Song-Story

Link to a Youtube video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1AOp9c5DRzc&p=07E8ADEA93310A91&playnext=1&index=10

If I Ever Leave This World Alive
The drum beat matched the blood pounding in my head as I sat ensconced in a dark stained wooden bench at an Irish pub. It is Katie’s birthday and seven of us from our study abroad college in London had traveled to Dublin, desperate to find the perfect travel companions. No one is paying attention to Katie. The “cool” boys from New Jersey are heaving their attentions all over Betsy and Georgia while they artificially protest. This is ridiculous, I think, Katie should have a night of pure unadulterated attention on her big day. I race to get drinks and promiscuously lean over the bar hoping to gain the attention of the mobbed bartender. He wanders over to take my order after a few others, clearly lured in by my innocence and assets. I order the two most frilly and expensive drinks with an umbrella that contain either Baileys or Jameson, after all, we are in Dublin. Back at the table it took all of my powers of volume to reign in the attention of our “companions” in order to give a measly toast in Katie’s honor.

”I can’t believe you are leaving for London in a few weeks,” cried Kara, “You are going to go traipsing all over the country and completely forget me.”
“I would never! Besides, you are going to write me an email everyday so I won’t be able to forget you even if I tried desperately.”
“We need something else to remind us of each other,” Kara informed me.

Katie and I huddle together talking about the faerie land we had just inhabited. We had taken a bus out to the Irish countryside and ended up at an old monastery. The old stone building that were now missing roofs and the long-forgotten gravestones lured us in, but what really stuck in our minds were the trees. The trees were giants and covered in a grey-green moss that could only possibly exist in Ireland. It was where the faeries dwelled and as we sipped our headache inducing sugary drinks we could still feel the faerie enchantment floating around us like dust as it catches the golden light. Irish step-dancers alighted on the stage pulling my attention away from this afternoon and our oblivious companions. Their steps were mesmerizing. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, their light feet slammed down onto the hard wooden stage. A new song picked up and it pricked my ears, If I ever leave this world alive I'll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight, sang the quintessential Irish band. The audience slammed their hands together, filled with excitement over the popular song. The noise pounded through me and I became overwrought with the need to twirl and swirl about to the song as I was filled with the memory of only a month ago.

“We need a song” I finally decided, “something to conjure up the others image.”
“I know just the song,” Kara proclaimed.
The song blasted out of her laptop speakers and Kara began to swivel her hips to the beat. I got up and joined in with her dancing, giggling like the school girls we still partially were. As we stumbled and twirled around my dorm room we sang the lyrics at the top of our lungs, sure to ostracize me from their company, but I didn’t care. I was leaving.
If I ever leave this world alive, I'll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight, Wherever I am you'll always be, More than just a memory.

Song/Story

If I really had to pick a favorite song, it would probably be this one, "Jesus, Etc." by Wilco. It's always been in my top ten favorite songs, but when I saw them play it live this April it pretty much jumped up to the number one spot--the band stopped playing completely and let the audience sing along to this song. Magic.

The story's not especially related, except that it's me trying to write about my weird summer and "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" is always the album I take with me when I just want to drive around and figure shit out.

To Do

1. Be helpful
2. Get a haircut
3. Try not to worry.

I don’t want Cam coming to the funeral, or even the wake. He feels like he should, doesn’t understand.

“I don’t need, like…emotional support.” I say on the phone, pulled over in front of Granite State Glass.

“Shouldn’t I come though? I feel like it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“Please. It’s fine. I’m fine.” I take off my work shoes—high heels today, because I need the stride and the power and the height—and toss them into the back seat. I get flip flops out of the pocket behind the passenger seat and slip them on. Cam’s quiet on the other end of the line, and I know I snapped at him. I think back to the day his grandfather died, that we stood in the aisle of Hannaford’s while he told me and then started crying in front of the One Minute Rice.

“I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Okay. I love you too.”

I want to keep him out of this so badly. To not infect him with the hurt and the melancholy that runs through my family as surely as red hair and skin cancer. A genetic genius for sadness and grudges and above all not talking about it. Cam’s patient with me when mine flares up—the old familiar funk that sometimes comes over me for days, like some creeping gray creature I can’t name but can’t shake off my shoulders, with clammy muscly fingers that won’t loosen their pressing on my temples. He doesn’t get it, though, only rides with it. His family is all tall, hardy, hardworking Protestants, good Midwesterners through and through. We’re practically caricatures of Irish Catholics—from the peat bogs by way of Southie, with as much alcoholism and petty crime (and as little birth control) in our background as there would be if Matt Damon and Ben Affleck had directed our story.

My grandfather dies on a Tuesday; and I don’t feel anything. I never knew him. He didn’t want to know me, or any of us. He lived alone, called his children on their birthdays but didn’t come to my parents’ wedding, nor the funeral for my infant cousin Katie. Nobody ever talks about why. That’s all I know.

