amorningshadeofyellow-blog

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

CATCH UP!

So, I’ve come home from California! What a change in pace? Recently, I’ve struggled immensely with depression and feeling off the track I’d been set on for some time. School isn’t really working for me, and I’ve taken it harder than I’d like to. Going to class where I know I’m not doing what I want is a bit of a downer, so I don’t go. I sit, I write, I go for runs, or I just find ideas and outlets to collect and use. Lately, I’ve sort of looked into lifestyle blogging. I love taking pictures and editing them, and I really love being able to put my taste and my creativity out there and use it to keep myself busy. That’s where I’ve come up with the idea. I did think about YouTube but videos can be so tedious some days.

California was wonderful. The trip was absolutely incredible- save the turbulent flights. Most importantly, I saw my aunt and uncle and bonded with them. Outside of that, I got all of this time and free space to just BE in this area that was so beautiful and lively to me. I wore my bikini in public to the pool for the first time! Woohoo! I walked a few miles to the base of a mountain to get dinner one night, biked around, walked the boardwalk, and drank enough kombucha to drown a man. The food was to die for. Seriously, every restaurant had a vegan option- if not handfuls- and I definitely put on 3 pounds. The vegan donuts were too good to pass up. I also went zip lining across the safari park, tried numerous old wines, and saw a play in Old Town. There was so much to do and so much sunshine that I really thought I couldn’t ever leave. Coming home had definitely been hard. I get used to being busy and when I come home to a place that’s far from it- well, it just is a readjustment. It’s a bit of a pit right now actually, but it’ll be fine.

So with this lifestyle sort of situation I’ve taken on, I do intend on using it to keep myself busy. It’s something I can throw myself in to and keep up with when I want. It also helps me make more healthy meals and style myself better so that I feel put together and good about myself. Confidence is key. I think I’ll take up yoga again, too. My back has been absolutely killing me lately, so I need it. I’m thinking of including some music recommendations and movies, journaling prompts, fashion ideas (If I could be fashionable) and little self love/skincare/ whatever things. I don’t know, maybe it’ll be a really wonderful and helpful hobby.

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

What Time Is It? (A Day in the Life with Intrusive Thought OCD)

The last week or two has far surpassed the brim, overflowing with stress and wonder, lack of this, lack of that, thinking, thinking, thinking. Since coming back from Tulane, I think I’ve managed to scrape the bottom of the barrel a little less elegantly. It’s been an unexplainable place, surrounded by an unexplainable feeling, but the least I can do is try. Explaining my OCD is not something I do to make you feel bad for me, not something that I do to gain pity points. It’s embarrassing. I was one of the smartest girls around; I still am. Where does it make sense to be consumed- literally consumed- in thoughts that are so infantile, so small, so stupid and pointless? It doesn’t, but this is my attempt to explain the mental process and impact my OCD has made. 

There are a handful of types of OCD. Most people associate OCD with cleaning, organizing, scrubbing your hands 18 times in an hour or flipping a light switch 6 times. There was a YouTube video of a guy who was performing some sort of spoken poetry about his OCD and the girl he loved. I always thought about that. With the little research I’ve done, I’ve found that the basic types are as follows: those who clean, those who organize, those who check, those who hoard, and those with intrusive thoughts- the obsessives. Obviously, my case is the latter. In slight description, the cleaners are the ones who scrub hands and surfaces, afraid of germs and contamination. The organizers are fixated on symmetry, things being centered and equally, those who organize their desks so precisely that if a pen moves two centimeters- they know. The checkers are those who check door locks, light switches, stove tops- often so obsessed with the idea that there will be a fire, a break in, something fo the sorts. The hoarders are obvious without description. Then, there are those of us that suffer from intrusive thoughts. My kind. Those who will be having a normal day, walking the halls to class or driving along the road, and suddenly an unwarranted and unwanted thought presents itself. This begins an obsessive-compulsive cycle, and it’s where I’ve struggled for many years. Where you’re able to see the compulsion- the cleaning, hoarding, flipping light switches and organizing desks, mine is far harder to detect. My compulsion- the relief- it comes in many forms. I need far more reassurance than the average human solely because I’ve depleted my ego and don’t think highly enough of myself to take my own word. It’s hard to make people understand it because we all worry. Where I differ is that my worry is an all consuming part of my day. Not every day. Some days, I don’t worry so much. Some days, when there’s no stressors and I feel the sun on my face and am confident in my body and mind- I do alright. Others, I quite literally think I’m the worlds most embarrassingly psychotic human being. So, I’m still learning. The compulsion aspect of my disorder still confuses me. The routines I go through to relieve the anxiety isn’t always the same, but there’s a compulsion. The thirty texts, the drinking, the sudden stopping myself from eating or sleeping, the texts, the texts, the endless flow of words that keep coming, the apologies on top of apologies. It doesn’t really make sense to me, and I guess that’s because I still think of the man switching the light off and on. 

To further indulge in the intensity and persistent nature of these thoughts- I want to explain how a day may work for me. I wake up. What time is it? 7:45. So, I should leave by 8:35 at the least because getting my bags out of my car and parking, locking the doors and situating my things so I can grab my coffee from my console will take probably four minutes, three or four to walk to class. I’m doing my makeup. My eyebrow hair grows so strangely. I should pluck these, but is it going too look too sparse right here? I think they’re too dark, but I don’t have time to really go back and change it. If I waste the product more I’ll have to buy another brow pencil by the end of April. They’re twenty-one dollars. I have three-hundred and six dollars in my bank account, but less than a fourth a tank of gas. However, I go to San Diego Monday, so I only need gas to go to Jackson for classes these next two days and then Saturday to clean the office. I should fill up before I go to San Diego in case I spend too much there. It takes thirty dollars to fill up my car. My seventy dollar car insurance already came out of my account, but I still need to pay those medical bills. Shit, my medical bills. I’m sure at least one has gone to collection. Is my credit going to be terrible now? How do I fix that? I should ask my mom. I hope my credit isn’t bad. three hundred and six minus thirty is two hundred and seventy six. That should be fine. Maybe I can afford another brow pencil. God, what time is it? 8:06.

 I feel my window to see how cold it is outside. Probably 60 degrees. I’ll wear a skirt and crop top. I think I’ve gained weight. I’ve been eating less. Did I? I shouldn’t weigh myself. If I weigh myself I’ll be upset all day long if I have gained weight. I didn’t eat that much yesterday. Maybe it’s lower. I weigh myself. I’m .2 pounds less than I was yesterday. That’s fine. Okay. I’m just over thinking it. I think my hips are too noticeably big. My hair is too dead on the ends, too, but I should wait to get it trimmed. Would bangs look cool? My face is too round. What if they make my face look fatter? I’m straightening my hair. I need to buy a hair mask or a heat protectant. This is probably why my hair is dead. I could leave it natural more, but I look less put together- more messy. Did I have a quiz today? No, I don’t think so. I think that’s next Thursday. My grades. Fuck, my grades are probably terrible. I wonder how much extra credit I’d have to do. Is Tulane going to accept my credits? What if I just wasted three thousand dollars at Union? 8:28. I should brush my teeth. I should put my pajama tshirt back on in case I get tooth paste on my top. God, my car is so nasty on the inside. If I have lunch with mom today, maybe I’ll just eat a salad or smoothie for dinner. I don’t want to be bloated before San Diego. I have pictures to take. What if I miss my connecting flight? I wonder what they do. Can I bring a razor in my checked bag? I don’t want to buy $20 razors there to shave my legs. 

I grab a water bottle and get into my car. Oh, I have less gas than I thought. I check it constantly as I drive. I drive past my ex boyfriend’s house on my way to pick up a friend for breakfast before class. He’s home? He’s never home on Mondays. Is he okay? Is his brother sick? Did something happen with his car? Does he need a ride? Is he mad? Did I say something this week that put him into a rut and now he’s depressed and can’t leave bed? I should text him. There are already ten texts sent from me from our discussion yesterday. Am I being too annoying? I bet he’s annoyed. Why do we even still talk every day? Did he ignore those on purpose? I think he read this one sentence as rude. I didn’t mean to be rude. God, I look like such a bitch. Maybe I should apologize. I’ll apologize. I text and explain that I drove by to get a friend in his neighborhood. Are you okay? Is your brother? Just wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. I go to breakfast. Panera is out of espresso, so I can’t get coffee. What if I get tired today? I slept eleven hours last night; I should be fine. I slept eleven hours. That’s too many. Am I getting depresses again? No, I think I feel fine. I feel happy. Yeah, I think I’m good. Okay. Should I eat a bagel? That’s too many carbs. You’ll be able to tell in this skirt. I go to class. He hasn’t texted, but he isn’t awake this early. Lauren hasn’t texted either. It’s been over a whole day. Did she get back to school safe? Is she that busy? Why aren’t I ever that busy? How come other people are so busy and never near their phones, but I’m never busy. Should I be studying more? I don’t have the money to go out. Where are all of my friends? I should go back to Tulane. My friends are there. I don’t want to get depressed again though. Maybe it’ll be better on meds. I had fun last weekend. I’m excited to go back in April. 

