how cinematic!

Blood, how cinematic. Blood has cinematic effects on reality that should not go under-acknowledged. The time we killed the kitten was just like that, I said fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck while crouched on the edge of the sidewalk as you paced back and forth. At that moment I was sure I was not really living - no, this was the sad ending to a sad movie that I would never watch again. At this point in our relationship the screen went blank and the credits began to roll: teenage boy skillfully played with anguish by Michael Matthew Rodgers; teenage girl portraying shock and disbelief in an incredibly realistic manner played by Yours Truly; and sweet, innocent kitten played by Someone's Pet. Whose, we'll never know. Maybe we could have loved each other, but after this day, I couldn't even look you in the eye. Maybe we didn't kill the kitten, maybe we just happened to be there, maybe it was God's Will; but sadly, context doesn't matter when a kitten dies. It's just a dead bleeding kitten and it's the worst thing in the world.

It was like that in the hospital, too. It happened the time you fell in the hallway when you saw us for the first time. And when that little bit of blood oozed from your big toe and dripped on to the carpet, I realized this, this, this was not happening, this was not life. This was a movie that groups of friends would watch together in someone's basement over the weekend and at least one person would secretly cry in to the blanket.

teen angst rules the world

she lies on her bedroom floor with the lights off at 4 in the afternoon. her father wonders whats wrong with her, as all fathers do of their daughters at some point. she is lying on the floor with her arms spread out wide sort of like how jesus must have looked on the cross. she wonders about public executions. then she wonders about private executions - which is worse? shoegaze is her passion of the month, currently all she will listen to, and she especially enjoys that song where the girl's voice says, "I'm only 15 and I feel as if it's already too late to live," convinced it was written about her. at this point in her life, she believes her misery to be unique and exceptional. mr. perry, the school therapist, tells her that someday she will be "A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH," but she doesn't believe him because she doesn't trust anyone with braces. "SUPERFICIALITY RULES THE WORLD," she tells mr. perry knowingly in one of their lunch-time sessions. mr. perry nods in agreement, and she crosses her arms across her chest and leans back in her swivel chair, satisfied, maybe even confident, thinking that perhaps she will be "A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH" after all.

the wreckage

"if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, i will open my eyes and the world will be falling. and if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, it will knock my secrets off their shelves, and i will walk through the city across the bridge and over the ocean to your house, through everything falling, yes. i will pretend to be surprised when you spot me from your front porch as i am walking down your street (but you will know the truth). i will say, 'how funny to run in to you. i was just recalling the time we threw glass plates off of the parking garage on second avenue, the scratches and scent from the rosemary bush we hid in. why would we hide in a rosemary bush?' everything around will be crumbling to dust and you will casually hold your hands over your head as if it is just a light rain, and you'll say, 'i don't know, kate, i guess it was just there. would you like to come in?'
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10."

at this point the earth feels still, although really it's not, it never is. you know the big quake is coming, you can feel it in all of your being. there are fruit flies in the garbage can but soon the trash will be inconsequential. asbestos and drawings are peeling off the walls. everything is doomed but you feel romantic and wild and free.

"if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, i will not duck and cover. if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, i will stretch my hands out to the clouds, and i will celebrate the wreckage.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10."

owen (in the summer of 2009)

Owen, Owen, I thought his name over and over again as I sat in my room waiting to hear him pulling in to the driveway, ascending the stairs, opening the front door without knocking like he always did. He had been here one hundred times before, but today was different, today was tense and weighted. Today I felt pathetic and dull, sitting on my mattress on the floor, suddenly embarrassed at the record player, guitar and empty walls that I had in common with all of our cynical-twenty-something friends.

Owen was different, with four bedroom walls completely covered in photographs and taped up letters, articles and comics; there was no blank wall space in Owen's room. Owen had a round face full of light and sweat.

Owen, a person in my heart and in my dreams, a name I spoke in my sleep -- something I never would have known if it weren't for too much whiskey two nights ago and an attempt to capture the music from my record player on to my tape recorder. I faded in to sleep and the next morning, headache and pajamas, I heard my own voice murmuring beneath the fuzzy music -- Owen, Owen, whispered sweet like how you would say the name of someone who just had their heart broken, or your heart had just been broken by. Owen, Owen, over and over.

This was how I knew I was in love with him

This, I knew, was an unrequited love, a love that would never be.

My bedroom door swung open as if by a breeze, and Owen stood in the doorway. Owen had big eyes that shined of something like youth, he wasn't spoiled by time or politics, he was the only carefree person I knew. Tall skinny body, the carefulness of all his words; Owen was alive, so everyone else was probably dead.

"Jacob," he spoke, easy and gracious because he could always read me.

Owen borrowed books from me and lent me some of his. He sat at the foot of my mattress playing with the corners of the sheets, describing plot summaries and telling me what I should read first (enthusiasm can feel so novelty). Saying: "Sometimes I just want to read really sad books, where the characters are more miserable and flawed than I am." Saying: "Everything ever written is about love. If everything ever written doesn't break your heart, then there is something wrong with you."

Owen, Owen, Owen, I kept saying it, out loud this time, after he had left -- hoping the repetition would do something, like burn his name inside of me so that no matter how much things changed I would always remember him this perfectly. Through all his girlfriends and lovers, and mine, too, through old age even if we stopped being friends. Through new love, through tangible love, forever, Owen.

expressing little pockets of self-loathing and self-doubt is healthy, but only in moderation

The Writer has just returned from the coast and slumps over a recent photograph, scrunching up her face and eyes so that the rest of the girls in the photo become blurred, allowing her to focus in on her own indignant look; all of her friends are smiling with open mouths, showing white teeth with confidence. All of The Writer's clothes are dusty and smell of campfire and are covered in little specks of dry crusting ketchup and other condiments, and they make her feel as if she has accomplished something somehow, and she wishes dirty clothes were the kind of thing that demonstrated good character. Something about the coast made The Writer daydream about starring in a romantic comedy. The Writer has mixed emotions about boys in band tee's and is embarrassed by her reliance on male approval and the acceptance of subcultures to feel some sense of self-worth. What a let-down. The Writer comes to the conclusion that she should no longer continue on the career path of becoming an author, grudgingly admitting to herself this: "there is no need for fiction." The Writer considers driving straight back to the coast, into the Pacific, to lay down on the ocean floor forever.

love and its absence

Sylvia disapproves of the way that contemporary American culture revolves notions of happiness and sadness, of success and failure, around love. This obsession with relationships, she thinks, is "totally freaky and sort of sad." Sylvia wants you to believe that she is different.

Sylvia detests her last lover, Paul, for dumping her and then moving to Prague on a whim and almost immediately reaching new heights of success in some European art and sculpting community. Sylvia is depressed by her current lover, David, who talks on the phone at night about how bored he is, and who recently joked that if things don't work out, they should consider modeling their relationship after Liz Lemon and Jack from 30 Rock because he is "clearly the successful business type" and she is "clearly the struggling middle-aged woman type."

The only things Sylvia can ever think to write about are references to either Paul or David. Sylvia despises the fact that all her stories are about love (and its absence) and relationships (in all their failures). Sylvia comes to the conclusion that she should no longer continue on the career path of becoming an author. Grudgingly, Sylvia admits to herself this: "there is no need for fiction."