i wrote this when i was 18

i wanted to kiss you

last night

at the park near your house with
too many people in the car.

And I wanted to hold your hand and
feel your lips on my forehead...
so i hit you and laughed and
we played tag like that for a while
18 year old kindergartners.

And I caught you looking at me
and the dissapointment masked
by annoyance when
i mentioned another man.
and do I do that when you mention
another girl?
maybe you saw me wince when you
stung me with that one.

And you said that you liked it
when I bit you
and I bet it will leave a scar

and no matter what happens
all your girlfriends will ask what
that mark on your shoulder is.

A stolen kiss
sheltered by the shedding trees
hidden by the passing clouds
and forgotten
tucked into my back pocket
where i keep a crumpled
picture of you and i
and all the things i
wished i'd said
before we said goodbye
our lips parted
not to meet again
an unspoken promise
sealed by broken promises of
phone calls and late night meetings
where we'd hold each other close again
seconds less each time
my arms growing heavier
with each moment that
you are not in them
and colder with the weight
until you melt me again.

looking through old stuff today

i've though of lots of words, phrases and lyrics
to sum up the feeling in the pit of my stomach
that is you
and i didnt want to make up my own
because you're too new
and i know i'll regret it later
but i know that you're not a you
anymore than he was a he
just an abstract idea
a face to place the butterflies on
to dream about in place of a pillow or teddy bear
and ive thought about how i could be a better you
a salt to your pepper
sugar to your cinnamon
and in a short time youve helped me to
develop more into
the me i want to be
and for that i cannot regret
your face on my butterflies

hardwood floors

My last four apartments had these beautiful hardwood floors in all of the bedrooms and living/dining rooms. As much as I love my new apartment, there is this sterile, hotel like feeling about it that the wall to wall carpeting really contributes to. I remember, the first time I went to New York City on my own was right after I moved into my first apartment, and while I was there I bought an old Josephine Baker record, some Duke Ellington, Count Basie, the Manhattan Soundtrack, and Cheap Thrills by Big Brother and the Holding Company. I kept my record player on the floor then. When I got home, I put on Joplin's Summertime, and laid down on the hardwood floor. It was November and freezing, since we hadn't put plastic on the windows yet, but there is something really nice about that memory, about being 19 and letting the little things be the big things. That was my favorite bedroom. I painted it bright orange and sponged a darker carrot color over it. I had a postcard collection that I hung with clothespins on a line i ran around the room off of the drop ceiling. I didn't have a closet, but a clothes rack that I covered with a shower curtain, and I had this huge queen/twin bunk bed that I hung curtains from, and my bed was like a little cave. I remember the day that I painted it, I was going to a concert with a boy that I liked, who was coming fro out of town, and he wanted to see my new place. So even though the walls weren't done drying yet, and he had to wait a half an hour for me to get ready since I was still covered in paint when he showed up, I made sure the walls were all painted, and that my bed was put together and made when he showed up. The livingroom was still covered in boxes, but my room was perfect. I even set up the ball pit that I had then. I do not remember now, what led me to buy a ball pit, especially one built for toddlers. I guess I've always enjoyed novelty. I also don't know why I woke up this morning thinking about all of this stuff, but I did.

