Friday, May 1, 2009
As always, feedback/criticism/comments are always welcome. :)
Cassie likes the playground because it is quiet.
Not all the time, obviously. During the day, it's crammed full of snot-nosed brats shoving each other off swings while their airbrushed mommies gossip about American Idol and so-and-so's latest tummy tuck. Disgusting.
But once the sun starts setting, it's different. Better. Silent. Sure, there are still people around: some ugly ten-year-old looming on the monkey bars like a ginger god, a suburban mom in a velour jogging suit texting furiously on a bench (totally oblivious to the fact that her daughter's eating sand), two older kids furtively exchanging money and weed by the fence. They're all off in their own little worlds, too self-involved to notice anything but their own lives.
This suits Cassie just fine. She doesn't want to be noticed. She wants to be invisible. She's gotten really good at it; she knows just how to duck her face behind her long, dark hair and disappear inside bland, oversized sweatshirts. The hunch of her shoulders is expert: don't bother me, don't look at me, don't acknowledge my own existence. She's just a shadow slumped on the end of the slide, a silhouette as muddied and murky as the pond on the other side of the fence.
Her parents are fighting again. They're always fighting. They act like they don't (oh, honey, you know I love your dad, nothing's going to happen, we're just fine), but Cassie knows better. She can feel the tension when she walks in the front door, can taste the alcohol in her mom's good night kisses. They try to hide it from her, restrict their arguments to behind-closed-doors, but the venomous strains of their voices waft into Cassie's room via the air conditioning vent, leaving her with hazy snippets of accusations.
… that office more than you love …
… raised a manipulative little bitch just like her mother …
… don't you touch me, I'll call the …
Don't get her wrong – she's not complaining. So her parents hate each other. No big deal. Nothing to get all worked up about (even though it hurts, oh, it really, truly hurts). Cassie knows kids with worse problems. One of her friends had an uncle who touched her when she was four. Another friend won't get changed in the gym locker room because of the bruises her step-dad leaves behind. And another friend—
Except they're not her friends. Not anymore. Not since they all started high school and decided that Cassie had the easiest life, the most reason to be happy. Her parents have money. They're still married (although Cassie's beginning to wonder how long that'll last). She's fashionably skinny and gets solos in the school choir recitals. She's on the honor roll.
Clearly, Cassie sucks.
So they turned on her. Her friends stopped calling. They sent texts behind her back about how her solos are always just a little flat, how she had "book smarts" but was too naïve. They even started a vicious rumor that Cassie was a lesbian, prompting all the kids at the bus stop to throw stones at her one day after school.
That was when Cassie decided to disappear.
That's all she wants, really. She just wants to vanish into thin air, where no one can make fun of her for things she knows aren't true (but what if they are?), where her parents can't touch her (even though they never do). She keeps her head down in class and turns in average work so that no one can say she's too smart anymore. She swathes her pretty body in baggy, neutral colors so no one will mistake her for being attractive. She smiles brightly at her parents and tries to give them all the right answers, hoping her false cheer will keep them from arguing about her. She asks for nothing. She makes no demands. She just wants to be invisible.
But even that's a lie. Cassie doesn't want to disappear. Cassie wants to scream. She wants to cry and rage and pound her fists against every wall she can find. She wants to howl her sorrow at the world, wants everyone to know that she's sad, she's miserable, she's falling apart at the seams.
And more than anything else, she wants someone to hear her. Someone who will put a hand on her shoulder and tell her it's okay, she's allowed to be upset, she has permission to be hurt. She wants someone to tell her that she's human, not a shadow or a scapegoat, and she has every right to feel like crap because everybody does.
But no one's there. The playground's almost empty now. The drug dealers have finished their trade; the cell phone addict has gone home to wash the sand out of her kid's mouth. Now it's just Cassie on the slide and that freckle-faced goober on the monkey bars.
Cassie stares at the kid for a moment. It's almost eight now. Where are his parents? Shouldn't someone have run up looking for their son, their precious baby, their beloved treasure? Doesn't anybody care about him? Doesn't anybody care at all?
Suddenly, the kid turns his head and looks back at her. They lock eyes for a moment, loner to loner, and Cassie reads the yearning in his eyes with ease. She knows that look well. She sees it every day in her mirror, but seeing it on someone else's face …
Cassie swallows and summons up her courage. "Hey," she calls to the little boy.
The boy frowns at her, already distrustful at such a tender age. "Yeah?"
"You want to play on the jungle gym?"
He thinks about it for a second and then breaks out into a grin. "Okay."
