Fear and why some things happen at the exact right moment

I like this song, Lorde.

We’re never done with killing time
Can I kill it with you?
Till the veins run red and blue
We come around here all the time
Got a lot to not do, let me kill it with you

You pick me up and take me home again
Head out the window again
We’re hollow like the bottles that we drain
You drape your wrists over the steering wheel
Pulses can drive from here
We might be hollow, but we’re brave

(And I like you)
I love these roads where the houses don’t change (and I like you)
Where we can talk like there’s something to say (and I like you)
I’m glad that we stopped kissing the tar on the highway (and I like you)
We move in the tree streets
I’d like it if you stayed

Now we’re wearing long sleeves
And the heating comes on
(You buy me orange juice)
We’re getting good at this
Dreams of clean teeth
I can tell that you’re tired
But you keep the car on
While you’re waiting out front

And I like you…

anniversaries

I always assign importance to dates and times. “Remember whens”

I blame it on my sentimental parents.
Today, it’s been 8 months since I found out about Richard. How many times I’ve written that phrase, “found out about Richard.”

I want to believe in time travel
That one day I’ll come back for you
Find you in the campus library aisles -The Zolas

It’s just such a feeling of finality. I’ve never experienced it before. That wall. That missing space, or missing filler. People come and go, but you always know they’re still out there in the world existing, being, around. Some semblance of reassurance. And for someone to not

Well how do you? What do you?

There’s nothing.

a daily

When I was a kid we always had dinner at 6:30 precisely. The tea was poured and the table was set and you were expected to be in the vicinity of your chair by 6:30. Every night. Being late to dinner was an insult to us all. You were shouted at from the table, very seriously, usually with usage of both the first and middle name. You were told, ‘you know what time supper starts.’ [Cause back in the day it was supper not dinner. Now that seems so southern to me.] It was one of the many traditions my mother established for us. She took supper time very seriously. No TV, lots of talking, 6:30 sharp. She didn’t value anything that interfered with supper time: volleyball games (6:15); Buffy the Vampire Slayer (6:30); the end of my shift at the grocery store (7:00). It was quite shameful to mother when she became so engrossed in the back to back 6 and 6:30 episodes of Buffy on FX that supper suffered [“This is just getting ridiculous”]. I especially like having those memories now that I’m on my own. The best jokes and the best fights happened at dinner time. Like when I threw a fork at my brother’s head, or when he got stuck in the highchair, or when my sister chewed up a piece of steak and spit it in the fish tank (sneakily after we were excused). We made up awesome lengthy prayers to the request for a dinner time grace (my family is not particularly religious) and got to have serious conversations about the people we encountered during our separate days. My brother and I were on table set and table clear duty, so we spent a lot of quality time around the table before and especially after dinner. My brother and sister would wander off, probably to shower and fight their bedtime (always resisting sleep the crazies); my mother would be busy with them; my stepfather would either be in the bathroom, in his chair, or most times still at work, and we were left to our own devices at the dirty dinner table with the plates and food that became our responsibility. My mom justified it all by claiming that since she did the shopping, the meal planning, and the cooking that we could handle the clean-up. We wiped down the counters and loaded the dishwasher and scrubbed the stove and found appropriate tupperware for the food. We covered a plate or the pans in an ideal location for our stepdad’s return. It was his job that put the food on the table, after all. We took the scraps out to the fat dogs or the coyotes that would come up to the edge of the field later in the night. Once when I was home from college I threw my leftovers in the trash. My mother gave me a steely glance and said, “Someone’s been living in the city too long.”

Now that I’m on my own, I get home in the evenings and I put away my work things and I ask myself, can it be dinnertime now? and I answer myself, yes, it can be.

I do love being on my own, but sometimes I forget how much that love is shaped by a childhood in which I was never alone. In which I felt so connected all the time to this larger unit. So connected that I had to fight, pull teeth and nail to have any peace. The lock on my door only held so long once my siblings realized they could fit a dime in the slot and bust in on me at their fancy. Today is my mom’s birthday, and I called her and we had a nice chat. And she updated me on the happenings of the unit. All of us strung out somewhat away from her. Like an octopus and its tentacles, we are no longer in her center, but we are out there somewhat within reach. It’s so strange to me that we’ve flown the coop, left the litter. As the years add up, it’s stranger to me still that we ever were a litter.

People talk about children like they’re idiots. Like they don’t have fully functioning brains. But it’s just the opposite. It’s a being with a hyper-active brain. Super high functioning trying to make sense of all this information at rapid fire pace. And most of the time, doing a pretty good job of it. Maybe it’s because I have vivid self-aware memories of being a child. Of seeing a fight or losing a game or trying to cut on the line of the stupid heart shape for a 1st grade art project; thinking to myself, ‘do I cut on the line, along the line, inside the line, outside the line?’ And just being very aware all the time when an adult didn’t like me or thought I was stupid or wanted me to go away. I think adults are stupid. Much dumber than the average child. If you ask me.

The Boyhood post

I remember the first time I read about Boyhood. It was a random article I clicked through from my Twitter feed. I remember the concept was so incredible to me–following the same actors in real time. I remember eyeing the showtimes when it came to northern WI. Planning to see it, backing down, missing it. I don’t know why I do that. Resist the things I really want. So, this is the I finally watched Boyhood post.