“You don’t have to do it,” my mother says, stirring a cup of milky tea at the kitchen counter. We’re discussing who’ll do the readings at the funeral. “It would mean a lot to Daddy, though.”

“I’ll do it. Somebody should. It shouldn’t be a stranger.”

“Sweetheart, there’s nobody but strangers.”

After the wake we all—aunts, uncles, cousins--go out to eat at a Mexican restaurant. The joke of the hour is “put it on the estate!”—we’ve been left more money than we thought—and everyone orders margaritas and cocktails. Oh, get the steak—put it on the estate! Have another—put it on the estate!

My chicken fajitas are cold and full of gristle, and I send them back. Our food’s already taken forty-five minutes, and I start to lose my grip a little bit when I haven’t eaten. If I’ve missed lunch, I will break down in tears at the slightest provocation. I can feel it coming now, as everyone else tucks into fish tacos and quesadillas and massive frosty goblets of sangria. I stare at my empty place and start to feel that stiffening at the back of my throat, the dampness around my eyes. I hate to cry, and I don’t do it often. People tell me it feels good, sometimes, to just cry, just let it out, and sometimes—jacknifed by heartbreak and Jose Cuervo on a dorm room floor—I’ve even tried, but the tears don’t come. Everyone’s offering me bites of their meals and I can barely accept because I’m afraid I’m going to start crying and they’re all going to think it’s about him and want to comfort me and think I’m so terribly sensitive and there will be a scene in the middle of this Mexican restaurant and I won’t be able to admit that my uncontrollable sobs are all about some goddamn chicken fajitas because I am just so hungry.

But I keep it together. I do not start crying about fajitas. I do not let a stranger read at my grandfather’s funeral. I dress like a grownup and stand up in the church my father attended every Sunday of his childhood and I give the best damn reading from the second letter to the Corinthians you ever heard. I give hugs and that small, sad funeral smile to everyone. I make sure people are introduced to each other. I make sure that my brother doesn’t sneak drinks from the bar. I make sure that my four-year-old cousin Lily gets a hot dog and that my eighty-year-old Aunt Helen gets some aspirin and a seat in the shade. I drive to Cam’s afterward, drink two gin and tonics and sleep for fourteen hours. I’m fine.

Here are some clips that are playing in the background of my story. Myabe you could multi-task clicking, listening, reading...i think it might be awesome.

songs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mibA11dWhOE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipUdoUcNmKI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jdy5o5cu1Eg