I sit in my lecture. Is it noticeable that I’m writing in my journal? What if he calls me out? I’m going to at least listen to the verse in case he calls on me to read. What if I pronounce a name or city wrong from the bible? That would be so embarrassing. Is anyone else here secretly not religious? Probably the girl in the Frank Ocean shirt. What time is it? twenty two minutes until I’m out. I’m not hungry. I have an hour and a half until my next class. Should I write? What if I don’t have time to finish it and get uninspired? I shouldn’t spend money. Where is that coffee shop on campus? No, spending money is bad. I need to save for car insurance. I may buy those concert tickets if I don’t spend a ton in California. The lecture is over. I walk to my car. It’s way colder than I thought it would be. These people are shivering. I either look stupid or incredibly warm blooded. People totally think I look stupid in this outfit. I drive around. I’m wasting gas. I should just go sit in the parking lot at school. He texted. Everything is okay, he just has plans on another day so he’s working today. I text to see if I can bring a record by and drop it of since he’d like it. He says he wishes I wouldn’t. Is it personal? Is it me? What did I do, was it phrased wrong? Does he think I’m being too serious? Is he tired of me? He’s probably tired of me. I’m going to Pet Smart. I go and look at the hamsters and how sweet and small they are. I smile at them and watch them run around and play for probably ten or fifteen minutes. I want a hamster. No, I’d be too lazy to clean the cage. They are so sweet, though. How long have they been in there? Probably too long. That’s so sad. Peppermint oil. That calms me down. I feel like I’m going to have an anxiety attack. Why do I feel like this? I think I’m going to cry. I text again: Are you mad at me? Can we talk about some things? I know I said a lot yesterday, I’m sorry. Can I just say some really simple things and you can tell me what you think? Did I say something wrong yesterday? Are you sure everything’s okay? I know I’m worrying like I said I wouldn’t, but I need to start off on a good foot to stick to it. I don’t know what I’m even saying. I’m being annoying and pissing you off. I know there are way too many texts on my side and I feel so stupid. Can you please just find time to tell me if things are okay? 

I text over ten times, probably twenty. From 11;15 until he texts back around 3 something. I’m at the oil change center. Where do I go? I look so stupid. I have no clue where to go. The lobby of this place is full. I have to sit at the kid table. Everyone in here is old so they probably do think I’m a kid. It’s so gross outside, I hope it doesn’t make me sad. I should take my anti-depressants. It’s past noon, maybe I shouldn’t. It will keep me up. It’s so strange to me how tired I can be and then as soon as something bothers me, I’m awake for the next four hours. You’d think I’d be a normal fucking person for once in my life, but no. God, I look so annoying. I understand why I got broken up with now. It’s so cold in here. Do I have homework? I think that worksheet was for later this week. I should check when the next assignment is due. He’s typing, I’m anxious. Those thirty seconds are completely pit-of-your-stomach. What if he says something mean and I cry in this lobby? I should go to the bathroom in case. They called my name. My car is done. I sign paperwork. I go to my car and drive home. He tells me he knows to ignore what I said earlier- I’d been like this every day for the last ten days. I’m too stressed. It’s too obvious. Why do things hurt my feelings so easily? I’m driving. I tell him I’m driving and I’ll ask the two questions he told me he’d answer when I get home. So, I type out a condensed version of what I’d said yesterday- asking for patience and forgiveness when I know that’s stupid- when I know he understands and is willing to joke around and act like I’m not a freak. He’s too kind. I know he was overly kind to me in New Orleans because he wanted me to feel emotionally strong. He knew it would be a rough weekend. Lauren texted. She’s alive. We talk. I don’t have time to explain why I’m anxious- I don’t really know why. She sends me a meme. My phone is going to die. I come off of all of my worry after the talk I have about my worry and how he reassures me that I have nothing to worry about- I’m not being forgotten, I’m not hated. He’s far too funny for me. Does my senes of humor seem too immature? Does he even get this joke? The song playing right now is sad, I hope it doesn’t impact my mood. 

I’m at home on my bed. I tried on my bikini again before I go to San Diego. It looks so much worse on me now. Is it because I’ve gained weight? No, I weighed myself this morning and hadn’t gained weight. Maybe, I’m bloated. I just drank a lot of water. I wanted to take pictures in this, but I’m not going to now. How many days- today is.. Wednesday. Tomorrow I have New Testament early in the morning. Then, I have gym. I don’t think I’ll go. I always look so stupid in there. She tried to make us play volleyball last week- can you believe that? There are like ten people in that class and none of us know one another. It’s so awkward. I always feel so awkward. I hate working out in front of people. I think I’ve eaten too much today. I had coffee this morning, a kind bar, then I ate some edamame and grain crackers. I had a small bowl of tomato soup and a piece of toast with it for lunch. I think I’ll skip dinner. I’ll drink more water and maybe it’ll flush everything out. I should drink this last beer today so I can have the next four or five days to not drink anything except water. Why is my chin so itchy? Oh, he texted again. Bangs? He thinks I should get bangs? I’d look terrible with bangs. My face is too round. Yeah, just looked at myself in the mirror, and I definitely see a double chin. I don’t think they’d look good on me. That one girl in high school had incredible bangs. Would he still think I was pretty if i got them? What if they make him think otherwise and then he doesn’t like anything about me? Maybe I should do it. Change is good. My ends are dead though so I’ll just start with a trim. Dinner. I shouldn’t eat dinner. If I do, I should do like a banana or something. 

My skin itches. Is it just because it’s hot in here? No. No, why is my neck so itchy? Moisturizers break me out. Do I want to break out or relieve this? I could leave it alone. Where is my peppermint oil? I look crazy typing this. I won’t post it. It can stay in my notes for a long time. Honestly, I think a whopping three people read this. If you put that, you’ll look like you underestimate and are fishing for compliments. What do I type next? How do I transition back to something else? It looks too choppy. What if people actually think I’m a really shitty writer and just pity me because I have so much fun with it? I think some things are okay. Some things. I should write more. I know he won’t text back; he’s busy. Should I text just to tell him the good news? Does it look like I’m lying to get his attention? It’s just good news. It’s just something I’m happy about. I don’t think he cares, but maybe he just finds it nice to see me excited about things. I think I’ll tell him, yeah, this text is too long though. What words can I take out to make it look shorter. That sentence is pointless- too explanative. Back space back space back space. Posture. Sit up straight. This is why my spine looks so weird. I need to stop hunching my shoulders over. Jesus, I hope my mom doesn’t check my checking account. I spent so much pointless money last week. I feel so guilty. Maybe I can return it. I don’t think so. I’ll keep it. The jewelry is cute. Yeah, at least I have some for the pictures I take in San Diego. I’m so excited. I need to download my music so it’ll play. I should watch a movie today too. God, I need to go to the theater and watch some stuff this week. I may do that tomorrow to  pass time.I hope he doesn’t think I’ve showed up for him. I just want to come see some movies. Im behind. I saw Red Sparrow a few weeks back. It was good. Tulane housing emailed me. They want to call me tomorrow. I think they just want to clarify my situation, but if they tell me I’ll be in freshman housing I think I’ll cry. How do they even do that? There isn’t enough for everybody. I want to live in Paterson. I’d have a balcony and be close to everything. My friends would be closer too. What if they put me in JL? Oh, my god. I think I’d actually drop out. What if I get depressed again? I can’t even walk past my old dorm without feeling gutted. Too much happened there. Too much happened. I suddenly feel so sad. I remember being there and looking in my old window and seeing another girl live there. It was like that was the only part of campus that I never existed in. I felt wanted everywhere else. I think I was wanted at least. It felt good. I wonder if people would actually come visit me. I would love that.I’d get to show people the city. I just hope I don’t get sick again. I’ll be on probation when I first come back, and I just think maybe my classes will be too difficult to handle. If I slip, what if they kick me out? Just because my grade wasn’t good? What if they give me like math or science when I first come back? I’d fail and they’d kick me out because I’m supposed to be doing way better than just average. What if I gain weight? Bruff was so gross. I don’t want to go back and gain weight. I’ll have to start going to the gym. I do miss their gym. I’d just need workout clothes. Sometimes when I get too hot and workout without eating, I wind up passing out. I need to stop doing that. I need to take my vitamins.T That’s why my hair is dead. I haven’t been taking them. 