Cara Comma

Looking around my room after my eyes adjust to the dim light provided by the pink-orange streetlights, I find my mind wandering more than my weary eyes. With much of my time consumed by the monotony of day to day life, this is the little bit of time I have to myself. Here, in the dark room with shadows as my only company, is where I am myself with no context. The rest of the time I am Cara comma. At work I am Cara, the girl from the coffee shop. Sometimes, even after a year I am still the girl from the video store. At school, the WheatBread girl or "that writer." In social situations: Katie's friend, Nicole's roommate or "wasn't she with that guy?". Once, asked 'what I did' (and isn't that a funny question, as though there were a one word answer that could stuff my whole life into a tiny little nutshell), I responded "I wear many hats... that's all I do."
Sometimes it seems that way, as the time flies by and I morph seamlessly from coffee girl to student to mentor to basketcase, it seems there isn't enough time to be any one thing well. It is this rapid passage of time that takes the joy away from the little things, that turns you into one of them: the whiny unsatisfied worker ants. Worse yet, turns you into a drone, a going through the motions machine. I decided a long time ago that I refuse to let that happen to me. I decided more recently that it had.
Sitting down to write out something important to me, I found myself grasping at straws, being afraid to attach that much importance to any one thing. Somewhere in that battle with myself, I found that I wasn't sure what was important to me anymore. In fact, I wasn't sure that anything was. To have lost all optimism at 21, what a thought. In realizing this, that the jaded cynicism of a 17-year-old had my mind in its clutch and I was just too busy to notice it, I decided to make a concerted effort to remember when I had last let myself dwell in a moment of simple, unadulterated pleasure. It is, after all, those moments that make the tedium of necessity worth the hassle. As Ethan Hawke says, in Reality Bites, "so I take pleasure in the little things."
The little things... I began to ponder what my little things were. As Mr. and Mrs. Poulain in Jeunet's Amelie, I very much enjoy the art of reorganization. The hours that follow a good room cleaning are always among my most productive. These every day occurances, seemingly mundane, should be taken for what they are. For that little bit of magic that makes you say "so what" to not knowing what it's all about.
It is always amazing how much the sting of a hot coffee at six-thirty in the morning can take the edge of off pre-dawn wake up calls. I sometimes have the opportunity, just as the sun is beginning its ascent from horizon to horizon, to step outside and take in a bit of the morning air. My fingers, stinging from the cold in the early morning breeze, are unable to grasp anything for a few moments. It is the kind pain that, as a child would have brought me to the fetal position, but that now is strangely comforting—a reminder that feelings can be felt. Taking a drag of my freshly lit cigarette, the hot coffee coats my throat, and the smoke slithers easily in and then out of my lungs. There are no hurried phone calls or demanding customers and I am able to indulge in my own self-destruction.
It is easy, in routine, to forget the good things. For eight hours the same faces pass by: The woman who is always late, but is picky anyway: bucket of French Roast, double cupped (make sure the seams line up). Then there’s the guy who will be back in an hour for another coffee, at which point it will be waiting for him on the counter, motivated slightly by the consistent dollar tip he leaves, but also by the amusement we get from his love of AC/DC, and his insistence that headphones are an efficient weather-proofing device; The acquaintance I don’t remember who swears we were at the same party last weekend (the details of his face escape me now), the dark eyed young man who, despite his love of flavored coffee with lots of cream makes at least an hour of my shift worth the two minute casual exchange that he supplies to pepper my day with aesthetic pleasure. In this haze, the only way I can tell apart one day from the other is the amount of time that can be spent looking longingly at my bed as I gather my things to make the trip to class. My only escape is those infrequent moments that punctuate my day. In these moments I ignore the passing people and the pressure of daily life. Inhaling, I feel my tense arms loosen at my sides, as though the smoke is spreading to the very tips of my body.
Walking through the park on a misty day, pausing atop the bridge and watching the ducks swim below, I take a pause. The sky is a thinly grayed blue and the chill in the air is easily thwarted by a sweatshirt. The center of the park is far enough from the street that there is an illusion of aloneness from the civilized world of streetlights and honking horns. I can hear myself think, and though the words I sketch out onto the blank sheet in the back of my mind will invariably disappear regardless of how many times I repeat them, there is a comfort to be felt in being alone with those words. In these moments- the little things that I so take pleasure in- it is hard to understand how I ever get frustrated with life. I kick myself for ever letting a sleepless night, or a boring class curse the human condition. For what beauty there is around us, just waiting to be gobbled up by all of our senses.