poem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mye8Pce9IR0

Curves in the Road

When somebody – pretty much anybody - asks me along on a spontaneous roadtrip, its not like I’m ever going to say no. For number one, roadtrips are so sweet. Especially when I’m running around all crazy at school and all I need is to hit the road with some music and some conversation, but oh man is that hard when you don’t have a car. So, for number two, when Erica calls me up after the most hungover Sunday ever, a Sunday when my roommate spent the entire day crying about the night before while I babysat (actual babies, but it felt like I was watching out for her the whole time while she lurked around, helping out with dinner and games), I have to agree.
Kids in bed, parents safely home finds still-teary roommate and I trudging from one Durham house to another for bed, and Erica calls me,
“Hey- So I’m hitting the road! Still wanna come?”
Um, yes.
So its at least ten thirty already and my driveway is absolutely pitch black, but I hear her tiny, extra-sticky stick shift miniature monster of a car crunching over the gravel. And she jumps out to get me, but I’m already standing outside, arms braced against my side in the pre-winter nighttime freezingness of New Hampshire. The passenger door is unexplainably stuck and I have to crawl on over the driver’s seat and the gearshift just to get in. God, could someone use a new car!
Ani Difanco was wailing away on her guitar on the radio, infiltrating the whole car even at a low volume. But then, we were listening to her the whole fall so its no real surprise. Erica loves Ani so much, that this bitch of a car is named Ani. So it can get confusing, as in “oh, we took Ani (the car) to go see Ani (the singer) in Lowell and we listened to Cds the whole way there of…Ani”
Anyway. We’re rolling along through the night-black countryside and I’m wearing these absolutely stupid blue seventies pants – I mean, real ugly - should have died with the seventies, high-waisted, polyester.
“Cool pants” Erica is grinning at me like some kind of mischievous elf. We haven’t really been friends for so long and I don’t feel like I know her beyond feeling like she’s such an awesome new someone-I-want-to-know-better. So I say, “Thanks. They were my dad’s.”
That grin widens into a full on smile, “I mean, they’re so dorky! I love that you’re wearing them. Dork pants are sweet, you know?!” I had to say, I didn’t know.
“Well, at least my brother – if he’s home – at least he won’t try and hit on you. Joel is such a womanizer. He tries to get with all my friends because we’re younger and all that…creepy, right?” I nodded. Unsure of how to respond because I don’t have any brothers and I’m not usually womanized and I don’t really know this girl that well, I just look at her. Like a huge nodding, staring dork. This not-knowing fact hangs over me for a while with her. We’re becoming friends pretty late into college, so instead of bonding over puking and hair-holding and late night pizza, we’re ‘grown-up’ friends.
So I’m still fumbling around for what to say about my own family when Erica spots a 7-11 and yanks her screeching, crying car into the parking lot.
“Jill! Roadtrip snacks!” She blurts out excitedly. Now its me who’s grinning. This girl’s really getting it – snacks are so essential, even on a short drive to a no-name hometown for a night. I’m totally into this convenience store, by the way, as I wander, on the brink of delirious over-tiredness through the florescent aisles. The juice aisle makes me giggle and the lights are so bright and Erica’s buying something called Milk Chug and so by the time I’m up at the register I’m howling with tired laughter over this gusher-like gummy candy called – ‘Splosions!’ That’s right- like an EX-splosion! Obviously, I buy a packet of these. Then I discover they are the best tasting candy ever created, but that should have been evident with a name like Splosions!
And so we’re back n the road, heads bopping and lolling to ever-more Ani music and Erica spots something, “Jill! Fireworks! I just saw a whole bunch!”
“Where?” My head is buried in the Splosion bag, searching for a red-flavored one.
“There! I just saw, like, five! We’re pulling over…”
And we pull over. Erica navigates us into a small field as Ani, the car protests, and Ani, the singer, recites a poem to a live show in Toronto. So I’m cramming candies in my mouth and they’re gushing sugary liquid all over the place and Erica is turning up the stereo and staring-wide-eyed at the colorful explosions across the sky. We’re sitting in a soft, delicate silence in the car, with the only noises being huge cracks from overhead. The night sky is so radiant in all these colors and I’m riding a great roadtrip high of a new friend and a whole mess of sugary candy.
And then I feel something pull at my feelings and my heart, all at once. My heartbeat speeds up, but time seems to slow down so much that I feel each hard thump against my ribs.
I turn, inch, by heartbeat, by inch, to my left to see Erica looking at me. Its not surprising; I felt her stare just seconds ago. But its strange that she’s got that grin again. I trace the two upturned corners of her mouth with my eyes, and by then she’s leaning toward me. Across her seat and that beat-up gearshift, and my seat – god, it felt like she leaned miles, it took so long. Her left hand flutters up to my cheek and this is where it got all blurry for me because I closed my eyes. Like, I guess I knew something was going to happen and I sort of wanted it to, but I was still clutching those damn gummies in my hand and I remember thinking how they were probably getting all melty and disgusting because my palm was getting so sweaty. So then I was leaning those miles and our lips were meeting in the middle and all of a sudden we’re kissing. And its not like she just kissed me. She’s puling my chin toward her and pushing against me with her body in these soft, pulsing movements and then I’m pressing into her and reaching up to feel her shiny, black hair. Which, I keep thinking, is so soft. She’s so soft. Her lips are curling around mine and parting and her mouth is so warm and delicious. I could have stayed in that field, with Ani singing sweetly, in a car bearing its tribute to undefined sexuality, kissing this woman all night.
But, you know, that’s sort of funny because eventually you gotta drive away and decide where to turn next or when to stop and maybe, to keep going.

Wild Kindness

We sat side by side on the bleachers and got high, looking out over the empty baseball field instead of at each other. The clouds were passing in front of the nearly full moon and throwing us from a relaxed darkness into a serious darkness and then back to a relaxed darkness again. The air was smooth and pale like the light from the moon. The night was colder than one would expect in May.

I shivered under my denim jacket and began to button the buttons carefully, noticing the texture of the engraving on each one. I must have been doing this for a long time, because when I finally finished with the last button she was looking at me quizzically. Her long black hair covered most of her face as she half turned towards me. Her eyes were darker than the shadows cast over them by the passing clouds. I smiled a goofy smile with my lips pursed together and looked from side to side with my eyebrows raised like I do sometimes when I’m feeling a little stupid. A part of me suddenly wished I that was sober. But we never hooked up when we were sober. That’s how it worked. Maybe we were still too uncomfortable with the past. The years of charged proximity that had finally come to a head a few weeks before. Inhibitions washed away on a porch somewhere by a few bottle of cheap malt liquor. Or maybe it had just become a pattern that was getting harder and harder to break as time went inevitably onward. Neither of us knew where we stood and it was easier to let the drugs do the thinking instead. I did know that I wanted to hook up with her again, though, and I wondered how we would end up back in my room this time. It always seemed to take a huge effort on both of our parts, overcoming this stage. I pretended that I wasn’t wondering this because it seemed sleazy and I don’t think I’m sleazy. I wondered if she was high, too. I hoped she was.

“Nice night,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. Her tone was the same one she used when I showed her a band that she wasn’t especially interested in. “Are you really that cold”?

“Yeah, a little,” I said. This made me embarrassed and I wasn’t sure why.

I sat back against the bleachers and let out a long breath. A car drove by out on the road beyond the field, its headlights casting long streaks of light along the deserted pavement. I tried to think of something interesting to say. I was always really bad at this.