I should go to sleep. I should sleep. It’s 9 pm. Where is my birth control? There. There. I need to refill this tomorrow. I’ll refill it on my way home. Wait, I was going to go to the theater. I’ll do it Friday. I have the pill for tomorrow. So I can do it Friday before they close. Would bangs actually look good? I’m going to turn on a show. I think I’ll have a nightmare if I watch this one, so I’m going to skip it. All of these look interesting, I just can’t sit through anything that has bad acting and they all look terribly acted. I should write a screenplay. I could be an actress. I hated The Ritual. It gave me a nightmare from hell. I should take another shower. I need to throw up. I think I’ve eaten too much. If i gained half a pound, I think it’ll ruin my day tomorrow. Yeah, my mood won’t be good. I’m going to ruin my teeth. I need to make sure I take care of my teeth. I’ll double brush and double floss. That will be okay. I’ll call my dentist in the morning. Why hasn’t anyone texted me back? Did mine send? Yes. They sent. Stop texting. You look so bored and pathetic. Sleep. Go to sleep. I think he hates me again. I think I said something wrong. What time is it? 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

March Mayhem

There’s this unexplainable dread that keeps washing over me that I don’t quite know how to rid myself of. Mantras, yoga, tea, incense and Wellbutrin, writing it out- nothing has really seemed to help. It’s so obviously detrimental to my health. So much so that I’ve not been able to keep down most of the food I’ve eaten this week. The least I can do is look forward to spring break. San Diego is exactly a month away, and I know it’ll be a week filled to the brim with ease. Diana and I eating dinner by the ocean every night, shopping all day with our fruity teas, exploring the city and overlooking the valleys on her balcony every morning.Perfectly timed release. 

My yard sale was successful. I also attended every class today and am extremely proud of myself. There was a moment today where my English teacher had us read about binge drinking, and I had to explain to the class what pregaming was. It made me miss Tulane. I should be visiting in late April during Crawfest, and again in June to take Kennon with me to the beach. I’ve been talking to my friends there more, been missing the city. There’s some unaccounted for weariness in my body, caused by the worry of the process back to Tulane going exactly opposite of easy. It’s had me in a rut for the last week because I realize just how much I messed up in leaving. 

I guess it’s been nice to be me lately. To shop and to read and write, to watch movies I watched when I was 13 and to just annoy the hell out of myself. I guess I’ve put off writing for a while because it’s hard to process the trip back to Tulane. It’s hard to think about being here and how I feel without making myself immensely depressed. My mom keeps talking about how volatile I am, how it doesn’t matter where I am- I’m just not going to be happy sometimes. She’s not wrong. It just frustrates me. I’m supposed to be getting medicated for my obsessive disorder. I talked to my psychology professor about it today and she said it’s a form of an anxiety disorder that the compulsion factor isnt always so obvious in. I see where sometimes it isn’t always obvious in how I exert it. I don’t know. 

It’s so dreary outside- cold and rainy and grey. It weighs on me when it’s like that, and I hate to put out anything that I’m not proud of, but lately I’ve been the farthest from proud of myself. Like every day it’s just embarrassing. 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Visions Of

(wrote this forever ago at Lauren’s request and found it while cleaning out my notes- Visions of Gideon fits perfectly over it while reading)

The piece of flesh between your index finger and thumb was tender feeling in the grip I held on you before the clock changed from pm to am. I saw the flash of the light from the bathroom seeping out into the densely darkened room. It crept slowly, seeming as though it thought I was asleep. Watching out the window, you had arrived hours before and I counted the steps you took from your car to the spot I could no longer see you in. 28, 29, 30; the two minutes in between that I did not see you were two minutes that I felt for your heart moving throughout the same place as mine. The slow burning, glorious passion that exuded from the holes in your head when you walked through the doorway mimicked mine. I’d thought countless times how I’d like to sit with my arms wrapped around you for the stillest moments. I begged you to sit still, quiet down; I wanted to look at you. The parallel lines we lie in were like the yellow ones on the road when you can’t pass. Your arms were always open to me. I never felt a spot the way I felt your chest until I felt the comfort of coming home and realized the shape of the mold fit. I would line you with shapes and words drawn in invisible ink dripping from my finger tips. Only would it wash off in the showers we took together at 2 am. I could read you. You were such fine print at the bottom of the page, but I never skipped a beat in the sentence. I felt for the way your back broadened when I laid my warm cheek to it. You’d breathe in. Your lungs would expand and all of the breaths were never taken for granted. I sat them in their own tiny homes and made worlds for each of them. Your legs felt so heavy in your sleep when they intertwined and fell over me. I would run fingers through your hair, dark and thick and messy as I’d ever seen it. You are so handsome. You deserve so many things, and I have written a list of them down your spine. It may remain there, it may fade and smudge. You cannot see it in any of your multi colored lights. You left that next morning, and I haven’t seen you since. I can think for so long; how cold my toes, the angle of your arm, time between blinks and breaths and the order of songs playing. It plays over me, montaged between handwritten notes and offguard photos. I have loved you for the last time. Is it a video?

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Suggestion O’Clock

As February ends and March begins, here’s a reflection of some things I’ve been listening to and watching. Everybody needs suggestions, take them as you need.

Music: I am a firm believer in Spotify’s Discover Weekly playlists which automatically update themselves based on your listening patterns and what not. The BEST place to go for some handpicked tunes. However, here are a few I’ve come to love the past month.

• The Neighbourhood’s Hard To Imagine EP: Unlike the last three works they’ve put out, Hard To Imagine is something all it’s own. Very far from I Love You and Wiped Out!, HTI is full of songs that definitely reach outside of the usual boundaries they’d set for themselves. Though I am not a fan of the EP in its entirety, there are a few songs that make it worthwhile. ‘Void’ being in the top spot with that one lyric, “Wonder how I got by this week, only touched you once.” Just feels so smooth. Following in no definite order are Scary Love, Nervous (which dropped 5 days ago), You Get Me So High, and Roll Call. Honorable mention to 24/7 and Sadderdaze- both catchy, but in a way that will get old really fast. If there’s such a thing as dishonorable mention, Dust takes that. I could have gone the whole album without that.

• Sufjan Stevens- Visions of Gideon: Top Spot for WEEKS in the category of “Songs That Will Ruin My Day”. This is one of the most gutwrenching songs for me. So pretty, so smooth, so full of feeling. Sufjan is an artist that has definitely made more waves since the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack’s Oscar nomination he got for “Mystery of Love.” I hate to say that the Academy was wrong, but picking that over Visions of Gideon was nothing but wrong. Seriously, listen to this and tell me you didn’t cry.

• Viola Beach- Call You Up: The song I want to montage videos of myself dancing on a beach at sunset with a bottle of wine to. Definitely that annoying indie sounding voice, but it works for this. Lyrics you’d find in the diary of young people in some summer love. “I’ll call you up in the middle of the night in hopes that you want to hear from me. I just wanna know if you’re feeling alright.” It’s just so CATCHY you just gotta sway your head and hips and close your eyes when you sing it. Has a beachy feel. One of those in the middle sort of songs. Not a breakup song, not a love song. Takes a seat on the harshly drawn middle line. Just give it a listen, I can’t stop playing it in my car because it’s impossible to not sing along to.

• Manchester Orchestra- Colly Strings. I don’t know what they are, but I know this song makes me perform power house vocals in the shower. Definitely something the singer wrote to be specific to himself, but still vague enough to feel like it relates. Simple, heavily lyric focused, not technically impressive at all. Just really plain, but I love it. Listen to this on drives home. “CONFESSEDLY, THIS IS THE FIRST TIME IVE LOVED YOU AND GOD, I MEAN IT. GOD, I MEAN IT. I HOPE THAT I MEAN IT. CAUSE LIKE DIANE YOUNG, IDOLS GET THE BEST OF ME. WELL, DONT STOP CALLING- YOURE THE REASON I LOVE LOSING SLEEP.” a... slammer. A true indie king. Strange that I’ve never liked Manchester Orchestra’s other songs.

