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The 4th of July will always hold a special place in my heart. I remember, as a child, our parents would always get together with their best friends and their kids, who inevitably became our best friends. The men were in charge of the barbeque, cooking up hamburgers and hot dogs, while the women gossiped and shared giggle fits, perfectly interspersed between the exhalations of Benson & Hedges cigarette smoke. There was always plenty of Jack Daniels at these get-togethers, and we knew it wouldn't be long before we could get away with pretty much anything.

As the sun began to set, we all crowded into the front yard, and begged to break into the industrial size pack of sparklers we knew awaited us. We would chase each other around, dipping behind the decrepit old pine tree for cover, and creating a maliciously funny game of who could inflict a burn mark first without getting caught. Once we grew weary of that, we assaulted that cement roadway with red snappers, and stared in amazement as the magic snakes sizzled and smoked vehemently until they disappeared, blending into the impending darkness.

At last, the real show was about to begin. All the kids would climb that rusty antennae that adorned the house to stake out our coveted spot on the roof. We watched our heroes set up the towering pile of pyrotechnics, painstakingly trying to find the wicks, between jabs at each other and inebriated laughter. We would hear our fathers' boisterous voices warning us to "SIT DOWN", because youth unknowingly brings a false sense of immortality, and felt our mothers' worry, as though it might be the last time they ever saw us in one piece. But they never took that away from us. You could see for miles up there, and no matter what else was going on in the world, nothing mattered but the sights, sounds, and love that encompassed that night. We might not have been a perfect family, but everything felt perfect amongst the deafening booms, whistles, and bursts that lit up that familiar country sky.

I texted my father the other day, pondering how these memories were now almost 40 years old, to see if he remembered. Undoubtedly, he did, and said he would do anything to go back and do it all again. You are not alone, Dad. And I'm so thankful to you for making this day something I will always treasure, even if I'm no longer that little girl perched excitedly at the peak of the rooftop.

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Most nights

She would sit alone in her room

SInging along

With records that crooned of heartbreak and unhappy endings

As tears would stream down her face

Remembering

All the things she never was

Pretty enough

Thin enough

Or good enough

For him

As she carved his name into already scarred wrists

And whispered for help

In the silence between songs.

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Acid Trip

One of the most memorable nights of my entire life was the first time I ever tried acid. Sounds funny to write that now. 37 year old Amy with two children and a mortgage and no real desire to experiment with my body and mind in such a dangerous manner. But back then? I was that girl. The one constantly looking for a good time, no matter what the consequences might have been. I honestly don’t know how I survived some of those wild nights, undeniably a slave to peer pressure and the lure of cheap entertainment. That’s the beauty of youthful ignorance, I suppose. That overpowering feeling of invincibility that tells us to do things like consume hardcore street drugs, drive our vehicles after imbibing, engage in meaningless sex with strangers…

But I digress.

I couldn’t tell you the name of it now-the acid. I was with my best friend, around 7pm on a Friday evening, and we were meeting a guy who had ‘ties’ with several of our buddies. I wasn’t sure what to expect as we pulled into the driveway of his large, overpopulated apartment complex. It was in a run-down neighborhood, where most of the businesses had bars on their windows, and the streets possessed an unsettling feeling of desolation.

After a brief interaction, we were each shown a tiny square of white paper. “It’s $5 a hit. Just put it on your tongue”, he said. I hesitated, unsure if I really wanted to go through with this, after all. ‘What if something went wrong? What if I ended up in the throes of a massive paranoia attack?’, I thought, my mind revisiting stories I’d heard of the guy at the local state hospital who had a bad trip and now thought he was an orange. I could only imagine the exhaustion that must have plagued the attendants, him in a continual quest to peel the layers from his skin. I briefly shuddered at the thought.

“It’ll make you feel so fucking happy”, he urged, now shoving the mysterious dotted intoxicant into our hands.

That was all it took for me.

I don’t recall noticing anything at first. We drove around for close to a half hour, wondering if we were simply duped out of ten bucks, and then decided to head to a local party. On the way there, I remember looking over at my girl and asking if she was feeling anything yet. The ridiculous smile on her face told me everything.

We walked into the party, and after saying hello to everyone, I headed into the bathroom. I feel a slight sense of disorientation and stumble a bit, yet manage to make my way over to the toilet. I sit down, look up at the wall décor, and see a picture of three little pigs.

They start dancing.

I’m laughing to myself, wondering if anyone else in the house can hear me, as I watch them slowly moving back and forth. I finish my business, stand up, and walk towards the painting. It only gets funnier. I call my friend into the bathroom and she loses it too, not because she sees them, but because of my unexpected hysteria. I knew, at this point, there was no turning back. This was going to be one hell of a fucking ride.

The night wears on, the guys doing their best to take advantage of our weakened state of mind, as we play multiple rounds of cards and bottles of Crown Royal and Jack Daniels begin to make their way around the room. No warmup, no chaser. Though it makes my stomach churn to think about now, back then, I took a lot of pride in being able to hold my own against the males in our social circle. I wonder how many of those nights I simply don’t remember.

We eventually leave the party, and as we’re driving around town, we realize just how amazing the song “Not Now John” by Pink Floyd really is. Amazing enough that you play it on repeat for at least a solid hour. We are laughing, smiling to the point that our faces ached, and finding a disproportionate amount of humor and introspect in absolutely everything. We hijacked porcelain ducks from a lady’s front porch and rode around with them in the backseat. We pranked drive-thru workers with insane requests and then took off without paying. We showed up unexpectedly at a friends’ house, whose neighbors threatened to call the police as we begged her to let us in. We smoked insane amounts of weed and had wildly entertaining and philosophical conversations. And we even managed to ditch a cop who witnessed us pulled over on the side of the road while we attempted to roll another joint.

We carried on like this all night long. There are parts that are a blur, and some that I’m certain I have no recollection of whatsoever.

But the absolute best part was standing on the dock of the Middlefork Reservoir in Richmond, Indiana at 6am, watching the sun rise over the river. The sounds of Bob Marley’s “Legend” album resonating through the speakers of our small handheld stereo. And coming down from one of the most powerful and amazing highs of my entire life.

Would I do it again now? Not a chance. But I will forever treasure this memory.

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I never do this Throwback Thursday thing. But you guys are kinda convincing sometimes. Here’s me and my brother posing in front of what appears to be a pretty sweet Trans Am. But most importantly? Check out that bitchin’ bowl haircut. Thanks, mom.

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Life always seemed so effortless for those type of girls Until they find one has hung herself In her father’s barn Her own hands the weaponry and A suicide note scrawled in bloody ink beneath her Holding all the clues to her despair

Everyone is curious when the beautiful die

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The Haunting New Bedford Orphuem (by Frank C. Grace (Trig Photography))

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“You will become as small as your controlling desire; as great as your dominant aspiration.”

— James Allen (via darksidelawyer)

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Truthful Tuesday

There’s only one piece of writing I’ve ever left unfinished. And it’s the only time the words became entirely too real to me.