White Winter Hymnal

I was following the pack
All swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied 'round their throats
To keep their little heads
From fallin' in the snow
And I turned 'round and there you go
And, Michael, you would fall
And turn the white snow red as strawberries
In the summertime...

It has been an excellent weekend.

Thanks for lookin' out. =)

wait, really?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/8282356.stm

It's 5:30 am.

And I can't stop reading. And writing. And thinking. And crying. (but only because I'm inspired, and my creative juices are flowing, so it's excusable.)

I was watching a tv show tonight about three lifelong friends that were kidnapped. They were all starters on their high school's varsity soccer team, and were due to graduate in one month. They were locked in a cell, without food or water, and were told, by their captor that they would be released in one week's time, except only two of them would survive. The third would be killed. 

Now, after about 3 or 4 days in a frigid, dank cell, one of the three became aggressive, always looking for a way out, and becoming hostile at the other two. One fell ill, and became weak, often sleeping in a damp corner of the cell. The third was moderate, often helping their ill friend, encouraging her to get better, while persuading the aggressive friend to relax, because her anger and hostility was only conceding to their captor's intent. The intent, of course, was to pit them against each other, using sensory deprivation, in hopes to tap into the slumbering evil that rests within all humans, notably among 18 year old girls. 

The next day, the alpha female takes the moderate aside while the weakest is sleeping. She convinces her that the only way any of them will ever survive this ordeal is if they chose the weakest to die. She is the closest to death, and has not displayed any will to try and solve their problem. Now, the moderate immediately refuses, and becomes sick just over the thought of it. These girls had grown up together, they were lifetime companions. Yet, the alpha reminds the moderate to think of her mother, undoubtedly frantic at this point, who is all alone, save for her daughter. If they don't make it out of the isolated cell, her mother will surely think her daughter is dead, and upon realizing she is completely alone in the world, she will spiral into insanity and utter madness.

After hours of coaxing, and mental anguish, the moderate consents. She realizes that there is a small chance any of them will survive, so she might as well do what she can to save her own life. The alpha immediately declares to the ever-eavesdropping walls of the cell "Alright, we've made our choice." All this happens while the weakest lays unresponsive, and proven unconscious in the corner. 

Immediately, two hammers are dropped through a slot in the cell door. The moderate and alpha realize that their captor's intent is for the girls to kill their friend themselves, and they are both aghast, one more so than the other. 

The alpha takes a hammer, and attempts to persuade the moderate again, although she is still rather appalled at the idea. The moderate realizes what a dangerous position she is in. In a cell where survival is the only goal, anything goes. Alpha could just as easily bludgen her into oblivion, and be the sole survivor. She has no idea what to do. The two girls are standing face to face. The moderate is wringing her hands. The alpha is standing, inauspiciously with the hammer. 

Then, the alpha's face goes tense. Her head bobs forward briskly. She crumples to the floor. The weakling is standing behind her with the remaining hammer, now bloody from the pulp of her best friend's skull. She is silently heaving with sobs, obviously appalled with what she had just done. The moderate stares in utter disbelief at her friend who had, up until that moment, been laying semi-catatonic in the corner. "I had to. She had chosen me. She was going to kill me."

The two girls were released from the cell exactly one week after their abduction. They were driven to their high school football stadium, and released in broad daylight. The captor put a cell phone in a hand of the moderate, smiled, and drove away. His ultimate plan had been achieved.

NOW how fucked up is that? Not the type of thing I expected to see on a detective show (Criminal Minds) on A&E at 1am. 

Untitled

When i met you, i stopped writing. i also stopped waking up to a face full of post it notes saying things like its bad luck to see the woman before the driving test, or my house smells like apple cider and bluebottles have eyes, or i've got static in my arms. i stopped feeling sorry and i stopped falling down the stairs. i noticed the stars at night could have a story and you could have taken the ocean and put it in your eyes. i also stopped writing. when i met you, i stopped trying to be a nice person and just was. when i met you, i discovered post it notes and then i couldn't use them. i realised my house was not just a picture of a house and that your silence is so loud and my loud is so quiet. when i met you, i stopped writing and i cut star shapes into my blanket because i couldn't reach the sky, even with a ladder. when i met you, i traced the map of your bones and filled my hands with yours because i stopped writing. i also stopped walking backwards because i noticed that i could miss the view, and the view was mostly beautiful, and the view was mostly you. i also noticed that some people are like trees and the forest on your face and the paths in your mind are endless, but i have them memorized. the way you are thinking the same thing as me, but ask me what i'm thinking anyway, i noticed. i noticed that your silence means something. when i met you, i stopped writing and i listened. once i started writing again, i became a seedpod with no purpose but to write to you, are arrivals and i am departures and how it was windy that day and our eyes might have met and we might have smiled. i wrote to you that words are never enough and i sighed and i stopped writing. i made a tower of cards and the wind knocked them over and i walked home in the rain because i think i fell in love with that again. when i met you, i saw your eyes and i stopped writing. when i met you, i learned to read the creases in my hand and i stopped writing. when i met you, i did not float in the tub, i did not run to catch the last plane leaving. when i met you, i stopped writing. then i went to your house and i wrote and i wrote and i wrote. when i met you, i stopped writing and then i couldn't stop writing. when i met you, i couldn't stop writing and then i stopped writing. when i met you, words weren't enough anymore and i stopped writing. then i wrote and i wrote and i wrote.

Freedom

So I got in my first car accident this week. I'm totally fine, and Delilah only has a broken turn-signal light on her front left side, but I guess it counts as an accident. Ironically, I wrote the following prose two days before my accident. Life's funny like that, right?