• The Last Shadow Puppets- Miracle Aligner: IN CASE YOU ARENT AWARE, Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys is the front man of this band. Basically, its Arctic Monkeys music under a different band name. TLSP had Sweet Dreams, Tennessee which I learned about a summer or so ago and loved. How I never found Miracle Aligner baffles me. It’s got that same AM vibe that most of Alex Turner’s work does. Feels a bit like a background song for a 60’s feel good family show. This one’s upbeat for his fashion, but I dig it. Alex Turner is the man I’ve always wanted to meet. I cannot believe he is real. I’ve been convinced he’s sincerely an enigma.

• From the Dining Table- Harry Styles: OKAY, I know it‘s overdue. I didn’t give much listen to Harry’s album because it mimics so many British rock classics so closely that I just.. I didn’t want to. And I’m the biggest one direction stan alive. Sometimes, I cringe at the lyrics. Aside from that, it’s a song I’d fall asleep to and that’s why I like it. It’s something I would sing to put someone to sleep. After a minute and a half we can stop the song because the third verse/bridge/ whatever is so close to resembling Over the Rainbow in my head. Just throw it on your playlist if you’ve not already. I’m sure almost everyone has.

• Jamie T- Magnolia Melancholia: I AM SO MANY THINGS AFTER THIS SONG. First off, Jamie T has been around for a few years, and I’ve always liked some of his stuff. Don’t You Find, and Zombie were two that I definitely was like, huh, this is new. He’s one of those British singers that really actually sounds British. Most of it’s a little more spoken than sung. Anyway, outside of this- magnolia melancholia is very different compared to his other music. Almost similar to Dont You Find, but it’s the only thing close. The song is sincerely just so impactful to me because of the lyrics, but I think it’s a good song overall to have. Like I said, different. “Nice to meet ya, boy, I know your mama knows. I fell in love with her seven thousand summer ago. I was a runner, boy,” just something I think he stripped from my diary and made his own. Definitely really excited to have seen his name come back on my screen and feel something so personal and nostalgic. Really think he’s an underrated artist.

Films: Of course, it’s March when I’m writing this, so the Oscars have come and gone. However, Oscar nominees or not- these are the films I’ve seen, loved, and suggest.

• The Shape of Water- Winner of Best Picture, The Shape of Water is obviously something you look at and say, “Hm, I should probably see that.” TSOW is insanely creative, but there should be nothing less expected from its director. Following a black woman, gay man, and a mute woman’s romance with an amphibian man- it’s definitely up there in terms of diversity. In short, the feel of the film and its tenderness paired with intrinsic visual detail is stimulating in a multitude of ways. You leave the theater feeling something.

• Black Panther- I would literally pay the first person who reads this and hasn’t seen Black Panther $20. I’m pretty sure it’s like... the top grossing movie ever at this point. If you don’t care for superhero movies, just go for the complete bad-assery. And Michael B Jordan. Who I don’t think is a great actor, but I do find him almost as gorgeous as Lupita.

• Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri: Another Oscar nominee. Frances McDormand who plays the lead took home best actress while supporting actor went to her co star Sam Rockwell. Really, in all honesty, the thing that I think about when I explain the film is the character arc they gave San Rockwell’s character. Watching this man grow and change throughout the film was impressive both in the acting and the writing.

• Hostiles- ROSAMUND PIKE BEING A BADASS COLONIAL WOMAN!! CHRISTIAN BALE HAVING A GOOD HEART!!! SWEET ENDINGS!!!

• Atonement- Look, I’m just asking you to go on Netflix and add this to your Watch List for an afternoon when you’re laying in bed and want to cry. James McAvoy and Natalie Portman, a heart wrenching love story during war time, but still far more than that.

• The Warriors- We Love A Good 70/80’s film, and this is what that was. Based around gangs and a journey back home, this is full of companionship, unity, wit, and lots and lots of leather vests. (prime)

• Wonderstruck- Ultimately a feel good film that is unlike any other. Complex story line, wonderful depiction, just creative and free. Feels so sweet to see something so pure.

• Captain Fantastic- okay, everything I’ve deemed “creative” is subpar when it comes to Captain Fantastic. Surrounding the theme of family, mental illness, and exclusion- the film depicts a family living off grid with their dad after losing their mother to depression, the following days are full of humorous and heartfelt feats as they attempt to attend their mothers funeral despite the grandfathers wishes. The complete disconnect between the modern world and the world this family lives in puts them at no sort of disadvantage, and the theme of unity and pride of where you come from shines through.

• Blade Runner 2049- Rewatched it. Felt so happy to have my eyes glued to a screen. Genuinely equivalent to being induced into a coma because you’re not leaving your seat. And if you haven’t seen the original Blade Runner- do yourself and Harrison Ford a favor.

• Honorable Mention to Lady Bird, CMBYN, Dunkirk, Phantom Thread, and The Florida Project all of which will be included in an “Oscars in Review” post I have queued for next week

As far as music and movies go, that is a slight look into some of the things February and March have brought thus far. For every time Lauren needs a suggestion, I feel as though it’s necessary to compile a list for whoever else may need it.

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

And He Tells Me I’m Grotesquely Obsessive

It had been some time since I had seen my shrink. I call him that because psychologist feels so sterile, and shrink makes me seem passive about my issues. Up until this month, I’d forgotten how relieving it is to hear someone tell me, “differences are not deficits.” So, today, I went in knowing we were to be reading the results of the test I had taken back in December. As for why we were just now reviewing the answers, I may never know. I sat in his room, talking about how my weeks had been. He had asked me about my mom, school, my jobs, how I felt overall. I told him, “I don’t know why I want to cry so badly when we’re just discussing my college English class,” and he told me that he’d cry too if he felt it was as pointless as I did. About 30 minutes into the session, things quieted down between us, and I mentioned the test. “Ah, yes, of course,” he said grabbing the giant yellow folder on the table next to him. 

He explained it to me- the test, how the results were read, what it all meant. Off the bat, he told me he very rarely saw tests that looked like mine, but that that wasn’t meant to alarm me. It was just to let me know that I was definitely as different as I thought I was. There were a few parts I recall specifically because I was taken aback, and one I recall for how relieving it felt. “These two, they represent depression and anxiety, so being above this line definitely shows me that you are most certainly in both of those categories. They usually go hand in hand. This,” he says as he points to a very noticeable “V” shape in my graph, “is what we called the ‘castrating V’ before we had to be politically correct. It basically means that you don’t trust men and that your relationships with men are often hard for you to remain confident in.” So, I thought to myself about how that probably stems from my dad and how I lost him. I never saw myself as somebody that had issues with trusting men. I’d never been cheated on. I’d only been in one relationship, but I still would like to think that I trusted him a majority of the time. It did sort of make me ponder for a moment about where the test could have possibly come up with this subconscious unease I had for men. 

“You’re also beyond extremely hard on yourself. Your ego is what my mother would call ‘as low as a snake’s hips’. You, as the test would put it, basically hate yourself and the way you are. Not so much physically as mentally. Would you consider yourself introverted or extroverted?” he asked as I without a doubt said so confidently- extrovert. All I do is talk. I love speaking to strangers; I love being the life of the party and the center of attention. He shook his head and said, “Far from.” He then proceeded to explain to me how I strayed away from this persistent party culture, this persistent going out. He told me that loving to talk means nothing in the sense that these are classified. “You’d be nowhere near the writer that you are if you were so extroverted. There is an air of keeping to yourself about you and you are obviously self aware. I believe you undermine just how much you like being alone and at your own pace because you want to think you’re more confident and sociable than you are.”