No museum, coffeehouse, studio, or theatre need bring us these things, either. Easily, we romanticize things found in these packages. I, myself am eternally guilty of this. When I hold a martini glass I think of Dorothy Parker and New York City literary roundtables. I think of a time when celebrity was sometimes the same as intellectual, but not a replacement for it. When I enter a dark smoky bar, I picture Bob Dylan in the corner repairing a snapped e-string. These are the images that haunt my mind's landscape. These are interchangeable though, and sometimes it is Joey Ramone or Janis Joplin and a bottle of whiskey.
This is historical envy, a decision made by society long ago that flowers in poetry are prettier than flowers in gardens. It is the sensibility that tells us that no film can ever be as good as Citizen Kane, no symphony like a Mozart. This sensibility freezes us in our tracks, makes us give up hope of any lasting achievement, has created generations of cynics. It has made us forget that these little things can be anything, anywhere. They can be the things that punctuate our mundanity with elation. A good song that can steal part of your soul, sometimes just for a moment. The same way that a good movie can, at its credits leave you feeling exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time; like an adventure, a new home, or great sex. When it fits just right, someone else's words and voice can capture exactly what you're feeling, thinking, and not being able to say on your own. Sitting stocking-footed on the hardwood floor of an apartment cluttered with artifacts from busier days and taking in a lazy breath of fresh air. Waking up in the morning and finding the coffee pot recently filled with hot coffee, reading a book you loved as a child, remembering a good dream that felt so real it stays with you all day. Little things like these are often overlooked, tossed over the shoulder or stomped on in favor of dwelling on a parking ticket or a long day at work.
Gliding down a road with no one on it and nothing but blinking lights from here to your destination. Being alone with nothing but your thoughts to occupy you, some revolutionary at the moment, others that will fade away by the end of your journey, or shower, or workout, or period between awake and asleep. These alone moments, these me without a context, within myself moments are the ones in which I am most able to decode where my true nature lies. That is when it becomes clear to me what I am at my core. I am a writer. I am an observer, a regurgitator, a craftsman. Rainer Maria Rilke said, in his Letters to a Young Poet "This most of all: ask yourself, in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? And if this answer rings out in asent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity." If I were forbidden to write, could I live? If by taking away writing, not only is my pen, paper, keyboard taken away, but also those idle moments in which I am able to scribble on the blank sheet of the back of my mind, then yes is the only answer with which I can reply.
Later in his Letters Rilke says, "If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is not poverty." Often times, when I have heard enough lament about a city without a culture, of greener grass abroad, I think of this. What right do I have to blame others for what I cannot find in my own life? If ever there is a time when I cannot find a spotting point, a place to focus in order to prevent dizziness, then I have lost my skill.
When the little bile-invoking troubles of the day come up it is the hardest to stay objective. It is in these moments though, that it is most important to reflect on the good little things. It is in those moments before I slip off to sleep that I feel the most alive, the most aware that anything can happen, and the most willing to believe that that is true. Of course we all falter, it is hard not to think about the end of the night, when the morning is broken not by light through the shade, but by the monotone mechanical notes produced by my cell phone. Eventually I am able to move my wandering mind toward happier thoughts, though, and with my handmade heating pad in hand, I settle into the cavernous wonder that is my bed. Surrounded on all sides by pillows, a failing attempt at producing the illusion that I am not alone, I melt into the familiar groove where my body has miraculously left its impression, despite seemingly infrequent visits to the spot. Stretching my feet, and wrapping them by the ankles around the pillow that shortens the length of my bed to better suit my five-foot frame, I edge closer to the pillow that rests against my back. Finally, I pull my teddy bear close to me and rest below it the velvety purple heating pad that, in the months after I made it, exuded the smell of jasmine. With this, and the haunting lull of the subway train, reproduced by my windowsill white noise machine, I pass quietly into the realm within my head. The realm where there is nothing but Cara, and not the anticipation of a box to climb into or a name tag to be worn.

