocks, we are safe from you. from rocks, we reach our final destinations on our own accord.
but this boy? he's different. i'm not saying i'm okay yet, but he's different.
i shove my hands deep in my pockets, shrugging my shoulders just enough to straighten my arms. tense, i hold the thought: women have rights now, and the stones in my pockets procure an entirely new meaning.
you know it's a bad idea when you walk into a rest stop bathroom and the first thought that crosses your mind is, "yeah. this is where i'm going to die." the toilet water permanently colored by rust, the tiles on the floor are brick red, or blood red?...no. and the lock on the door is visible at best. tiny shreds of dead tree on the floor give the vague shape of toilet paper remnants, tangible evidence of human civilization, albeit it subjective: it doesn't matter. you've got hope, kid, and that's what counts. someone had been here, in your very spot, clawing desperately for the tiniest possible shred of cleanliness. you decided to ignore the stench and dim light the moment you walked through the door, and the sink is home to human hair, vomit, and ants working the night shift. but the point of the matter is, when you gotta go, you gotta go, so as you turn to squat, you contort your face painfully and shut your eyes until it hurts, and remind yourself, "yeah, i'm gonna die." .
paul is there, staring at the payphone, scared, not sure if he's going to knock the spider off the receiver or not. and who would? the spider was there first, and if we've learned anything from history, you back the fuck off if it's not yours, right? his right hand makes a sweeping motion, he jumps back, regains consciousness, and picks up the phone. i stay in the car, sweating, inhaling and exhaling the muggy air. across the intersection is nothing. once trees, maybe. once happiness, who knows. there's nothing there now, facing the storing garages, facing my high school. it's a disgusting little brown town, and i can't help but ask myself if this is how it feels when the feeling goes. .
i base my life off of one simple question: would my fortune cookie lie to me? if there's anything in this world that i can trust, dear god let it be the shiny piece of paper stuck in my complimentary treat.
sounds like: apathetic while paying attention, a hippie wearing brand new nikes, dancing in public, the voice of god, anti-american coke-drinking son-of-a-bitch, your worst nightmare, your dream come true.