So, I learned that- halfway through my test results- I’m not necessarily exactly what I think I am. He continues with more results. “You’re a very angry person,” he states. I think suddenly that I am very far from violent. I’ve punched a wall once in my life and cried because of how badly it hurt. “Now, that doesn’t mean you’re violent or that you’re a hot head, just that your internal expressions tend to be a bit more pissed off and generally disdained by your surroundings,” he reassures me. “And you don’t like that about yourself,” he says- not asks. I begin to see that my road rage, my annoyance with people who walk slowly or talk too loudly, my irritability that comes from having to explain things that I find so easily comprehensible- I guess that that does make me a bit angry. “You’re also very cynical. Your view of the world is very cynical, and you don’t like that about yourself either.” And I think, why, of course, why would anyone boast about their test approved cynicism when positivity is far healthier and more attractive? Not that I consider it all to be cynicism; I would call some of it realism, but that my be a cynics point of view. 

Lastly, flipping over the page and lifting his eyebrows to widen his eyes as if he hadn’t looked over my test results already, he tells me, “You’re,” he pauses to tilt his head and find the adjective to place in front to make sure i grasp the sheer large-ness of the ordeal, “You’re... grotesquely obsessive.” I fold my hands together as tears that I never felt coming stream down and I nod my head smiling at something I’d known since I could give the definition of obsessed. It’s far more than anxiety, and it is far more than worry. It is complex fixation, and I cannot go back and unthink or unsee the things that have rotted in the corner of my mind because of how long they may sit there. He explains it to me like this- “Instead of all of my diplomas and degrees on this wall, I have an original Picasso painting. You’re in awe, staring and gawking because you’ve never been in the presence of an actual Picasso. While I’m talking, you realize that, somehow, some way, I have managed to scrape the painting and a piece of the dried paint has flecked off. For the rest of the session, you will not hear the things I say, and you will no longer feel so grand in the presence of Picasso- you may not even tell me who Picasso is if I asked while you were staring. You have become engulfed in the chip of missing paint. You will not stop thinking about it until you have worn yourself so thin with concern, worry, and wonder, that you just go blank.”

I’ve known for so long that how I think far surpasses how others think. I’ve never not been bothered by how I fixate on things, and I’ve never not felt contempt towards myself for it. You never want to be the crazy ex-girlfriend who asks 18 times in a day if they’re mad at you, but you can’t sleep thinking maybe something is wrong. You never want to be the person that lets the uncertainty of the future get in the way of actually pursuing one, but you can’t sit through a class feeling this way. Walking through the grocery store and forgetting half of the things you need because you’re worried about the way you walk and you’re thinking about it too much and over thinking something so minuscule and normal- it is hard. Having something such as bulimia that could only ever be intensified by these obsessive compulsions is so nightmarish. Learning that my route is one likely to struggle with substance abuse is never nice to hear. Remembering every detail of every important conversation- even unimportant- and having people roll their eyes at how overanalytical you are- it is simply horrifying. I cannot shut off how the wheel turns and turns and speeds up as things are processed in my head, and I cannot truly differentiate between anxiety and obsession in a handful of comprehensive ways, I just know that the fear of looking weird, the fear of forever turning people away because of how I act, the fear of never really being likable because of the way things are processed within me- it all is far surpassed by the insatiable obsession that follows thoughts around ever so often. 

Though it is one of- if not the- shittiest things I’ve had to come to an actualization about, it is nice to sort of set it in its own compartment and treat it accordingly. It’s a relief because my shrink told me that there are antidepressants that do work hand in hand with this sort of thing. He told me that, once I’m medicated and on something that isn’t Wellbutrin, I’ll be able to control the obsessions more and once I learn how to and feel the relief of letting things go, I’ll be more likely to stay on top of it and progress more than what I feel I am now. He told me to keep writing, to make sure that this is the only fixation I really keep to and with for some time. So, it is a relief. It is nice to think that this makes sense, and it’s real. However, now, I’m going to lie in bed and think about how this is cause for 90% of the situations I’ve ever come out losing in. The relief is quite temporary. 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Encased in Ego

Call You Up by Viola Beach plays and I feel what I think is your hand on the back of my neck, rubbing your thumb in circles that release the tension you cause. Turning over, the paint on my ceiling looks a bit like something my therapist would show me and ask what I see. I call you up in the middle of the night in hopes that you want to hear from me. I call you up, I call you up, I call you up. I have molded my driver’s seat to fit me when I sleep in my car because I cannot have my mother see me cry after I have done all but become everything she wanted me not to be. There is an air of anxiety, a spike in my height because my muscles hold so much tensity that to relax would be to shrink. I won’t drink unless I am trying to feel far from you, and I always want to. There is so much I could do, and I do not, because I have become encased in my ego, and it is all I know. The idea of telling you at the end of the day that I want to call you is the crack in the porcelain. Never delicate, I had never thought of you as delicate. 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Salvia Path’s Opening Two Lines

I woke up for the sixth night in a row from a nightmare that I could taste. Stammering around by flashlight into the kitchen, I reached for the neck of a bottle under the sink and took three long hard swallows. Not long after did I realized that my head and hips were swaying in sync with the hologram of a memory of us dancing in your living room to the only album you ever let me play. Entranced, I could’ve never felt the nail sticking out between the carpet and tile had you not told me to be weary of it. Waltzing back in the stormy darkness of it all, I saw a small light flicker a reflection of itself in my mirror. Only to feel a tinge of warmth on your side of the bed do I ever light candles anymore. I fell back asleep not too long after I had checked for any sign of you under my pillows, between sheets, maybe a t-shirt you’d taken off and thrown on my floor months ago. Waking up the next morning, I knew I had replaced the remnants of nightmare vile in my throat with a cup of tea that wafted the smell of you through the room and interwove itself between- in and out- of every other blind so gently brushing against a cold glass window. I wanted to thank you for being such a fluent thought because I often got away from the scare of the dark with your dreamlike hands around my waist. It came to me later that day that you’d been talking to me, sweetly asking me what I wanted, burrowing your face into the crook of my neck and telling me we could do anything here. I don’t know what I wanted. I only have the memory, no more than a wish to see the shade of your hair more realistically than it appeared to me then. There are not many ways to say to you that you cannot give me a better version of yourself, you cannot even give me a portion of the self that I remember wanting. 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Phantom Thread

Paul Thomas Anderson kicked me while I was down, and I think I’m alright with it. 

Last night, venturing home from a friend’s house, I took the long way home in an attempt to summarize and understand the magnitude of what I’d just spent two hours and ten minutes observing. Anderson’s Phantom Thread- nominated for 6 Oscars- is a hypnotic, riveting work depicting the close quartered living of two aesthetics; one meticulously crafted and routinely molded, another free form and curious of its boundaries. In this, we see a man’s life quite literally sewn together by the fabric of his work and the woman that weaves her way into it. Leaving little room for error or adventure, the back and forth of the endeavor of the marriage between the two characters simultaneously presents itself as wittily sardonic and tastefully passionate. 

Anderson, as a film maker, has ticked every box on a checklist I could have written up for him, and I like that. What I like more is that he added to it in a way that was so under the table and unbeknownst to me at first glance. What I like is the style he presents, not just in costume and architecture, but in the way he makes it feel similar to the creation of Inherent Vice. Slow burning, a bit condensed and small, and brainwashing. In a good way. The sense that it feels almost claustrophobic because of the lack of variation in setting sets you in the house that Reynolds (Daniel Day Lewis) has spent his entire life in. The house and his work is just as much a fiber of his being as his own flesh is. I found that this was one thing where substance and sound mattered equally to me. Often times where a film lacks in regards to dialogue, the presentation makes up for it. Vice versa with films that are dialogue dense and lacking in the actual look of the screen. This was one where I found neither outweighing another. The breakfast scene, the conversation between Cyril and Alma, the banter back and forth between the main characters and the scene where they discuss Alma’s asparagus with Reynolds asking if she was a spy sent to ruin his night or quite possibly his entire life. All of this, the scene where she tells Reynolds she wants him to be sick and weak and tender and then strong again- set perfectly aside these captivating faces, dresses, gloomily lit rooms and shots that are so tranquil and then so bold- it just makes for something so absolutely cunning and marvelous. 