Deep Thoughts not by Jack Handey

Cara Lisa Powers
Assignment #2

Fumbling with keys, my icy fingers have trouble finding the lock. Open. Close. A plastic runner under the door sometimes gets stuck, but not today. Closing the wind behind me, I start the car. Elvis Costello croons to me from an aging tape deck that needs to be cleaned and glows the time. Ten minutes fast for my own good, it pierces the dark car with the digits: 6:03. As the car warms up, and the night street becomes more clear, I buckle my seatbelt and stuff my hands under my legs, in between the cold seats and my cold jeans, hoping some reaction will warm something.
My fingers, stinging from the cold, are unable to grasp anything for a few moments. It is the kind pain that, as a child would have brought me to the fetal position, but that now is strangely comforting—a reminder that feelings can be felt. As my fingers dull to a comfortable numb, I reach for the manual window crank and roll the window down enough to fit my hand through comfortably. Lighting up a cigarette, I take a sip of my scalding hot coffee before pulling out on to the street. This is the moment I wait for all day. Knowing my house and all of the lack of obligation that it represents are only five streetlights away, the hot coffee coats my throat, and the smoke slithers easily in and then out of my lungs. There are no hurried phone calls or frustrated car honking to occupy my non-steering hand, and I am able to indulge in my own self-destruction.
I glide easily down Park Avenue in the post rush-hour lull, an even marker of dinnertime siesta. Immediately following this, the happy time, is the sad time, the title that myself and my roommate have given to the time of day at which we set our cell phone alarms to 5:30 and 6:30 AM, respectively. The time when I shut off the car, and Elvis Costello, Frank Zappa, and Bob Dylan disappear with the haze of the headlights, into the black of the night, and I trudge up the fire escape to the world outside my head. I will in the next two hours eat, shower, discuss my day with my roommates, whom I see far too infrequently, leave a message for my best friend who I see even more infrequently, and give the dog a cookie, so it still loves me and remembers me when I get home tomorrow. Then something will most likely distract me, something that pushes my bedtime back into the vicinity of midnight.
When that magical moment finally happens it is hard not to think about the end of the night, when the morning is broken not by light through the shade, but by the monotone mechanical notes produced by my cell phone. Eventually I am able to move my wandering mind toward happier thoughts, though, and with my handmade heating pad in hand, I settle into the cavernous wonder that is my bed. Surrounded on all sides by pillows, a failing attempt at producing the illusion that I am not alone, I melt into the familiar groove where my body has miraculously left its impression, despite seemingly infrequent visits to the spot. Stretching my feet, and wrapping them by the ankles around the pillow that shortens the length of my bed to better suit my five-foot frame, I edge closer to the pillow that rests against my back. Finally, I pull my teddy bear close to me and rest below it the velvety purple heating pad that, in the months after I made it, exuded the smell of jasmine. With this, and the haunting lull of the subway train, reproduced by my windowsill white noise machine, I pass quietly into the realm within my head.
Regardless though, 530am always comes too quickly, and whether I fall into my bed at 8pm or 2am, the alarm always sounds next to my head just early enough to be jarring. I bundle myself like a kindergartner no matter what the weather report, preparing for the frigid wind of the predawn walk to work. By the time I arrive at work, I am slightly more awake, thanks to my friend nicotine, but the half hour it takes for the espresso machine to heat up is always discouraging. The whirring of the coffeemakers and the loud hum of the oven makes it necessary to turn the music up so loud that my co-worker and I often wait until we’re already open to discuss our weekends.
For eight hours the same faces pass by: The woman who is always late, but is picky anyway: bucket of French Roast, double cupped (make sure the seams line up). Then there’s the guy who will be back in an hour for another coffee, at which point it will be waiting for him on the counter, motivated slightly by the consistent dollar tip he leaves, but also by the amusement we get from his love of AC/DC; The acquaintance I don’t remember who swears we were at the same party last weekend (the details of his face escape me now), the dark eyed young man who, despite his love of flavored coffee with lots of cream makes at least an hour of my shift worth the two minute casual exchange that he supplies to pepper my day with aesthetic pleasure. In this haze, the only way I can tell apart one day from the other is the amount of time that can be spent looking longingly at my bed as I gather my things to make the trip to class. My only escape is those infrequent moments that count out my day into segments. In these moments I ignore the passing people and the pressure of daily like. Inhaling, I feel my tense arms loosen at my sides, as though the smoke is spreading to the very tips of my body. Then another three hours. No matter how excited I am about a class or an assignment, or a meeting, each moment is spent thinking about how many more moments are between me and my car, me and my bed, me and the weekend, me and May and freedom. At the end of that class, though, while I glide effortlessly down the five streetlights of Park Avenue, there is only that moment. There is only me, and Elvis Costello, and my coffee and my cigarette. That is my grounding moment. That is my Zen.

old poem (embarassingly cliche)

we lost our footing
but no one fell
this balancing act is tiresome

if i walk away will you fall
if i let go of your arm
will you fall
will you fall in love

because thats what ive been wanting
waiting craving
foolishly
im not a fool
im taking off this silly hat

under a clear cold night
half naked in a chill
i tripped into you
we kissed and more
and i knew then what i know now
that things would never be the same.

