prom night tales
as you grow up and up, sometimes you stop and look at yourself and think, “eighth grade me would be proud.” last night was my senior prom, and i spent most of the day listening to my chemical romance, a middle school favorite. it’s funny, if i presented my current self to who i was in eighth grade, i’d be pretty pleased. things really do come full circle.
i felt ripe with emotions all evening, and it made my chest hurt. so many things nearly set me off, leaving me with an almost constant feeling like tiny forks had worked their way in between my ribs. one of many times my eyes filled with tears last night happened to be when one of my friends was abandoned by her boyfriend. i was out front with my group and after she tearfully explained her plight, up came walking her scoundrel of a fellow. she headed out with the rest of her group and he followed close behind, and she didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him. i was proud of her, he didn’t deserve her, but seeing her walk away like that and remove her heels in the middle of the street was a heart-wrenching sight.
once my post-prom meal began, rain started to fall and we had to drive home in the almost apocalyptic downpour. lightning marred the skies and it was the kind of lightning that lit up the whole sky like daytime and made jagged patterns on the bowl of the sky like axons in your brain.
what a rite of passage, indeed.
double plus good
the air conditioner in my house has almost completely stopped working, so my brother and i have resorted to sleeping downstairs where it’s cool. our sleeping arrangements as of late feel very festive and adventurous, it’s like our downstairs has become our temporary sleeping porch. inexplicably, my very own bed and room have started to feel very lonely, foreign. customarily, i sleep on one side of my bed, occasionally do i sprawl out a bit. these new sleeping arrangements came along at the most opportune of times, because now i feel safer and secure because my brother is only feet away from me while we slumber. don’t forget, when you’re eighteen and sixteen, you’re still an infant. i don’t think people remember that enough.
about two months ago, i wrote a paper over ode on a grecian urn by keats in my english class. just the other day, we got the essays back to discuss the poem and make revisions. our second visit to the poem was enlightening, to say the least. my english teacher is a magnificent woman, an earthy, mystical, statuesque blonde that imbues our study of our language with all kinds of relevance, so naturally her commentary on this poem was not to be missed. via a group discussion, we decided that the poem was not necessarily about human life, like i had thought initially, but about art and the way we interact with it and how it affects us. the idea of a work of art connecting with you in such a way that it takes you above thought, and into the realm of being and eternity- that’s a heady thought, don’t you think?
how fitting it was that the next day i spent my day at two art museums. as an alumna of my school’s art history course, i was invited back to attend the field trip to the kimbell and modern museums in forth worth, texas, along with the humanities class, a class that my english teacher happens to instruct, as well. along with her and my former art history teacher and four of my close friends, i saw degas and van gogh and laughed and cried and sang at the top of my lungs and talked of all things. i felt exhilarated and very aware of my age and my very own condition as a human being.
i think once you turn eighteen, you either proceed as a foolhardy young adult or you realize your naive youth and cling to it as tightly as you can. i started this school year absolutely bullshit with fear, and while i cannot say i’m not a little afraid, i pulled myself up by my bootstraps and tried a little courage on for size. i knew my bullheaded tenacity would save me in the end. so here’s the thing: i acknowledge my frailty, i welcome it with open arms; i accept the fact that i’m in love.
you know how a certain album of music will always mean something to you? yeah, me too. on the bus ride to fort worth, i listened to the black parade by my chemical romance in its entirety with my best friend. i thought i knew what that album meant to me, but it’s changed. i looked out the window and we were listening to famous last words and my thought process mirrored the lyrics:
i am not afraid to keep on living, i am not afraid to walk this world alone
and
i see you lying next to me with words i thought i’d never speak, awake and unafraid
that’s just it, isn’t it?
attention dear sweet followers:
i appreciate your constant readership! i just wanted to remind you all that i am always open to prompts to write about, so if you ever have one for me, please swing by my ask box, either on here or on my main blog.
thanks you so much!
let’s have a round of applause for a team effort
i stood in line at the crepe stand in the food court, waiting with gaby. i hadn’t heard a peep out of the five people working the stand, so i listened a little closer to the silence. had i previously paid a little more attention, i would have noticed that it was not so quiet, after all. the five of them spoke to each other with flying hands. i just then realized that they were all deaf.
i nudged gaby.
“gaby, look.” i whispered, inclining my head toward the quiet crepe makers. she nodded, she too had noticed.
we waited our turn for our orders to be taken, and i then wondered how they took our orders. when i was up to bat, so to speak, the woman that took my order held out a menu and i was to point at the one i wanted. i chose a sweet, dessert crepe with lemon, sugar, and butter. the round irons they poured the batter on and the way they made them reminded me of the part from amelie where LPs are made like pancakes. when the sweet bits had been folded into the crepe like an envelope, the woman who had taken my order added the finishing touches to mine with powdered sugar and caramel, asking me if i wanted whipped cream with a flick of her wrist that resembled the use of a whipped cream can. i nodded with an affirmative. she handed over the cardboard boat holding my treat and i handed to her my five dollars, mouthing a thank you.
before our crepes had come out to us, gaby asked me a question.