“I’ve been having this reoccurring dream,” she said after a while. “That I’m looking in a mirror and I have this big scab on my cheek. And I take my fingers and start picking at the scab and it starts coming off in big clumps. Just these big chunks of moist, sticky scab coming off in my hand. And I keep pulling it off piece by piece, digging deeper and deeper into my face.”

“Wow, that’s intense,” I said.

“It’s really disgusting when you think about it,” she said. “But in the dream I just can’t stop because it feels really good. Really satisfying. Like when you finally clip your toenails after letting them grow for too long.”

“What do you think it means?” I said.

She let breath that would have almost been a laugh if not for the sharpness behind it. “I don’t know. Maybe I need to get rid of something. That’d be the obvious answer.”

I sat with my hands in my lap. I waited for her to say more. I wanted a reason to put my arm around her, to lean close enough to smell the fragrance of her shampoo. I needed her to need me.

“Maybe sometimes the obvious answer is the right one,” I said. “Seems like people can over analyze these kinds of things. Sometimes it’s right there in front of us and we just can’t see it no matter how obvious it is.”

“Maybe,” she said.

We sat in silence on the bleachers as the clouds passed back and forth over the moon.

“Let’s go inside,” she said. “It’s cold out here.”

Gracias

Song: Jesus the Mexican Boy by Iron & Wine

The sun was hot as he came up over the hill and down the path. His cart rattled behind a grey ass and kicked a cloud of dust that rose to waist level and drifted down. A quarter mile away, a traveler on foot looked back for two strides and kept on. He watched his boots, listening to the scuffing sand and watching the swirls of dust from his soles. The traveler wore a khaki flat-brimmed hat, a loose linen shirt, and thin, brown pants. On his back sat a canvas rucksack and from it's left side hung a metal canteen. His skin was red and beads of sweat populated his brow. He brought the canteen to his mouth. His jaw squared as he drank and his adam's apple rose and fell three times before he took the canteen from his lips.

The sky was cloudless and the land was flat now, with hills in the distance and the city, just over the hills. He'd likely not reach it before nightfall. The traveler could hear the cart again and looked back. He could hear faint music be he readjusted his pack and kept walking. A scorpion skittered across the path to a small rock and hid in the shade. The traveler watched it covetously but did not stop walking. He brought his canteen back to his mouth and drank what he could – stopped after one pull and there was nothing left. He screwed the cap back on and wiped his arm across his brow.

The traveler could hear the cart louder now and the music too. He turned for a second and tripped over a stone, tumbling to the ground. Dust plumed over his body and turned his clothes brown-grey. He planted his hands on the hot earth and unfurled his body. Standing and walking, he smacked his clothes and dust retreated with each assail. He reached for his canteen but did not pull it towards his face – he kept it there for a second and then let his arm fall limp.

The cart was close now, maybe ten yards off and the traveler tucked his thumbs under his pack straps. His shadow was below him and he looked straight up to see the sun. Then he looked back and saw the man in the cart. His skin was dark and his cloths were thin and light colored. He wore a large straw hat and a big dark mustache and he was whistling.

“Hola, compañero de viaje!” yelled the man in the cart, waving his hand and smiling. The traveler did not look back. He looked at his sleeves – bloodstained to the elbows. He did his best to roll them up past the crimson. “Señor?” he called again. The traveler stopped and turned to the man in the cart.

“Hola,” said the traveler.

“Oh, you are American?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like a ride?”

“Gracias,” said the traveler and smiled.

American Pie

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAsV5-Hv-7U

He used to have an early 80's Chevrolet C/K Custom Deluxe. We called the pickup truck Old Blue, mostly for the light blue exterior, partly for the aging reliability. This truck did not get babied. In fact, he beat the hell out of it. He hauled the building material for our house with it. It was his daily commuter to various carpentry jobs. Tool boxes scratched the paint, two by fours left dents in the tailgate, rocks had chipped away at the paint and chrome of the front end.

In August of 1989, I became another part of daily life for my dad and Old Blue. Playing out in the front yard, the Chevy sat on the dirt driveway. Always on the side of the garage by the railroad tracks: mom's car got the side closer to the house. Every now and then, I would sit on dad's lap and take Old Blue for a spin up the driveway to the edge of the road. I couldn't back up though, so I'd move over on the bench seat and let him do the hard part. Of course, I never moved all the way across the seat. I sat right next to him in the middle of the cab.

I was trained to like oldies and early classic rock. Everywhere we went, the old analog radio was tuned to Oldies 103.3. Credence Clearwater Revival, the Beach Boys, Elvis Presley, all the good tunes. On the way to school one day in second grade, one of my favorite songs came on. American Pie, by Don McLean. Since the eight minute song outlasted the three minute ride to school, I sat the extra five minutes in the truck until the song ended. Backpack slung over my little shoulder, I jumped out of the truck.

“Bye dad! I'll see you after school!”