Freedom

I am lumbering forward, onto worn asphalt that is a rural quilt of patches and scrapes. Steam is rising from the ancient road, recovering from an early-summer deluge that preceded my ride by a few hours. I am passing through familiar, bucolic countryside that has since prepared for its nightly slumber. I show no regard to my inky still surroundings, and I disrupt the black night with the two beams of light emanating from the front of my ride. With the windows down, loud and fast music wafts into the night. I know I'm instigating an awakening--albeit a brief one, yet I show no regret, or cause for concern. I am preoccupied with my own dissatisfaction. With a cigarette in my left hand, and my fell phone in my right, I manage to fumble the wheel in the right general direction, using my knees, and the car's intuition to do the rest. No, this is not safe. But that's never been my biggest priority. At this moment, I am deep in thought.

Some people have their designated nook or cranny in the world, where they can go and allow their mind to diffuse, or mull over something. My place just happens to be on wheels. It acts as a place for travel, for recreation, for 'business meetings', and as an occasional cure for boredom.

At this point in time, it is helping me to solve my most recent self-inflicted problem, loneliness. For some reason, I've been stricken by a dampening mood, and no desire to see anyone. Paradoxically, I am sad because of my solidarity. You could call this self-induced discontentment. I would prefer to call it PMS.

I go through the mental motions of restless, nostalgic, self-doubting, and plain gloomy. I feel the best solution would be to drive, with no destination. I have an immediate desire to get lost. Maybe the land of the unfamiliar will cure me of my current funk. Or maybe it will scare me out of my adolescent ho-hummings, and make me thankful to get back to familiar terrirory; counting my blessings as I safely close my front door behind me at the end of my adventure. At this point, either outcome is possible. I'm not planning the now that's unfurling itself before my four wheels. Rather, I'm just auto-piloting through silent territories of countryside, pioneering a trail to my own mind's content. 

Stories, Shotgun

So I have this new summer project. It's more of an intellectual challenge,  but I'm stubborn enough to try it. I've decided this summer I'm keeping a list, "the compendium", of all things that happen to me this summer that make for a good story. I will, every so often, look at the memories from the list, and reflect upon one like a narrative. These things are stories of funny/bizarre things that happen to me, shitty things, and great days. I'm calling it Stories from Summer (a working title). It will be something to look forward to in the future. I have a few of the stories written, theyre fun. This project was inspired by a book I'm reading called 'I Was Told There'd Be Cake' by Sloane Crosley. It's kind of a girl-version of Tucker Max (much less vulgar), and is reminiscent of the writer's voice and setting of a young Carrie Bradshaw. DEFINITELY read this book if you come across it, its hilarious. 

Also, I'm considering starting another smaller project that documents all the people who have/will ride shotgun in my car this summer. It would be aptly called "Shotgun Summer 09" and I'm thinking of having a log or some kind of documenting of who rides as my co-pilot. I just think at the end of the summer it would be cool to see how  many people I've chilled with in my car, and the variety of people as well. It would also be neat to see who do I actually drive around the most? Who's the most random person, things like that. I thought it would be cool to have a disposable cam over on that side of the car, for entertainment purposes,  but I'll probably nix that idea. Flahsbulbs at night in cars don't make for flattering photos. 

wonderings on the wind down.

"OH instincts are misleading

You shouldn't think what you're feeling

They don't tell you what you know you should want. " -death cab.

Maybe there is a second first time for everything. 

I've been adapting to summer mode for a little over a week now. It's much better than I anticipated. I'm surprisingly charmed with being back in Doylestown, and it seems I'd forgotten a few of my favorite things while away at college; these things include playing/making music (I wiped a thick layer of dust off of my violin upon returning home), driving (delilah is happy to have me back), the gazebo, blasting shitty pop punk music and driving through the countryside, and alone time. I feel like there's a serious loss of alone time at school, but I'm back to only child mode, and I can do pretty well by myself for extended periods of time. It's refreshing. I never realized how much I missed these things. 

     So, what the hell am I doing with my time? This week, I slept until at least 1pm every day. sweeeeet. i've been catching up with some friends, and cruising around with them. Also, I've been cleaning and rearranging the room, unpacking the life I brought home in assorted duffle bags from 80 Boylston, Boston, Ma. Aside from that I've been having some fun, smoking too much, and job searching. Today was my first day at Gerenser's Ice Cream in New Hope. After the first day I can tell it's gonna be a long summer. But a fun summer. It's a cool job, without much responsibility, and all the free ice cream I can manage to eat. It is what it is. And it's a job. Thank goodness. 

        Yesterday was my first day upon returning home to escape suburbia. I took an impromtu trip up to NYC to visit the darling Christopher Hutton (working stiff extrordinaire), and I also got to spend time with Amelia & Michaela (and some guest star friends), who managed to meet me in beautiful May-smitten Manhattan. As soon as I reached street level after exiting Penn Station, I saw three homeless people and countless cigarette smokers. I kind of miss the rough edges of city living. Alas, I'm adapting to slower paces for the time being. I'm predicting in a month's time I'll be in full-on summer mode. This means bronze hippie-ness, curly hair, and more of an interest in...interests, doing stuff I want to do because I like it, not because I'm required to. ex: Reading Voltaire, painting my room, writing a lot.

I hope when you read this you think about your summer self. It's always different than the normal, structured self of the school year. This is the off season. What freedoms do you adapt to? What activities have you started again, that maybe you forgot about?

PS. This happened to me yesterday. It made my day. 

http://www.iwon25bucks.com/

(This big prize patrol interviews you on the street and gives you 25 bucks, just for being you. Cool, thanks!!)