In summary, the film is about Reynolds Woodcock and his life. His house, his dresses, the women who work for and surround him- all of these things that give him this sense of stability and routine. He has little to no room for interruption or error, and quite literally has a complete break down when his course is thrown off ever so slightly. He is an absurdly poised character with mannerisms sure to make any and every woman swoon- also, I really would set Day Lewis on a pedestal just to admire how handsome he was in this film. He is accompanied closely by his sister who is somewhat of a work partner and almost a care taker in her own way. She sees that things are handled accordingly and handles minor infractions such as telling the woman Reynolds had previously been involved with to leave once he’s lost his interest in her. Upon the first scene, I certainly felt a tinge of contempt for the character. You always want to hate the workaholic who can’t give the time of day to someone who just wants to care about him, but for this character, it reaches past that. Losing his mother, Reynolds is faced with a tugging inside of him that looms over him in a mild mannered way. Inferentially, they had quite a bond and the loss of her most likely drove him to burrow in his work and never come out of it. He meets a waitress when he visits the country, and this is where the plot picks up and we see his life begin to falter on its tracks. Alma, a sweet woman infatuated with Reynolds from the start, is far stronger a character than I ever expected. Throughout, we see the piecing together of two people who are nothing but equals, and that is what has impressed me so much from this. Reynolds struggles with what is new and different in his life, and Alma tests him in a way that isn’t so much cynical, but more so effortful in the chance she may get him to open up and become anew. There is a lot of back and forth, a lot of learning, and a lot of acceptance and patience. There is a lot of patience. The twist comes in the last 10-15 minutes, and though it’s surely a sick and sociopathic sort of ending, you take that piece and start back from the beginning and analyze the characters with this information and see just how their dynamics really came together.

As aforementioned, something I really found worthy of talking about with this film, the dynamics of the characters are so artfully crafted. The relationship played out between the two was something so entrancing because you could not feel for who had the greater pull. In this, I mean that I recall a scene where I sat there and said in my head, “I could not tell you which one needs the other more.” Throughout, both characters seem to play the entire course of the submissive and dominant spectrum. You have Reynolds who is not accustomed to this sort of love and companionship, and all throughout the film, I could not tell you if he would have been hurt by Alma leaving. In the same sense, I couldn’t say on Alma’s behalf if he’d asked her to leave. Both characters have moments where they’re seemingly infantile in nature and in need of nurturing, and both have moments where they’re taking prideful strides around the lion’s den in contest to have the upper hand. I thought the complexity of two characters who struggled with developing senses of confidence in their relationship was refreshing and found that two people who play complete equals was entirely admirable. 

In discussing the relationship, it goes to say that this is one that does stump me. In the end, you realize that this is such a sociopathic and sick thing to be a part of, but, throughout, I was a penny off from tipping my scales in favor of one or the other. The relationship as a whole is something deemed unhealthy because it is, but Reynolds relationships with things like work and the world outside of it aren’t necessarily normal and healthy in nature. Alma and Reynolds have this piece of themselves that they can set aside for one another, and Reynolds is more routine and timely in finding his than Alma. She appears, at times, to be less capable of holding back what she feels for him and professes there are many things she’d like to do in hopes of pleasing him, but Reynolds is simply so hard to get ahold of at times. In a desperate  attempt to gain attention from him, she poisons Reynolds so that he becomes weak and in need of her presence. This is the time that Alma is able to feel superior in a house the Reynolds has made inferior to him. The two thrive in cyclical motions, and it becomes that Alma is as routine as Reynolds in some ways. Maybe not that she has become as routine, but that she has become aware and complacent of them so that they play into her ideals. When taking into account the ending of the film, we see that this really has become such a twisted and sick sort of cycle. Reynolds is aware of Alma’s poisoning him and is seemingly alright with it. He knows that Alma will take care of him and he will be in a state of agony and submissiveness. He will need her, she will thrive off of giving and caring for him, and then he will become strong and the man she wants to depend on and love while he does his work. She right out tells him during dinner that he will be sick, but he will not die. He will want to, but she will take care of him. Then, he will get strong again, and the cycle would ultimately just continue. Reynolds is dementedly complacent in this, and this is how the routine of the two beings to fall into place. Throughout the film, Alma is seen speaking with a doctor by the fire in a therapy like session. She admits that, if he dies, it is okay, because he will be waiting for her in all of their next lives. In a sense, it was shocking to hear such obsessive sounding words from her because you don’t see them as two people so clung-to and in need of one another. The development of the relationship and the marriage is floated out and carried on and you’re left to assume that the two live in this sick mirage of love and care with one another, continuing their unbroken routines. 

And because it’s not really got much to it, there are just a handful of pieces of the film I wanted to have an aside for. When you watch it, you’ll note the discussion Alma and Reynolds have about his mother. You’ll also witness his mother’s ghost and the things that seem to loom over him as he copes with his loss of her and how much she meant. Reading about Anderson as a person outside of his film work, you learn that he did not have much of a relationship with his mother at all. I do find it really interesting to know these things and would like to think that it plays a part in the way he portrays this image of a mother. As a writer, I do think a lot of us take from our own lives and find ways to incorporate that into the things we want to write about and express, and though it may be a reach and not part of the film as a whole, it was just sort of cool to see that that could potentially be something he added in from his own life and his own struggles. It definitely has a feel of personal belonging to someone, and I like that. It feels like it’s being graciously shared and like it couldn’t not go appreciated. Another bit of the film I really found unique and nicely placed was the way Reynolds sowed little things into the linings of the dress. He sowed his mother’s portrait into his jacket, and he sowed Alma’s name into a dress he made for her. The wedding dress he made, following late after a conversation between he and newly met Alma about superstitions, had the term “never cursed” sowed inside of it, which Alma rips out. A slightly telling sign of Reynolds actually being one to believe in superstitions, which would seem so out of character for him, but just the touch of that was so assuring. It felt so particular and unique and was really a thought that I’d like to ask about in regards to its origin. I found it to be a really nice easter egg in the film and am more so curious who thought it up and how that came to be. I’ve also read this was supposedly Daniel Day Lewis’ last screen performance, and am so convinced that it was the best he could have given. He truly made the character something it never could’ve been had it been played by anybody else, and I think he’s got an honest shot in winning Best Actor this year. I’ve never seen somebody so obsessive and so embodied in a moment the way I’d seen him in playing Reynolds Woodcock. Marks for both Lesley Manville and Vicky Krieps for performances that managed to stand beside Lewis’. The acting was phenomenal all around, but I never expected any less. And dare I forget Cyril, played by Manville, who was the sister and work partner of Reynolds. What a stunning character. She was one character that played witness to the whole ordeal, almost as the audience did. Her pure drive and even headedness throughout the venture made her a character I found really enjoyable because of the vast difference she brought. You see someone dedicated to her work and brother, but someone who has not let it become her. Cyril is a woman who is simply just her own thoughts and way of being and there is nothing that could make her change. She is- like the rest of the females in the film- very firm in her ways and deserving of the upmost respect. I couldn’t leave out on not speaking of her and her performance, but felt there wasn’t enough rambling on about her to make an entire paragraph. Felt she was a character that had to have been sculpted from previous encounters of either Day Lewis or Anderson. She was such a particular charm in the film, and I loved how unexpected it was to become so fond of her. 

It’s a bit hard to really explain the feel of the film without experiencing it. I do think that it is absolutely one of Anderson’s finest, and I was moved enough by the work and craft to have stayed up contemplating pieces of it. There is something about the way the two characters had little exposition and little build in development- they are the way they are and they do not become their surroundings. It seemed like they could never blend into the backdrop with just how ornate and fine they were. Anderson constructed characters that have made names for themselves before we have even been introduced to them, and this is not about the love and triumph and sickness of a relationship conducive to an “air of death” in the house, it is about two people who span such broad spectrums of every day life that we can’t help but be interested in how their days play out and weave into one anothers. This was, without a doubt, one film I think has to be watched multiple times to pick up things that you just can’t always get the fist time around. There’s also got to be a rose thrown on stage for Johnny Greenwood who’s produced an incredible score for the film- not surprising after his work with Inherent Vice- because it was a piece you couldn’t miss. The score was so beautiful and fit like a glove to the feel and movement of the film.