“is this the way you say thank you in sign language?” she queried, taking her open hand from her mouth to the air in front of her face.
“i believe so,” i replied warily. i was almost certain she was right, so i watched the group of five again. one of the women made the same motion to one of the men, and our suspicions were confirmed. we left, utterly impressed with their quiet efficiency.
later, in the crowd: the shins had already played a few songs, and it was the amidst the aftermath of a particularly raucous band-audience interaction. while the crowd stood in breathless stasis, gathering their bearings, the band’s keyboardist spoke up.
“good job, the audience!” he said to us, then turned to face his bandmates.
“good job, the shins!” he said to them. i laughed out loud, the fact that he thanked us and his fellow music-makers was unbelievably charming, and i felt accomplished that i’d been a part of such an interaction in synchronicity. it was one of those times you wanted to clap your fellow man upon the back and let out a joyous hoot; you did this together. there’s no “i” in “team,” after all, is there?
bao asked for lyrics about cats, and i just had to oblige.
***********
bothersome paws and winding tails
inquisitive eyes and sensitive ears.
often do i wish i had been born a cat, living would have been
quite a bit easier when all one had to do was sleep in warm patches of sun
and come running when my human cried. as a cat, all you would have to love
would be your master and your very own self, and make your living off of offered hands
and legs to twine about. you would sharpen your claws on vulnerable bits of carpet,
sofas, and curtains. you could have your choice of perches, be it an open lap or the sill
of an open window, places not plausible when you’ve got
opposable thumbs and long legs
eyes that can only see so far and ears with selective hearing.
prompt: the ocean at night!
*****
it was by far the most low-key new year’s eve celebration i’d ever experienced. i mean, that was probably on account of where we were spending the holiday. i was staying in a rented beach house a hop, skip, and a jump from the gulf of mexico. but back to new year’s eve. most of the adults had bowed out early, after a dinner of steak and a bit of tippling, on their part. i had since taken up my post on the couch, reading the liar’s club until midnight. when the clock struck twelve, i scrambled outside onto the front deck with my brother, and we whooped and hollered in the new year. all along the beach you could hear similarly joyful noises and pops of noisemakers. i looked out at water and felt no sense of forbidding darkness, only a feeling that the sea was my future and it held the now-strange sea creatures of what was to come. after a bit of celebration, we went inside, i fired off a foolhardy text that read “happy new year, wish i was kissing you” to a boy, and then settled in to watch the royal tenenbaums with my brother. it was a breath of fresh air, effervescent champagne bubbles surfaced in the sea-bottle i was drowning in amidst the last few weeks of december.
prompt: leaves, blue post-it notes, cupcakes (if any of those sound good!)
* * * * * *
it was late september, and red-yellow-orange parachutes were cartwheeling down from the trees. i was home alone one afternoon and as i sat at my desk, i heard the doorbell ring. not really feeling up to getting the door, i crept down the stairs, avoiding the creaky steps, and furtively peeked out the front window. no one was there, but something sat on the front stoop that i couldn’t quite identify.
“excellent,” i sighed as i slung open the door. on the step sat a tupperware with a post-it note bedecking the lid. i lifted the container to eye level and saw that it held a dozen red velvet cupcakes. the note read “for you” in a scrawl unfamiliar to my eye. i stepped out of my doorway and looked down both directions of my street. nothing and no one.
i shrugged, and turned to head inside. i couldn’t say no to a mysterious afternoon snack.
an electrician staring at the ceiling
my great aunt has a pacemaker and apparently her doctor is a tall, kind indian man. he travels between her city and another smaller nearby town and has 5000 patients. he is said to be very good at what he does, but he demurs and insists that he is only the electric man. humble, yes, but what else is he to do? when you are a man who keeps 5000 hearts in two different places beating, the arrogance you could possibly have is staggering. so keep your head small and assure your admirers that you are just a glorified technician that keeps machinery running smoothly. i liked the way this man thought and i hadn’t even met him, and i suddenly wanted to shake his hand, not only for keeping my aunt alive but also for his feats of humility.
there’s this old story about a woman who is a worrywart, and frets about a hatchet that is in her attic, always afraid it will fall through the ceiling and injure and perhaps kill her beloved children. my grandmother is in a constant state of worry, therefore, there are a lot of hatchets in her attic, every living thing is her child, and the sky is the ceiling above her head, the attic floor, if you will.
i still have summer tanlines
i can’t seem to forget all that happened in that season, neither can my skin