Around the end of the 90's, Old Blue was retired and replaced by a '97 Chevrolet W/T. This new work truck was a tan color and we didn't have any nicknames for it. The loss of the Old Chevy weighed heavy in my heart, as change didn't happen often. I did grow to love the new truck, though. Sure enough, jumping in, I'd take my place next to dad right in the middle of the new bench seat.

The Shea family saw the addition of a new member early in this truck's life. A young black lab pup named Wylie quickly became an important part of our lives. Before long, anywhere dad and I went, so did Wylie. I had been growing older, so I began to move further across the cloth bench seat. Wylie took my old spot in the middle between dad and I.

One evening after school, I asked a normal question. “Hey dad, can I go up to Mike's?”

“Sure, take the truck!” I thought he was joking, since I was only fifteen. Turns out he wasn't, and even mom said 'alright'. It would have been foolish of me to turn down that offer, so I left home in the Chevy alone for the first time, American Pie playing over the radio.

I took my driving test in that truck, and dad waited the intolerable five hours it took at the DMV, proud of me when I returned from the road test triumphantly. This Chevy had a couple more years of wear and tear put on it until 2009 came around. Time for another truck.

A black 2009 Chevrolet Silverado 1500 was the truck of choice. Crank windows. A/C. None of the bells and whistles that vehicles are coming with these days. 'I don't need any of these things. I just need the basics.' Dad would get frustrated at the lack of basic amenities during the truck shopping.

Now when we go places, we've switched seats. I'll do the driving, dad does the riding. Wylie, who has grown some of those distinguished gray chin hairs, still rides in the middle. Being away at college now, I don't see them much. A couple times a month I'll take my own car to the old homestead. The black Silverado is usually sitting outside on the now paved driveway, still on the side closer to the railroad tracks. Mom still parks closest to the house. There's usually a couple of two by fours in the bed of that truck for one reason or another, and the dents and scratches are accumulating quickly.

American Pie is still one of my favorite songs, stretching over the course of my short life. A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. It still does. I know it backwards and forwards, and it never fails; I will sing it. Every time I do, images of the Chevrolet trucks and riding side by side with dad fill my empty head.

Between the Bars: A Cover by Barry Santos

Part 1

We were riding in my car and it was late and we were both under the influence of something we shouldn’t have been and you said to me, right as we were about to hit your street, that you wanted to know if I wanted to take a detour.

And for the past month I had been waiting for you to drop me. Why me, I asked myself each night before I would go lay in the king-sized bed (built for two? For me and you?) we would always share when my parents were away each weekend at my sister’s lacrosse tournaments, what did I do to deserve you? Nothing, I thought. I was nothing special and you were something much bigger and much stronger but people wouldn’t know by simply looking at you. You looked like a kid. You were the size of a kid. We had shopped in Kids Gap in order to get you some sweaters once and the lady must have thought I was into kids by the way we walked around and I bated you to try on some of the more unslightly garb around the store.

And you said stop when we got to a beach. And my insides were tingling and I couldn’t really focus on the road and I kind of wanted to cry as I heard music that I wasn’t particularly interested in playing so softly on the radio. And I looked at you and said “Here?” and you nodded. Don’t let me lose you. Don’t let me lose you.

We slowly got out of my busted up Mercedes Benz (that I had never wanted and felt stupid driving) and hopped the fence to the beach. I was shaking. Don’t let me lose you.

“We’re going to get killed here. There is going to be a hobo and he is going to kill us for disturbing him” I said nervously. I wondered if you could tell I was nervous. Maybe, I think. You knew me so damn well. But you laughed and told me to calm down. That we were going to be fine. I looked at the beach. It was small and looked as if it had been made for the families living around the Baboosic Lake area to have somewhere to swim and play (in the daytime). I thought we were just asking for the cops to show up and arrest us both.

But you were happy somehow. I felt my sneakers crush against the grains of sand and watched as you gravitated towards the shoreline. There was a tall lifeguard chair in front of us and a great many houses obstructed by tall pine trees. But I could still the lights. The lights were on in many of them and their reflection glistened in the water and so did the stars and it was as if the sky lay before us, telling us that down was up and up was down. I felt like that as I waited for you to tell me that it wasn’t working out. That I was too emotional and that you wanted to see other people when you went back to school so far away from me.

We sat down near the shore and it was cold. I saw the tide slowly rolling in and out. It was maybe the most frigid night of the summer. The sand covered my pants. But it was dark and I didn’t care. I could only feel my high slipping away from me and the reality of the situation setting in. Don’t let me lose you.

“This is a great place. It really is”, you said. You were so close to me. I could practically feel you breathe. “I’m excited to go back. And at the same time. I’m not. I’m not ready”, you said, “Don’t worry. We’re safe here. You’re always so paranoid.” I know I am, I thought to myself.