 As for the overall rating, it was five star. Partly because I’m blown away at what Anderson’s managed to do with something so seemingly beige in context, and partly because of the actual context. This is not something you try to explain to your friends and they come off so interested in what it all is, and this is not something you are baffled by because of the twist at the end. There is the unexplainable feeling when you can’t yet place a finger on how you feel about the simultaneous toxicity and beauty of something. The complexity, the mastery, the overall fineness of what Anderson’s done is something you shouldn’t miss. It’s something that you will find yourself transcending into and feeling like one of the dressmakers in the home, watching it unfold and becoming a pattern piece to the routine. This was one film I believe ranks so incredibly high for me because you can tell that this was a film driven solely by a love for the work. You could not have made something in a way this was made and it come off the same had it not been made by a man so talented and full of interest. There are such high marks from me for making something where it’s not just about the ending. So often, things are summed up to their ending, and this is just not so with Phantom Thread. The entirety of the development, the whole production of a life they’ve mangled together, it just holds volumes far surpassing what I’d have expected of it. Slow as it may be, the feeling of being a part of something so personal was surreal. In all respect, this was one of the greatest things I’ve just started to wrap my hands and mind around. 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Any Day Now

Because of the left side of my room being the only lit side, I often place the ring on my left hand and watch each face of the not so real rock as I rotate my wrist with a pop every time it turns towards me. The nails on my hand are short and brittle and stained red from the deep cherry paint I had on them when I last went out. As I work my eyes down the bend and crease in my arm, I recall grip around it and a tugging toward what you wanted to whisper to me yesterday. I stare at the ceiling that has dripped white paint on my shins and the splatter has made the grey sheets look spotted and misaligned. Every thread sat through machines we turned on every morning as you held my chin up, drawing a breath from the fountain shaped carcass of me. This is not the eulogy to a lover or anything you could have proved to me from the beginning of days, but just what I had always thought so fondly of in the moment’s notice you gave before you leaned your sweet soft head down to meet mine. The heat felt between our spines was much more than my bed had known till the day and when the sun came up, my eyes were never so reluctant to acknowledge. I met creaking floorboards with cracking ankles and the glow of my shoulders after a cold shower. With every turn of my key and passenger in and out of the front seat of my car, I thought every word and moment were to be synced to the stop lights and the song I had playing. Though you never quite cared to listen to my ten same songs on repeat even if all the said was everything I had told your sleeping soul morning after morning. As the foreign beat echos across the room from the darker side, I feel it pulsing through my eyelids and toes and know I could tack it onto the list of things I would stop time to dance with you in. The sweetness of wine helps in contrasting the bitter drip in the back of my throat that has become a concoction of equal parts agony and admirability. So soon we are able to fall back in between the same sheets with the same goofy smiles plastered in plain sight with no fear of reluctancy. I pull back your lips with my fingers and see the sharp grit of teeth that haven’t known much sleep. And so you wrap arms around me like a straightjacket of familiarity in hopes that we never quite changed. Lying under an arm of dead weight and repetitive motions of breathing, I cannot seem to make out features of where I have come from. You walk across to your father and you stand with your mother ever so often on the ledge of your time and it become habitual to think this is where we are and what we have made of ourselves, when I have not made myself out to be much more than the product of two happy people. When I tell you this is how I am and this is how it has to be, the irony in the way I tell you about myself is that it is all I have come to know in the past 24 hours because of how fleeting- did I tell you I can be such a way- I seem to be. The harshness of a symphony crescendos in the room we are in and we stand on opposing side of the bed. Once I think we will wake the neighbors, I tell you so. And it comes down from there, the same way were told in days when you climbed trees and hid from obligations in your head, but I thought to myself that any day now, things should be quite right again. I hate your friends, and in a way I do not seem to understand. As if I could bother the world with giving me a moment, if it didn’t just depend on where I was at the moment. So when I have reached my wits end, and lying under the big blue sun on my wall do I seem to figure these things apart, so I realize now how unbecoming such things can be. When it rains, I wish to wash you off of my back for twenty eight seconds and no more. I hope to skip across the puddle forming outside your front door and kiss whatever has marked your mouth so far away from its origin. There are minutes in between words that I am safer in than the prison I found for my father years back. He might have said a few words had we never ran away. To say I am anew and more than you could want, is far beyond me and anything I could suit you for. I have tailored your looks and the kisses you give, and I have fevered the nights and gotten too sick once again. I sure miss the texture of your hands, and sometimes I know they’re par to hold mine again. When the not so real rock on my right hand shifts in the light it passes on roads you drive just inches above, I think that these are the cards I have drawn and the ones that I love. 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

So, I Watched “mother!”

*This definitely has spoilers because I can’t talk about it in full capacity without them.*

Mother! can be read and interpreted in a multitude of ways, and these interpretations vary in degree of depth as would anything with such leeway. The entirety of the film is enveloped in pseudorealism that is so far past unbelievable or impossible, that the things you are digesting are fed to you through false tubes. Much in the way that you don’t quite catch a sly remark, this takes a bit of active processing. There’s a certain theme that flows throughout that feels almost hard to root. It feels simultaneously hostile and comforting, while contorting reality piece by piece until you realize you’re not quite in the world that the film started in. The characters- mother, him, man, woman, the sons and the guests, are all epitomized personas that fit these exact spectacles as to lend to the metaphorical and satirical symposium they’ve all gathered in. All are meticulously crafted in their features and tones to curate a setting pliable to the vastness of relative concepts and ideas. These characters all fit in their boxes so neatly at the end of the night that setting has become the complacent to their roundabout ways. Above all else, it works in a way that allows for compartmentalized vices to come out of woodwork and relate through crossed red strings. 

Despite the many relations it may have to handfuls of concepts, the idea I’ve found most relatable and fun to pick apart is the concept that deals with the male ego. This sort of speaks to volumes of gender roles and psychological processes of romanticism, but foregoing the topic of ego is the most thought on piece for me. Not necessarily male egos- egos in general are a fine topic, but the working of the film does fit best in consideration of gender roles with a  male ego. If we break things down into three parts, it tends to follow a naturally recognized pattern. First, the exposition. Then, the transition. Finally, the climactic resolution. 

As soon as the exposition begins, you grasp that there is a hint of surrealism that doesn’t return so soon after it leaves. The burned remains of land and house are strewn across a screen that suddenly is pieced together before you with some divine crystal, gawked at by Him in an almost deity like manner. Mother, played by an absolutely angelic looking Jennifer Lawrence, wakes up and wanders around the house. The entirety of the first half can be summed up into two words- slow burn. Though it is an absolutely necessary portion, they really took their sweet time with it. The characters are exposed gradually in both psychological and physical points of reference. Thus far, we grasp the sentient and nurturing mother’s way of life. (Going back to when I mentioned each character being an epitomized persona- they really nailed this one) Mother is a woman that undeniably loves a man more than she could ever love anything else. She is nurturing, inspiring, calming, a home maker, and the perfect fit for the term house wife. She cooks and cleans, pours drinks and does laundry, smiles and tells him he’s doing great- when he’s not really done much of anything. Though that sounds almost spiteful, it’s not intended to be. The relationship between mother and him in no way comes off as alarming for a majority of the film. He hardly if ever raises his voice with her, apologizes frequently, and never lays a hand on her either. They appear happy, though her husband tends to seem quite vacant. Focusing on Javier Bardem’s character- him- we start to see that he is a writer who has run into a sort of block. He lives in this home with mother, and she does repairs all day while he supposedly intends on writing? Really, I’m not sure what he did in a day. 

In the midst of the exposition, the most telling piece of character traits comes when a guest- referred to as man- suddenly appears at their door. He is invited to stay, but mother is not so sure it’s a good idea. The man immediately starts smoking inside of the house and drinking beyond capacity. The eeriness and almost actualization of surrealism starts to come at this point. As mother works on the house, she starts seeing burned fragments and something resembling a heart- I almost failed anatomy, but it’s a bodily member for sure. He introduces the man- who is found to have some terminal late stage cancer- to his study where his crystal and all of his writing are kept. The man is a huge fan, and this is where the downward spiral begins to take its place. 

Over the course of the transition between exposition and resolution, the build up is not necessarily climactic or anxiety inducing- not so much something you sit on the edge of your seat for, but something that speeds up the process of the dissolving frame and figure of a man’s life who is becoming consumed with himself and his work. The strange man suddenly invites his wife to stay at the home as well, and then come their sons. This sequence is more telling for mother as a whole than any other. You learn just how complacent and mild mannered she is. She puts up with such rude houseguests that her husband has- without asking her approval of- taken into their home. He has become engulfed in their praise and approval, and what once was enough from his wife has become second hand. Consistently, mother tends to the home and her husband in a loving manner. She hardly if ever comes across with much of an attitude, despite the absolute bewilderment before her. In the few times you think she may actually speak up, she never really does. 