An Apothegm

I cried the last time I felt like this. I don’t like crying. I want you to go away before I want you to stay anymore than I already do. I want to hold your hand and kiss you. I am a slave to my wants. I hate dependency. I want you. I don’t want to hate you. I want to be with you more than I want to be alone. I like being alone. I hate reading aloud. I want to read you poetry. I make myself up when I’m with you. I can be anyone. I like feeling invincible. I listen to songs and wish I’d written them about you. I listen to songs and wish you’d written them for me. I am messy, lazy, and unkempt. I want you to think I have everything figured out. I run away because I want you to chase me. I hate the way I think. I want to make a list of movies, books and albums for you. I want you to be an adventure. I dyed my hair an unnatural color. I thought, as the red went down the drain, that it was to be less invisible to you.

For Billy

Tripping over legos
In the middle of the night
After giggling until it hurt.
Helpful trees and stolen paint
In the summertime.

Undercooked french toast
Sunday morning
Without waking dad.
Sewing, drawing, writing in
The backyard under lilac
Trees that made me sneeze.

Screaming and yelling,
Hair pulling- you’d bite me ‘til
I bled.
But if someone else tried to hurt me
You’d jump to my defense.
If something broke, we’d
Fix it.
And if I ever had a nightmare, and
My teddy bear could not coax me back to sleep
I always knew you would.

You love others
But cannot love yourself.
You’re beautiful when you smile
But grimace too much,
Beating your fists against iron walls
You’ve built around yourself to
Keep out
A warm embrace or a kind word
Woodworking frames around
Kurt Cobain
Worshipping a man you never knew
Hating yourself because you think it’s
What he would have wanted.

The Photo Album

It was bound in a blue leather-like material. Twice the size of an average family photo album, it was beginning to split at the spine, cracking in places and exposing the brown of the cardboard beneath. The young man opened the book and flipped past a few pages. He found the page he was looking for, dated in scribbled marker at the top, 10/14…
The first picture was taken at a park. There was a young woman in her early twenties pushing a little boy on a swing. It seemed very sunny out, and the woman shielded her eyes with one hand as she looked up the little boy who was casting a shadow across her. She was wearing an autumn colored sweater, clearly indicating the cool temperature of the day. The little boy was bundled more heavily, in a winter coat and a hat. There were leaves scattered on the ground around the swings and underfoot.
A picture on the opposite page had, in its right corner a large black dog. The foreground, however, appeared to be a large red fence, against which a large pile of leaves had accumulated. The dog was panting, unaware of the photographer, and instead looking off to the side at something apparently more interesting to the left.
Below the dog was a close up picture of someone’s gloved hand against a fence. Beyond the fence was blurry, but the focus seemed to be on the hand’s entrapment behind the chain link.
Another photo seemed to have been taken at an Asian restaurant. It depicted a set of hands pouring sake from a small carafe into a cup. The hands seemed to belong to an older man, showing some signs of age, but still balanced with grace.
The man sat back in his bed, stuck in a pensive moment of his own construction. He thought back to that particular day, bringing himself back to the sunny cold middle of October. There was a particular feeling in the air that comes with that time of year, where clothing changes daily in New England from tank tops and skirts to sweaters and leg warmers. Sometimes eighty-degree days are decorated with pumpkins and littered with apple cider. He tried to capture this on that particular day, passing pumpkins on porches and piles of leaves, taking pictures of kids in leaves and tiny, gloved hands.
Over the course of his day he encountered women in scarves and boots with sunglasses, shivering in the cold while shielding their eyes from the blinding sun. By day’s end, some coats had been shed, and the lawns of the nearby campus had begun to fill with lounging students, grasping to a final day in the sun.
He looked around at his surroundings now, the beeping machines and monitors, the IV in his arm, the hospital issue sheets, and was eternally grateful for the opportunity to capture so much life on film. He was glad he’d had the foresight to compile this collection to comfort him in his final months. Now, alone in his hospital room he though about the little boy, who might be starting kindergarten this fall, and the dog, who might have had puppies. It made him a little bit happier to know that he had some sort of connection to the world outside, besides a small obituary column saying his name and that ugly word… cancer.