And we spoke about our parents. And we told each other things we had already many times before. How they were. How they treated us. How they coped with the differences their children had to face. How everything was different now that were older and knew what we wanted. You were shaking from the cold. I took off my new, gray cardigan I got for eight dollars and gave it to you to wear. It was so big on you, I thought. “What about your dad”, I said “You never talk about him.”

You didn’t, though, other than the fact that he didn’t live with you anymore and you hadn’t spoken to him since you told him what you were all about. I was buying time, I was waiting for you to start saying “Listen, I’ve been thinking”. But you didn’t. You said “He was…I don’t know. We were not close.”

And I told you how, in third grade, I had decided that I didn’t like my dad either, and for very little reason, and told everyone. And you smiled and looked at me. You pulled your legs in and smiled. And you told me why you never spoke about him. And I wasn’t surprised. And I suddenly understood why you wouldn’t let me in. And I felt like shit but I muttered a “I knew something was up with you. I knew something bad had happened.” And you asked me why and I told you, and rather plainly, that I didn’t think you have been molested and I didn’t think your friends had abandoned you and just knew that something had happened to you…that there was a reason you were not letting me in. A reason for why you were telling me that I didn’t know you.

Now I did. And I put my arm around you and I waited for you to cry. But you didn’t. All you did was lay down in the sand and look at the stars. “Don’t put up a wall. Don’t put up any walls. I will never hurt you. I promise. I don’t have hurt in me and you are someone I would never, ever want to hurt. And I will never tell anyone what you just told me.”

And you smiled and gently closed your eyes.

And I have kept that promise.

Part 2

I left the bathroom and you were standing there, smiling, drunk, happy, and you held out your hand and I grabbed it. My hands were still wet from washing them in the sink and I apologized. And you took me to the room that I had said, earlier in the night, would be ours in this big house that wasn’t ours.

And we got into the room and I fell on the bed, on the floral comforter. And I could hear people downstairs yelling and jumping and the music was loud and I was in a daze. And I pulled you down next to me (you didn’t resist) and suddenly, you held on so tight to me that that I could feel you breathing. “How are you?” I said. “Good,” you replied, “A little drunk.”

And we were at the party and we had been walking around and talking with people but now, it seemed, you wanted to stay with me and talk in this room with a queen sized bed that looked like something out of an IKEA magazine and with paintings on the wall that looked like they had been placed there to say something like “You don’t live here, so here are things you are not familiar with.”

And we talked about nothing for a minute. About how you were happy my friends were so nice to you and so welcoming and how good of a time you were having and how it was weird going back to the city after you had been home for a few months. It was your first summer vacation since you had left for college. You had gone to the city for the weekend to get your apartment ready. I didn’t hear much from you while you were there and I was cautious not to make myself seem like I missed you too much. But truly, it was hard to sleep in my bed without you next to me.

And you were talking and I don’t remember about what and you said to me “I am going to say something and I don’t want you to interrupt me.” I always did when you were saying something important, because I always had the need to throw in my two cents because I always felt like it helped you to know what I was feeling.

You started.

“So when I was in Montreal, I was getting my apartment ready and suddenly I felt sad”, you said. And I asked why and you laughed and told me not to interrupt. I smiled and kissed your forehead ever so gently. You were tough as nails back then. You never put up with my shit. I had never experienced that before. Never experienced someone who would take my drink away and throw it down the sink or tell me not to smoke cigarettes because you hated the way my hair smelled after I did so.

And you continued.

“And my mom, she said to me ‘Are you okay?’ because I wasn’t acting like myself. And I said ‘Yeah’. But I wasn’t. Because in reality, I had realized that I was eventually going back without you. I was excited to come back and live there but that you were not going to be with me. And I was sad. And I missed you”, you said.

And I felt my eyes fill up with water because, for so long, I had been waiting for you. I grabbed you and pulled you closer (but we couldn’t get much closer) and kissed you again. “I missed you too.”

And you smiled in that way you do, when you already know what I am feeling/was feeling and you said, “I just realized that no one is going to love me like you do for a very long time. And I realized how perfect you are. And I realized that…” and suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore and just kissed you. I felt as if all the ice you had been purposefully keeping around was melting and I felt as if you and I, were, for the first time, looking at the same book on the same page on the same paragraph on the same sentence and I realized that letting you go without a fight (and your iciness had driven me to the conclusion many times that it would be best to leave you) would be the biggest mistake.

Perfect, I’d never been called anything even close to that before.

And so you were laying there, in my arms, and I held you so tight and I felt as if the whole world was you and the whole world was in my arms and I couldn’t let go. Not now, not now that you had shown me that you were here with me, for me. And you spoke “What is going to happen when we leave and go to school and we’re gone. You know how I am. I don’t talk to people unless they are with me. Right there with me” And I nodded. Because I understood that. Because I understood that you being so far away was going to be a struggle. But I knew (and I didn’t tell you) that I would not let you go without a fight.

I knew that, in spite of all your hiding and your barriers and your unwillingness to fight for us, to keep this thing going, that I could carry us both. All I needed was a push, a tiny push in the direction of where I was already headed.