A trend throughout the first half is the reassurance she is continuously given by her husband. In a sense, he feeds off of it more than she does. Always getting off with what he wants and never hearing much out of her, because “everything’s fine.” So, in tying the first half back to the egocentric ideal, we see that- on a smaller scale- this man has become engulfed in the approval, praise, and company of these guests. Searching for anything that may give him hope to write again, but never mentioning it until after the fact. We are shown this man who ultimately thinks- this is normal, nothing is wrong, everything is fine- when it in no way is like that. This is someone who, despite the wishes and needs of his spouse, chooses to do as he pleases. The riveting part is that you know she’d never leave him, so all that he does is simply for his own gain. When the sons come along, you feel as though you’re up to your nose in bullshit that you would’ve walked out on ages ago. Yet, throughout the gruesome murder and abhorrently uncomfortable in home post funeral scene, you see a character that remains in the home and by his side. 

The ending is by far the area that you’ll get creases in your forehead over. For me, this was the part that really satirized the whole concept of the male ego and its outwardly deteriorating effects. After the man and woman and their sons leave, things begin to find their way back to the mid line. Things start to seem real, and it almost seems like everything before had been a bad dream. Mother becomes pregnant with a boy, and her husband is inspired to write something she cries over when she is handed it to read. In the moment of closeness that they do share, when she is reading his work that had been so long overdue, they’re interrupted by a call from his publicist who had- unbeknownst to mother- already gotten her hands on it. It briefly takes away the moment of sincerity that she seemed overjoyed to finally have again. In the rushed, messy, mashed up momentously large and loud gathering of his fans, I found myself having the hardest time following what was really going on. These people, thousands, line up coming from nowhere to see him and have something of his- just be in his presence. And in the midst of all of this- things go wrong. Suddenly there are swat teams, men with guns raiding the house and locking people behind chain linked fences. A very pregnant mother is in such a state of sudden shock that you begin to feel as entrapped and lost as she might have. It feels as if this character from the real world got places into a video game simulation. In the absolute clutter, mother and her husband are able to get to a bedroom in their destroyed and over run home where she gives birth. She begs him to make them leave- telling him that they adore him and would do anything he said- but he won’t do it. He tells her they want to see the baby, and she refuses. I doubt any woman wants a Lion King-esque Simba’s Pride moment in the middle of a cult like war zone with a husband that hasn’t seemed to listen to a word she’s said for the past hour and a half of the film. She fights sleep to keep the baby in her arms, until she no longer can, and the baby is taken by him out into the crowd. Upon waking up, mother rushes out to see them passing the baby overhead and then breaking its neck. In the way that dreams do, everything happens as soon as you turn around. She gets to the floor where the baby was, and sees that these people who have invaded her home are devouring her child. The entire thing has turned into a grotesque simply unreal moment. What worsens that idea is the calmness of her husband and his begging of her to forgive them and to move on. In this, we see the breaking point of mother. She rushes downstairs and sets the house ablaze, only to be carried out scorched and barely alive by her husband. It’s in no means redeeming, bu you think- at this point, he really can’t do much worse. Until he does. Lying on a table, he tells her he needs one more thing from her. He asks if the love is still there, and knowingly so, she nods and tells him to take what’s left of her. In a literal moment of ripping her heart out, we witness him turning the burnt coal remains into a diamond that he uses to *queue Coldplay’s The Scientist* take him back to the start of it all. His home rebuilds, he is gazing out a window in his office, and in his bed- another woman. 

So, despite the long and tedious description, there is a bit of general observation that makes the relationship understandable. A woman who is complacent and loving is belittled and walked all over by someone who would not and could not give her the time of day. Someone who is continuously understanding and undermined is put through these increasingly terrible scenarios brought about by her husbands own greed. Outside of mother, when looking at him, we see a man who never has enough. When one man loved his work, he couldn’t stay away from the possibility of more. He ceaselessly took advantage of the idea that she would adhere to whatever niceties he could throw to her in a day. His growing hunger for approval, attention, something more far surpassed the time of day, his relationship, the birth of his child, his home, and life as a whole. He would rather forgive the people who murdered and devoured his child in front of his wife than he would lose their love and adoration in kicking them out. He would rather let these people destroy everything he has than ever tell them to leave for fear o how they may respond. In this, I see that this man’s ego continues to need more and more because the rate at which he becomes tolerant of it is so unhuman. This atrocious downward spiral of absolute anarchy and chaos is something he bares to stand and endure simply because all of these people love him, and he can not put it aside for one thing that is consistent in his life. 

And in the end, the icing on the cake and the one thing that stings a little bit, is the idea that it never changes. Not to say all men are egotistical or depend so heavily on outside validation, but with this particular character, you are shown up front that it does not change. When you think he can take no more, he takes the last living bit of her and uses it for none other than his advantage- starting over. And the biggest slap in the face is realizing that in whatever fucked up simulated world Javier Bardem is living in, he can do it over and over as many times as he’d like and keep getting his fill. Never changing. So in light of egocentric men and their old fashioned desires, this film got a good talking about with my mom. In the residual categories, it may fit elsewhere. Hell, drug addiction is a great concept. Nice and a little weird at first until everything goes bad and you die. Much simpler put but application is still there. Economics played no role whatsoever in the film, nor did names, time, any relative concept that makes things more easily followed, so the un-specificity of it all really makes for the psychological development of the characters to be the foundation. 

Overall, it really is what you make it. Finding it based in egotism and psychological dependency of mothers validation from him and his validation from much larger was based more so around the last five minutes of the movie. Throughout, I didn’t give as much thought to the metaphors and symbols as much as I just enjoyed waiting for the impending moment of revelation between the two. It made my head hurt for a second, sure, but the freedom that comes with placing whatever you want in the slots makes it all the more fun.

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

For Now

i lie there another night 

unbeknownst and misconstrued to you

and i thought of you once or twice

maybe more if time permitted

i’d hope less if my mind permitted

you were miles away

and bottles below

i was white wine adjacent to merlot

i called for you but you didnt hear

i called for you 

my mind regrets to inform me 

it wont forget the feeling of you 

not that i ever truly wanted it to 

i lie here another night 

unbeknownst and misconstrued to you

and ive thought of you 

five times by now because time permits

six times soon if the wine permits

and i miss your soul sweeter than what i drink you away with 

i miss your time that id pass my days with

salvaging what could fit in your hands,

you appeared to me 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Maritime manner

Just cause and just case

You shifted on the flat of your feet waiting for me

Minding me

For stories above and below the sea

You kept to the rockier bays until I came to

Foreign born to all I have shown you

Mornings in Maine

I made you breakfast in bed

Stood bare footed and wet head

Sought after even all you had said

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

wont you just stay here

enveloped and moving to the beat with a child born of wonder and worry

wont you just listen as i reach for the answers underneath my chest

holding my arms down when i want to reach for solutions and glasses of tolerability 

and wont you just make me sure of all i know 

wrapped up in momentary touch

the bed is turned down waiting for your tired head

and i am in your place

my eyes heavy and asking you to just wait

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

Cherry Colored Big Light

i wish to sink my hands into the intercostals of your ribs

to know you the way i know myself 

a burrowing intrusive moment irrefutable 

to have a grip the way you do on me without laying a hand 

to forgive any one for the way i perceive things

and to scream when only no one else screams

and to think that i may be as flawless as the combustion of a star

you will see me for as long as you want

confuse me with the next to, beside me 

and once youve mapped me out

the fragile feelings for the phantom have dissipated 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

apprehensive to attend volatile action

where do you go when ive searched the last bend in the highway

unbeknownst to the setting of the sun

transient lighting becoming of your only sense of self

shelved for decades and behind on the monologue 

you wound up in the base of my skull

head full of mystic ideology 

so far fetched for you and me 

and theyll scream from the other side of the curtain 

unaware of your intention to look for meaning

and youve come to know everyone now

where do you go 

[amorningshadeofyellow-blog]

i often wonder where I am aside you

is every street light lit in your head for me the way they are in mine for you

and is it okay that i wonder about you

i wouldnt dare tell you

and i figure youd assume either way

but do you memorize the way i draw shapes on your skin 

the way i memorize your fingers up and down my back

the three and a half seconds that you aren’t breathing in when we’re sleeping

and the feeling of my hands behind the base of your neck

wrapping around the way cars do trees in tragedy

and the way it prevents me from giving anything 

as if you could tie my hands here rather than behind my back

and in this i am unaware yours have fallen to the base of mine as well