A Letter from Home

James tossed his backpack onto to the bed and kicked off his worn sneakers. He looked around the room, discerning whether or not his roommate was back from class or not. This missing towel and shower caddy from the other side of the tiny dorm room indicated that Hans, the stranger with whom James had been cohabitating, was in the shower. After two weeks they still had barely spoken two words to each other, and James was beginning to wonder if in fact Hans did not know how to speak English, or perhaps did not know how to speak at all.
James reached into his back pocket and retrieved from it the Wisconsin postmarked letter that he had received that morning. He hadn’t heard from home since he left for school. He hadn’t heard much from his mother at all since he decided he was going away for school a few months earlier. She never said it out loud, but she felt like he was running away. The look in her eyes the few times he’d seen her over the summer was the same shame and disappointment she’d tried to conceal when talking about his father. James, Sr., never too clever to live up to clichés, went out for a loaf of bread when James was 13 and never came back.
The letter though, was not from his disappointed mother, but his best friend and cousin Benny. Benny had recently decided that he was just plain Ben. Unlike James, formerly Jimmy, he did not have the luxury of starting over in a new state to rid him of his childhood pseudonym. James sat down on the edge of his bed, dutifully ignoring the naked Dutchman in the corner. He unfolded the scribbled letter and began to read.
Dear Jimmy,
So it’s been two weeks now and Mary Ann still hasn’t returned my calls. I think she’s still mad at you for setting her up like that. No wonder you said you didn’t care if I dated her when you left, there’s no way in hell she’ll talk to anyone who knows you as long as she lives. I’m sorry man, that was rough, but seriously, you shouldn’t have gone after her in the first place if you knew you were just going to leave her at the end of the summer. Enough lecturing. Shit man, I miss the hell out of you. I’ve been having to hang out with that lame ass brother of mine. Johnny says hi, by the way. So does my mom.
Met any hot college chicks yet? Man, I gotta come out there and visit you sometime. You’re coming home for the holidays, right? I’ll tell you Beth got back from the summer camp last weekend and damn did she grow up over the summer. Me and Johnny went down to the bonfire last weekend. He went out for the football team this year… and we thought he was bullshitting, right? He’s second string, but he fuckin’ made it man, can you believe it? He’s going to get all the chicks we always wished we could. Anyway, Beth went with us. She’s going to the community college with me and Rosie next week, so I thought it would be cool if I started hanging out with her some more, you know?
So we get down to the fire, and there’s all those kids, and all us guys hanging back just kind of drinking beers and laughing at ‘em. Then over walk, get this, Artie Warren. The guy got out last week. So we’re all catching up, and he tells Beth how he got arrested after the State Finals for stealing his dad’s VW. Turns out his dad didn’t send him to military school after all, he fuckin pressed charges, and he’s been serving 8 months over in County. Who knew, right? I never thought Old Man Warren would snap like that. But anyway, so he tells us about this place his cellmate told him about. It’s this hole down in the quarry. It’s pretty well hidden by the rocks from above, but pretty easy to get into once you’re down on the level.
So we go down to the quarry with Artie, right, at this point it’s just me, Artie, and Beth. Johnny stayed at the rally with his new girl (more on that later). So he’s all “sshh, sshh,” and we’re telling him to shut up because his fuckin’ hushing us is worse than the whispering we’re doing as far as the echo, you know? So we go down to this hole in the quarry, a cave really, not even knowing why. I mean, we’ve got a couple in us, right, so we ain’t thinkin’ too straight but he hasn’t even told us what is in the cave anyway. So we go in and there is, get this, cocaine EVERYWHERE. He tells us that this is where some of the cops at county stash what they steal off the perps. No one is supposed to know about it, but it’s actually not too well kept a secret. So anyway, we end up doing a couple lines and Artie goes stumbling off into the woods talking about the fucking squirrel that stole his favorite socks. I have no idea what he’s talking about but I figure it gets me some time out with Beth, so I let him wander off.
I probably shouldn’t have just let him wander off like that, in his condition, but you know-- I’m not much better off. So he goes off and me and Beth are out on this rock overlooking the water, and we’re just talking and then she kisses me. I mean, I know you’re thinking I made the move, but I swear she kissed me. So soon we’re just tearing each others’ clothes off and making out. At first I was looking out for Artie, hoping he wouldn’t find us there like that, but then she started giving me head, and I stopped thinking altogether. So then we’re going at it, right there on the rock, and eventually we both just pass out.
When we come to it’s light out and our clothes are all over the place, we couldn’t even find her underwear. So we get dressed as best we can and we start heading back to the car. We figured we’d find Artie on the way. I had the worst fucking headache. It was like a hangover times fifty-five. I felt like crap, but I started getting worried about Artie. So me and Beth start screaming: “Artie, Artie!” But we couldn’t find him anywhere. So I start thinking maybe he fell into the quarry, and I’m fucking panicking. But then we get out to the road and we can’t find his car either. So then I’m pissed, I’m thinking the bastard ditched us. So we start walking down the road, and about a half a mile up there’s Artie’s car, plowed right into a tree. We start freaking out again, and we run over to the car, but he’s not in it. So we’re looking around, and ten feet from the car, there’s Artie—bloody as hell, and his arm is hanging off the side of his body. That’s all he was man, a body. It was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Anyway, I gotta run, but I’ll call you sometime this weekend.
-Benny-