And you guided me into that spare bedroom where we were laying so comfortably together, alone, while the rest of our tiny world remained downstairs taking shots and dancing to the music, that I was not letting you go without a fight.

And I let you go, as you told me that we were being antisocial and you laughed ever so gently, with the knowledge that in a couple of hours we would be here again and I would again be holding you in the darkness of this strange place where I had never slept before.

Speeding Cars

"Speeding Cars" by Imogen Heap is one of my favorites. It reminds us that we all make mistakes in our lives, and that it's just a part of growing up. It's important to let the past go and live your life with no regrets. The chorus almost sounds like a nursery rhyme, so it's kind of a play on emotions.. going back to pure and care free times of childhood. take a listen! :)

Between.

I honestly couldn't figure out what to write about so I sat on my iTunes for a couple of hours and found something that I found this summer as I sat in my bed thinking of the relationship I had been getting into. And this reminded me of it. It's not my favorite song, but the original used to be one of my favorites and when I heard this, while I was in the midst of a Chris Garneau phase, it really clicked.

Well, here it is.

Chris Garneau covering Between the Bars by Elliot Smith
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aeO7iGIWbg

It's worth a listen if you like soothing vocals and Elliot Smith and lyrics that really mean something.

Hot Dogs- Partner Meetings

The only way my computer has allowed me to post on the blog is through comments, so here goes again... thanks for reading!

Bearventures

Title: Bearventures

Atmosphere- Sunshine (inspiration song)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvY38j7JdCk

Atmosphere- Sunshine

Of Ping Pong Balls and Buses

by Maggie Lubanko

September 5, 2007

Little darling
It seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun…

I watched the thin mist of my breath spread and fade on the window as I sighed, my head rested heavily on the metal frame. The pitter-patter against the glass like those rotating lottery things you see spin-spin-spinning on TV, the numbered ping-pong balls inside all bouncing eagerly around in hopes of being that next one to fly up the vacuum. It had been raining on and off for the past three days- my first three days as a boarding student at the White Mountain School- and it was starting to wear on my sunshine soul. I turn up the volume on my new, shiny silver Ipod Nano- freshly christened the title “Sir Friedrick the First”.

Here comes the sun, doo da doo doo…

I feel him before I see him, the weird rubbery bus seat bouncing up as he plops himself next to me.

“Whatchya listening to?” his voice is stark and nasally, a harsh contrast to the melodic tones of the Beatles’ George Harrison in my ears. I lift my head from the window and turn to face him- and the nasal voice was explained. His nose was… very prominent. I can’t help but smile a little as I pull out my headphones.

“Well… it’s the Beatles. Here Comes the Sun.” I say. He tilts his head quizzically, his dark eyes quizzical. I was instantly worried I had said something wrong- this was a boy, my age, talking to me?!

He had sat down and talked to me, out of every empty seat of the bus. A junior in high school, I had never really talked with boys before- they all thought I was weird for wanting to climb trees and play outside. But here was one now- and once you got past the nose he wasn’t even all that bad looking- I mean, he had nice dark hair, olive skin, toned arms and legs, and even glasses (a somewhat strange but constant prerequisite for me)! Anyways, all I knew was that I certainly didn’t want to mess this up.

“But it’s raining out!” was his response, and I felt a stab of panic.

“Exactly!” I exclaimed, turning to face him enthusiastically, a light in my eyes.

“Whenever it’s raining, or dreary, or cloudy, or the world’s just getting me down, I listen to this song! It reminds me that the sun is gunna come out again, and.. well…that it’s alright, I guess, ya know?” I fade out of the rushed explanation, a sheepish half smile pulling at my features.

There was a pause as he seemed to consider this while I waited with bated breath-and I should have known right then. But alas, for I was young, I was eager, and I was desperate. So I was blind.

“Wow. I guess that does make sense. I’d never think to do that!” I let out my breath with another sigh- but this time of relief, and of hope.

“So, what other music do you like?” he asked- and so it began.

* * *

We would begin dating in a week to the day, the result of a sloppy, nighttime kiss beneath the apple tree on Hood’s Hill. He would tell me, mere weeks later and often after, that he fell in love with me in that moment on the bus, at that response. True or not, that didn’t make our relationship good. I gave him my devotion, my loyalty, my support, my virginity, my very soul; but it wasn’t enough to soothe the torment of his own. And I became a victim of his vengeful unhappiness, no matter how hard I fought to bring him peace.

I listened to that song far too many times in the next year and a half- until a final wintery day when, bruises on my neck and jaw but a hard-fought promise of no more to come, that song lulled me to sleep in my big comfy bed, soaked with tears. It carried me through the months to follow, through the harassment, the pain, the guilt that followed. This horror haunted me for some time, a deep suspicion creeping in like rain through the cracks in the old White Mountain School buses.