So they play for a while, just two kids on a jungle gym, laughing as the sun goes down behind them.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I stood in the square alone, but you already know this. After all, you were the one who left me there, your fingers slipping through my own, your mouth brushing softly against my ear. You left me with words, but the rain was too heavy and swept them away. I never heard you. I just felt the hot breath of your intentions. When I turned my head to ask you what, you were already gone.
I didn't understand then. You were right there. I could still smell you, aftershave and tobacco smoke, still curled around my being. You were there, and then you were gone. Like a ghost, a spirit, but you were real. I could have sworn that you were real.
But then my eyes opened, and I think it must have been for the first time, because I saw things in such clarity that it made you transparent in retrospect. Bright electric bulbs. Black puddles of hot spring water. And the people, oh, the people, surrounding me in a press of late-night bargaining, their voices rising and reverberating against the stone walls with a strength you never had. They were real that night, so real it actually hurt, because it made me realize that you were never there at all.
I didn't look for you. I knew there was no point. You were a fantasy, a figment of my wildness. You were something I fell in love with when the world was too big for me to comprehend. Even if I'd found you in the crowd that night, I don't think I would have followed. You wouldn't have wanted that, anyway.
So I opened my eyes. I breathed in, breathed out. I asked a man wearing an old trench coat where I was.
He smiled at me and it was shiny like gold. "Don't you know, sweetheart?"
And I did.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Spoon - I Summon You
Remember the weight of the world? It's a sound that we used to buy on cassette and 45, you and me driving aimlessly down highways at night, listening to songs written before we were born. My hand on the gearshift, your feet hanging out the open window. We smoked pilfered cigarettes and sang about fortunate sons, gold dust women, and answers blowing in some distant, unknown wind. We sang and smoked until our throats were raw, but we didn't care. We never cared.
We didn't care because we didn't know. How could we? We were just kids. We listened to Bob Dylan because no one else did. We screamed along with Johnny Rotten about anarchy, but we didn't get the concept. When airy pop music by Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys took over the radio, we turned to Britpop and shouted with Jarvis Cocker about how we were common people, never realizing how much money our parents actually made.
After all, it was just music. We liked it because it was pretty. We liked the delicacy of Neil Young's voice, the raging guitars of the Rolling Stones. We loved that great opening rift to The Doors' "Touch Me," you drumming your fists on the dashboard of my shitty old Celica as the song built to a crescendo. The first time you played me Joni Mitchell, I thought she wrote that song about you – you, so beautiful, so deeply ingrained into my heart that I thought you would always be as constant as a northern star. You would always be there, right beside me, and the world would always be just a set of lyrics we didn't need to understand.
And then we grew up.
Remember the weight of the world? It's more than just a sound now, and we can't drive away from it anymore. It's everywhere, blaring from television screens and radios, printed in bold ink on the front pages of newspapers. Terrorists reducing skyscrapers to rubble. Teenagers shooting up schools. Wars we can't win, enemies we can't fight, natural disasters sinking cities, economies falling to pieces, and I feel it all. I feel it all, and God, how I wish I didn't.
I still drive, you know. On those long, restless nights when the worries get to be too much (how will we pay the bills, how can we make ends meet, how can the world be so different than what we thought it was), I leave my wife alone in bed, get in my newer (but still shitty) car, and drive. I take the roads we used to take together, those long, winding highways, and I smoke the cigarettes we used to smoke together.
And I listen to our songs.
I get them now. Experience will do that for a person, I suppose. I think of my brother in rehab, and I know about the needle and the damage done. I know why Dylan used to rasp about war pigs, and I ache for the unfortunate sons who come back from foreign countries without arms or legs or faces. I hear the words and they rattle in my bones, tense and aching, and I wish I was just a kid again. I wish it was just music, like it used to be. I wish …
But oh, where are you tonight? Where is my northern star, my constant in the darkness? Why aren't you here with me, your bare feet catching breezes from the open window, your fingers curled around your cigarettes? Where is your laughter? Where is your voice? Don't you see that I need you? That it was you who made me feel so light? Can't you understand that it was you who kept the world from touching us?
I don't know. I don't know much of anything these days. I thought it was supposed to be different. I thought I'd have the answers by now. But the answers I have only make me hurt, and if this is what growing up is like, I'd rather just be with you again.
So come home. Come back to me. Make me feel young again. Make me who I used to be, before I understood too much, before the world crept in, before the music started killing me. There's still a place for you here, nestled into the passenger seat, stitched into my heart. I need you. I beg you. I've got the weight of the world now, and I summon you here with my love.