posted novel

I was cleaning out my old computer and dredged up a quasi novel i wrote last year, sans editing.

http://abjectreality.blogspot.com

Strange Amalgam

I used to watch A Little Princess a lot when I was a little kid. I liked that Sarah had this whole alternate universe that she invented, and that she would share with the other girls. I always thought that if I was in solitary confinement, I'd do okay. I'd just sleep and get good songs stuck in my head. But if I didn't have a pen, I think I'd talk out loud a whole lot. Maybe that's how people go crazy... they're just trying to keep themselves entertained. I have a whole host of characters that I make up to keep myself entertained. Mostly, I think I just like dialogue better when I get to write both sides of it, so I'll take bits of things that have already happened and explore a different route. This is a recent amalgam of stories I’ve either been told, overheard, or thought about doing myself.

Elizabeth had been engaged for two months, but still the ring had not become a comfortable addition to her hand. In the third grade she had a claddagh ring that she bought at Cape Cod for two dollars. She wore it on her ring finger everyday until she was 17, when it fell down the hotel drain after the Junior Prom. She'd felt at the time that it was a physical sign of her own betrayal. Something precious was taken away from her because she'd broken the rules. She didn't have sex again until after she'd dropped out of college.
When Henry had proposed to her, she felt redeemed. He wasn't like the guys she dated in high school, or slept with after college. He was a nice boy, at least that's what her mother said, when she'd called to tell her the good news. She'd hoped that the ring would fill that void on her hand, meld right into place and be that thing that she'd been missing. She was waiting for something to complete her, as people are often bound to do, and expected to know right away that this was it. Elizabeth was never given a rulebook, but she knew that what she was doing was against the rules. Sitting in the rundown diner near the last exit to the Pike, she twisted her ring on her finger, waiting for the familiar roar of the 1987 Elefant. She wasn't going to sleep with Jeremy... at least she wasn't planning on it. But when her ex-boyfriend had called her to say he was in town and needed to see her, her catlike curiosity got the better of her.
He was already 20 minutes late, but that was to be expected. He was always late. Except for the one time that he'd made her late, and that was the last time she'd seen him. She turned out not to be pregnant, and he said that the job out of town had nothing to do with her, and that he wanted her to come with him. This was days later, when he called from Minnesota to see how she was doing, and to make sure that she wasn't pregnant. They'd been 22 and 23 at the time, and two years had passed since then.
She'd barely heard the engine in the parking lot, when the door to the diner breezed open and in walked Jeremy. He hadn't changed at all in the two years that he'd been away. His hair seemed lighter, and his hands aged beyond twenty-four by manual labor. But his eyes still held the gentle expression that had always tricked Elizabeth into believing that his intentions were honest and good. She found herself on her feet and in his arms before she was aware of herself. He pulled away when he felt the cold metal of her ring on his neck.
"Wow, Lizzie...congratulations," he stammered, staring at the modest stone on her left hand. "How long?"
"Almost a year," she lied, knowing that the truth would be easier for him to ignore.
“Wow… You look great.”
He looked great. He always did. Even as she was at the free clinic, silently cursing his existence, she wanted to be on the back of that bike, blazing down the highway. She sat across from him in that rundown diner, that had, when she first came to this city been aglow with possibility and romantic notion of late night coffee that had now faded into its shabby actuality. She had come to terms in two years with the fact that ripped jeans and quarters for coffee was not always worth its novel appeal, and had even stopped carrying the copy of Howl in her back pocket that she kept with her in the first couple of years following her abrupt exit from college life. He seemed to be riding that same take each day as it comes wave that is so easy when the blinders of adolescence haven’t yet been removed. She missed those days.
After they’d ordered, he paused for a moment and studied her face, almost as though taking a picture of her in his mind. She wondered what he saw, having always wanted to be “the girl” in a song or book or poem of some lasting quality. Without thinking, she touched her own face, only realizing what she’d done when he reached out to pull her hand away, resting his own atop it on the Formica table-top. It took her too long to pull away, straightening her self upright in her seat.
“So what have you been up to? It’s been ages.”
“Odd jobs. Construction, worked on some bikes for a while in Minneapolis.”
“Where are you living now?”
“On the road… I’m heading down to West Virginia right now. A friend of mine just started a shop and he needs a mechanic. He thought I might like to give the south a shot for a while.”
“Settle down on a plantation?”
“We’ll see.” He paused again, thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed you.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that. So she didn’t. Eventually they moved on to more small talk. In the two hours they spent chewing on overcooked hamburgers, sipping fountain soda, the conversation never stopped being awkward. It was a strange kind of awkward that comes from knowing someone too well. The problem, of course, was that they knew a two-year-old version of each other and neither had expected the other to have changed at all, despite their own growth.
As the summer sun began its long descent, they exited the tiny diner to the parking lot. Elizabeth walked with him to his bike, pausing just a few feet from it. He pulled her close to him, and it was the kind of hug that you savor at the beginning of a relationship: just too long and just too close, breathing in one another’s scent. She clenched her left fist, fingering the inside of the ring, and forced hersef to pull away.
“Elizabeth… Lizzie… I’m going now. I’m not staying here tonight. I’m not staying at Garret’s tonight. Garret doesn’t even know I’m here. I just came to see you.”
“I…” She didn’t even know what the next word was supposed to be.
“If I asked you to get on the back of this bike and come with me… what would you say?”
She hesitated, but not long. When she spoke, she was surprised by her own words.
“I… I have to work tomorrow.”
His look wasn’t disappointed or startled, but more amused. He chuckled, despite himself, shaking his head.
“You need this.” He looked around him, taking in his surroundings. “You grew up, Lizzie. You left me behind. Isn’t that funny? I left. But you left me behind.”
She couldn’t even muster a response before he saddled his bike, and literally rode off into the sunset.