* * *

September 12, 2009

Little darling
It's been a long, cold, lonely winter…

Ping pong balls against the bus window, and I spin my finger lazily on Sir Friedrick’s wheel, his scratched screen making it hard to determine at just what volume George was serenading me. It seemed that rain was one of the main themes of my first few weeks at the University of New Hampshire, and it was already getting old.

I was on my way to the first climbing club practice, and as I rested my head heavily against the big glass windows of the bus I wondered skeptically if I’d be able remember the directions from the bus stop to the gym we were supposed to find in the neighboring town of Dover.

And then this time, I saw him before I felt him. He was looking right at me, and as my eyes met his I found there was no other way to describe him besides exceptionally puppy-doglike; with ruffled brown hair and dark eyes that reflected curiosity, excitement and goodness. He was godawful adorable.

Little darling
The smiles returning to the faces,
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes,
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.

“Is this seat taken?” I shook my head no, and he sat down easily. “I recognized you from the climbing meeting- I’m Josh.” He held out his had. I took it, smiling.

“Hi Josh, I’m Maggie.”

“Maggie. I like that." He gestured to Sir Friedrick. "What are you listening to, Maggie?”

Memories of a eerily similar scenario. “Well… “Here Comes the Sun”- and I know it’s raining but I always love to listen to it when it’s raining because it makes me happy to think about the sun coming out again.” But I had no need to be defensive.

There was pause, bated breath, and-

“That’s beautiful,” was his response. I smiled.

Little darling
I see the ice is slowly melting.
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say,
It's alright…

Now, I find myself only listening to that song when those ping pong balls are spin, spin, spinning away…


Music Video:


The Beatles will never, ever get old- just like this song never fails to life my mood and let shine the sunshine of the soul :)

11::2222

There is no way I could pick one song out of all of my favorites, so I will just post the one I am currently listening to while writing this story. It doesn't have much to do with music, but I wanted to write it, so there.

Around the World: Daft Punk

11::2222.

That’s not a time, I thought to myself. Closing one eye I squinted across the room, attempting to draw the green digital letters on the microwave into focus through the fog of a few beers. 11:22. That’s more like it.

I leaned heavily into the wall, left knee locked straight, right bent casually, my foot sideways on the creaky wood floor. Beer number 7, a Newcastle Brown Ale, rested on top of the fridge to my left, its condensation creating a white ring in the otherwise dust caked surface. It was still half full, but I wasn’t concerned with that right now.

Lights flicked on in the bathroom down the hall. Someone in a blue cocktail dress stumbled through the doorway, tripping over the raised threshold. It was Christie. The door slammed behind her, bouncing back open. . Mark rolled his eyes and followed her into the tiny room. She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, bending out of view. Retching and splashing echoed down the hallway, barely audible over the Beirut game in front of me.

She’d already been three sheets to the wind when I arrived at 9. I called because I didn’t know exactly where the house was.

“I’ll meeeet you outside!” She screamed/slurred into the phone over some crappy hip-hop.”

Minutes later she was falling down her porch steps.

“I’m soooo glad you came!” She gargled from the dew soaked grass next to the sidewalk. “You’re gonna have to sleep on the floor though, lotta people here.”

I grabbed her hand, attempting to help her up, but her 3 inch heels weren’t making it easy.

“Just fucking take them off.” She pointed both index fingers at her feet. “Aren’t they cute? Ten bucks at Macy’s!”

I fiddled with their tiny buckles and eventually got them off. I pulled up and draped her left arm over my shoulder. She somehow grabbed my ass with her right hand.

“Looks like I have some catching up to do,” I Laughed, helping her back up the steps.

A wall of damp, sweaty air hit me like a wall. It was at least 20 degrees hotter inside. Everyone was crowded around a beer-pong table in the cramped kitchen. A small boom-box blasted that week’s top 100 from the corner. Christie gave me a clammy hug, her bare arms sticking around my neck, and stumbled away towards her bedroom. I tossed her heels under the coffee table and dropped onto a futon from Ikea. I pulled bottles of Gordan’s gin and Simply Orange orange juice from my bag and splashed them into someone’s empty Solo cup. A freshly packed bowl sat on the glass coffee table in front of me, scraps of weed scattered around it and a Bic placed conveniently beside to it. Don’t mind if I do, I thought to myself, grabbing the piece and snatching up the lighter. I looked around for the bowls owner. Nobody looked back. It was mine now.

A few bowls, a few beers, and a few hours later I was leaning against my new favorite patch of drywall next to the fridge. Talking was pointless with the boom-box only a few feet away. I could see Christie’s tan legs kneeling before the toilet down the hall. A week ago they were wrapped around mine, both of us stone sober and half naked in her bed. I was rubbing the small of her back, tracing the dimples just above her butt. Spent six hours laying there, feeling her soft, warm body next to mine, just talking. Eventually I was having a conversation with the back of her sleeping head so I quietly slid from beneath the covers and drove home.

Matt shut the bathroom door. I passed out on the Ikea.