Top 3 Things Boyhood Made Me Relive
1. Divorce
2. Talking to Boys as an Adolescent
3. School

Music because music is everything and without it I can’t imagine that life would be half as good.

3. School
Ugh, school. Do you remember what school was like? Having to show up in the morning and sit at the desk and shove your shit into a too small place, whether it was a locker or a shelf. Having to be quiet and play nice and talk nice and look nice and the conformity of it all. It was so dull. I hated school. The constant boredom and the routine of it all. Kids. The microcosm of humanity. Not being able to explore what you wanted and having to read the words in the science book and the worksheets and the music classes and the smell of the school bus. The sweet sweet freedom of summer. School is a soul crushing prison we send our children to on the regular basis. Don’t get me wrong–education is a privilege, but the way we do it is torturous.

2. Talking to Boys as An Adolescent Girl
I had totally forgotten what it was like to be a girl and like a boy and have to call that boy on the phone. Kids these days don’t know how easy they have it. With their social medias and their texts. I remember the awkwardness of it all…what would you talk about? Outside of school? Away from extrinsic factors? Then you had to call him. And you probably had to talk to his mom, his sister, his brother, his dog, before he got on the phone. And then you had to listen to the background of, ‘who is it’; ‘who?’; ‘he’s talking to so and so.’ And then knowing that your name would trigger similar conversations from there on out. Every time you called. Assuming the first couple calls went well and gave you a reason to call again.  Oh my gosh. The worst. Teenage Mating Rituals.

1. Divorce
I’ve never watched a movie that so accurately depicted being the child of divorced parents as this one. I was that kid again, going back and forth. Balancing it all out. How it is with the primary parent and the weekend parent. The tension. The realization that you were enough for your parents to be civil friends but not much more. That nothing else was really tying them together, other than their mutual interest in you. Being with the secondary parent who didn’t have the same expectations, who just let you be. Because they don’t know really, what it means to be a parent one hundred percent in the traditional sense. Having to re-adjust at first to the different parenting style, the different feel, the different rules or lack thereof. Having to remember what this parent was like. Who you were with this parent. The conversations. And then, wrapped within this divorce package = Men and alcohol. With my dad it meant dirty jokes and pizza for dinner and the weekend and probably a later bedtime. With my mom it meant the strained dinners and the slammed doors and the early bedtimes and the quieting of the TV. The siblings huddled in the room together trying to reclaim your safe feeling after. The feeling of guilt. The feeling of, yes, you’re the man keeping the roof over my head, but you’re not my dad. The feeling of, what is a dad? Seeing your mom and knowing that regardless of how well you did in school or how quickly you cleaned your room on Saturday, she would still be missing something. Not having the words to communicate to her how sorry you were–that her expectation that the sacrifices she made for her children would be enough, would leave her feeling fulfilled and how unfortunately, none of it was as worthwhile as she had hoped. I never had step siblings, but the step families, and the trying to make them happy, appease the otherness, become whatever it was that would make you seem like family. That I had forgotten. Patricia Arquette has always reminded me of my mother, but especially in this movie. The shape, the blondeness, the drama, the anger. It made me laugh when she would yell and the children would listen but rebel in their small ways. It reminded me of so many mornings in bed, so many times in the car, so many goodbyes. Just that feeling of walking in the door and never knowing what you were going to get. That’s what Boyhood ultimately made me relive. The ambiguity that has colored so much of my life.

And that feeling of trying to trust the moment cause you’re always slightly doubtful of where it will take you.

fwp

sometimes thought catalog does alright: 20 Signs you’re doing better than….

Sounds strange, but I would also add “you get angry” to the list. You have emotions, more than one, which you can express. Anger is part of my person. Part of my character. I like the angry side of me. I like that I have the ability to think critically of the world, to have a reaction to it that is complex, dynamic, full. I like that my anger prompts me to seek solutions, suggest changes, make a step out of a thought. But I like that my anger is balanced with my sense of apathy. When the anger gets to be too much, or when anger has no place in the problem. I like that. I just feel like bitterness has a place. Maybe it’s not fair to add the caveat, “if it’s about the right things.” But it is. Feel what you want for the things that feel right. I don’t ever want to be dull. My bitterness makes me sharp. I like my rough edges. I like being…unknown and somewhat tumultuous. There’s more to life than anger, but I think anger serves you well at times. I don’t bear anyone any ill will, and I think that’s important to clarify. Anger directed at an idea or a cause is important. Anger directed at another person is oftentimes misplaced…dangerous…toxic. Sometimes I just want to see someone emote though. Give me a reaction; show me your cajones. And I get frustrated when I take the time to show someone an emotion–give them a reaction– and they don’t reciprocate, or they don’t acknowledge. Like, c’mon, man, let’s be human together. It’s a delicate recipe, human emotion. Too much of one and it’s overpowering. Not enough and it’s unsatisfying, doesn’t build up. Show me that living matters to you. That you value your time and your space in the world. Just nothing petty. That’s not what I’m getting at. The pettiness is small stuff. Human stuff we’ve made up to fill the gaps with the free time our advancements have created. “show me something different; show me something real.” Food for thought. Not only to learn how to express what we feel, since you can’t remove emotion from the cognitive process, from learning and analyzing, but also to learn how to engage with one another’s feelings. How to volley the emotions back and forth.