found this in my old blog

im sick of myself, not just now but from a year ago, and six months ago, and everytime i look at myself from maybe even just 2 weeks ago, i'm kind of disgusted with who i used to be, and so probably even who i am right now. anyway, i decided to never look at my old blogs again, and instead just post selections that specifically highlight who you should be glad you don't know right now. this is number one, from before my life got tipped on its side and then back upright about 9 months ago. im bruised from the fall, but what else is new?

 


Oh, probably because I hate you... that's right. And another thing, you can take your fancy blue books and multiple questions and shove them up your short answers. That's right bitch.

Yes, I have been not studying all night for two midterms tomorrow that I am entirely unprepared for. Things that I have done instead:
went to Deerfield Press
went to Duffy's and bought 4, count 'em 4 boxes of Tazo Green Teas
went to the Bean Counter TWICE (once for an iced latte and Jean and I went for a walk, then once for an application and a raspberry mocha, of which i forgot to get soy instead of regular milk so i felt kind of sick all evening)
went to Target, almost bought Blondie's Greatest Hits, but decided against it, almost bought a cute sweater, decided against, almost bought a dress, decided against it... bought nothing
watched a half an hour of "Slackers" (i think that Jason Schwartzman is going to propose any day now)
went to dinner with my dad, jean, and melissa after an unsuccessful apartment showing. hopefully friday will be more fruitful in that regard.
got officially hired for my new job
participated in a CUFS meeting (showing up late and leaving early seems to be my style... im the worst co-director ever)
made out... i mean hung out with chloe in the WheatBread office updating my blog and talking to sarah and jean and waxing philosophical over vanilla djarums. i've become such a privelaged college fuck. That's about it for now.
*hugs and kisses*

Short short story

Dear Alexander,

Considered what you said (stop) Do not wish to continue conversation (pause) in fact wish to never speak to you again (stop) Do not try and contact me (stop) It is better this way (end)

-Celia-


What is this about? I don't know, I'm just sick of writing about postmodernism on television and Aristotle.

-c-