But you never come, and the music never stops.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
I'd love to give a somewhat productive answer: give time to my community, take my dogs to the doggie park, finish my book. But honestly, today? I'd take those three hours and get some extra sleep. Another three hours in bed would be so nice today ... *sigh*
So because my hours would be spent so frivolously, here's my request: give my three hours to President Obama. He can use them however he wants: take some more time with the troubled economy, strengthen our international relationships, try to make some sense out of whatever the hell is going on in the Middle East, or just take three more hours out of his excruciatingly busy schedule and spend them with his wife, daughters and brand new puppy. Heck, just give him three extra hours of sleep a night. No matter where you stand on his policies, you've got to admit: that dude has one full plate on his desk, and my sympathies would go to whoever won the election.
So here, Mr. President -- take my three imaginary hours, and do with them what you like. But if I may suggest, don't spend those three extra hours on work. Take them for yourself. Romp with your darling new dog on the South Lawn. Play Nintendo Wii with Sasha and Malia. Curl up with Michelle and take a good, long nap. Read a book -- a fictional book. Watch a funny movie. Eat a slice of that famous White House apple pie. The next four years will be long, difficult, and full of criticism -- and God help you if you choose to run for reelection, because damn, American political campaigns are freaking brutal.
So even if these three hours are imaginary, Mr. President, take a couple of the precious twenty-four we do have to just appreciate life for what it is. Be our president, yes -- but also be a father, a husband, and most importantly, be a human being.
And pet that dog for me, because Bo is seriously freaking adorable.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Mountains, lakes, fresh air, and refreshing people -- this was an awesome (and much-needed) retreat from reality.
I've always been a Lowcountry girl: oceans, marshes, rivers, flatlands. But I never get to see mountains, which is why I loved joining my mother on a church retreat in North Carolina. I'm not a religious girl by any means, but I adore the people at my mother's church. They're not judgmental, they didn't mind if I skipped the religious services to relax and read Alice Hoffman on the screened-in porch of our cabin, and they can party like there's no tomorrow (they don't call them Whiskepalians for nothin'). There was no wi-fi, no cell phone signals, no television. Just rest and relaxation in the mountains by a lake with some wonderful people, and it was perfect. I can't wait to go again next year.
Now, for my next "vacation:" a work-related trip to Washington, D.C. in May. I love D.C., and I can't wait to go back - not just to better hone my job skills (though I am, nerdily enough, anticipating the seminars), but also to just experience the sights and sounds of the nation's capital. Oh, Smithsonian, how I've missed thee! Plus, after spending over a hundred hours in Fallout 3, it'll be fun to see Washington without the hordes of roaming super mutants brandishing nailboards. ;-)
Thursday, April 9, 2009
She watches them from behind the counter. She remembers fifteen. Fifteen, when she was so hungry for life she could eat an entire turkey and not gain a pound. Ambition and innocence burns everything it touches, even the most saturated of fats.
She wants to tell these girls, I was like you once, but she knows they wouldn't believe her. They would never believe she was once so stunning, so thin, so desirable that she walked runways for Dior, wore haute couture gowns made of nothing but swan feathers and silk, was made up like a geisha and photographed for Vogue. They'd laugh if she told them she had rock star lovers at sixteen or a closet full of $500 shoes before she turned twenty. They would take one look at her sagging breasts, her support hose, her swollen ankles, and they would howl like banshees until their full stomachs ached.
And maybe she doesn't want to tell them. Maybe it's best that way. Let them believe they'll always be a size zero and turn heads every time they cross the street. Let them think they'll never be anything less than radiant. She doesn't want to go over to them and tell them, I used to be a princess, and look at me now. She doesn't want to break their hearts. Time will do that eventually. It always does.
Instead, she just watches them eat their breakfasts, these pretty teenaged girls, until their plates are as clean as their toothpaste-ad smiles. She watches, and she dreams of fifteen, when she was something more.
I absolutely loved this movie -- but I'm a sucker for these types of films. The darker, the better.
Beneath plastic, blood and lies.
The video lives.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
She's a potluck girl, a stew of odds-and-ends deposited by the men she loved but never loved her in return. She watches Monday Night Football and still roots for the Steelers, just for Mike, who she hasn't seen in six years. Her iPod is a mishmash of genres: Richard's bluegrass, Danny's indie bands, Alex's gangster rap. She still wears kitten heels for Bobby, who always hated that she was taller than him and eventually left her for her more petite best friend.
"Get over them," her friends tell her. "Find yourself. You need to be you."
They make it sound so easy, but it's not, because they're all still inside her, churning and bubbling, their memories hot to the touch. It's too late to get rid of them; they've all melted together and are stuck to her bones.
And maybe her friends are wrong. Maybe these men make her who she is. She's Tommy's chambray work shirts, Beau's chai tea, Andrew's skinny jeans. What if all these men have made her who she is? What if that's the way it's supposed to be?
But deep down in the black, hot kettle of her heart, she knows better. She knows. Nobody should ever be just an amalgam of other people's leftovers, because when you take those chunks away, all that's left is a thin, weak broth that tastes of nothing, nothing at all -- and that thought terrifies her to the core.
So she keeps them all inside her: Jack's cheesy science fiction novels, Eric's appetite for Korean cuisine, Bart's dark fetish for handcuffs and stilettos. She lets the pot keep boiling because she can't ever forget them, even if they've already forgotten her -- and she's wise enough to know they have.
After all, who could possibly remember someone who can't even remember her own self?
The map makes it look so simple, but it's not.
My sister and I have always had a strange relationship -- which makes sense, considering that she's twelve years older than me and I didn't even know she existed until I was ten years old. It's a very sad, very twisted, VERY long family drama I won't get into, but we entered each other's lives with heavy baggage we're only just beginning to let go of. We don't always talk often. We maybe only get to see each other once a year. We both feel guilty for breaks in our relationship that really aren't our fault.
But we're sisters, and no matter what circumstances have kept us apart in the past, the present and the future belong to us. So we keep talking. We keep trying. And we always will.
Maybe mileage isn't the only way to measure distance, after all.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
I admire absolutely everything about my mother. Her warmth, love, generosity, and caring towards everyone and everything has taught me how to be the person I am today. She works tirelessly on the behalf of others, and has a smile that's brighter than the sun. In a dark world, my mother has always been a bright light, and I hope I can one day shine the way she does. Mom, you're the best, and I owe you everything. You're an inspiration, not just to me, but to every life you touch. I can't tell you how proud I am to be your daughter.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Business cards? Forget business cards. I will hand out scarves, beautiful scarves. They'll all be different colors and possess their own unique scents: key-lime green, peach pie orange, merlot red, mild apple pink. Wrap the scarf around your face, and with one breath, you'll be transported to a myriad of fantastical worlds full of dangerously headstrong women, beautifully damaged men, and romances fraught with brutal complications.
When I grow up, I want to be Alice Hoffman. I want to be Audrey Neffenegger. I want to be Neil Gaiman, Sarah Waters, Edith Wharton. I want to be Colin Meloy. I want to be someone who makes magic happen with the touch of her fingers.
I want to be a writer.
Barring that, I'd just like a lot of scarves. :)
Sunday, April 5, 2009
- One girl gave Bret a rap read off the back of STD pamphlets
- The same girl took a shot out of another girl's vagina -- on the same night!!!
- Another girl lay drunk and sobbing on a speed bump
- One chick gave Bret a piercing from somewhere on her body and told him that when he got to know her better, he could find out where that piercing belonged -- wow
- A porn star stole everybody's dirty hockey socks after a challenge for no discernible reason
- And Ashley and Farrah existed.
Come and get me, Al Gore. I dare you to chase me down in your electric car.
Confession: I am so tired of "green living." It's become so ... so ... trendy. Like skinny jeans or indie flicks or hating Starbucks. (And why do we all have to hate Starbucks all of a sudden? I like frappuccinos. So there.)
Look, I care about the earth. I agree pumping chemicals into the atmosphere is a bad idea and will hurt our planet. I recycle -- uh, most of the time. I don't litter. I don't leave lights on after I leave a room. And even if I don't drive a hybrid car, I do drive a '99 Miata, which gets about 35-40 mpg in the city and is a lot more fun to drive than a Prius.
So for the love of God, can't we just reduce our impact on the environment without bragging about it? Because this is becoming tiresome. *sigh*
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Oh, there are things I could be considered "famous" for, but let's not talk about those right now. Instead, let's go back. Back in time. Back the '90s ...
I can identify any episode of Saved by the Bell within five seconds -- usually by wardrobe. It's seriously frightening. Is Lisa wearing those big fruit earrings? Then it's the one with the glee club and nerdy Tori Spelling. Is Screech wearing a red beret? It's his lucky beret, also given to him by Violet (nerdy Tori Spelling again!) to beat the Valley Chess Club. And if Zack and Kelly are dressed up like Romeo and Juliet ... well, excuse me, but I have to go because I can't watch that episode for very emotional reasons. "How am I supposed to live without you ..."
Friday, April 3, 2009
I could probably name a thousand songs I wish I'd never heard -- that irritatingly saccharine Christian song about Christmas shoes still makes me want to vomit -- but here's three that recently have enraged me.
I hate knowing that this song will be used in a thousand bad movie montages and played at a million sports games. It will never die. I bet that at this point, even the band probably hates this song, and I don't blame them.