halcyonramblings

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 10

Dear D,

The next morning I woke up early with a full itinerary for the day. First, Bryan and I had our college orientation - he picked me up at my house before sunrise and as we made the 40 minute trip up to campus, I filled him in on everything that happened on our date the previous evening. When I got to the part about you lifting up the armrest so that we could get closer, he reached over and gave me a high-five. “Girl, I think you finally got him,” he said with a sly smile. “Look at you go, sexy bitch!”

By the time we had our student ID pictures taken, our majors declared, and our classes picked out, it was nearly two o’clock. My phone buzzed with a call from my mom as we stood in line at Starbucks. She was frazzled, wanted to know when I was going to be home. I had agreed to go to prom “as friends” with J.T., her best friend’s son, at his school in a neighboring town. It was getting late and I needed to get ready. We abandoned the notion of getting coffee and raced back to my house, where I slipped into the same black gown I’d worn to my own prom and made my best attempt at a DIY version of my professionally done hair and makeup from last week.

J.T.’s prom was held at a resort near the local state park, a giant log cabin style building with massive chandeliers and wooden rafters decorated with streamers and balloons in his school colors. My prom, thrown together in the school cafeteria with black plastic covering the walls, strobe lights and fog machines probably bought on sale from Spirit Halloween, had paled in comparison. J.T. and I had a good time, although I had a sneaking suspicion that he’d told all his friends I was his girlfriend; they kept shouting innuendos and making kissy faces at us on the dance floor. After prom, we went blacklight bowling with some of his friends, and I texted you in between turns.

does this mean no more disappearing acts, as I’ve come to call them?

i’m not going anywhere anymore.

It was true. The next weekend we watched a movie at my house, and this time instead of perching nervously at opposite ends of the couch, we lay glued to one another, alternating back and forth between watching the movie and making out.

The Friday after that, you took me out again. This time we ate dinner at Cracker Barrel and went skating at the local roller rink. The roller skating was my idea; as we were lacing up our rental skates, you admitted that you had never skated before. I made laps around you as you clung to the railing at the edges, stumbling as your feet repeatedly tried to fly out from under you. Country music played over the speakers and I skated up to you, lip syncing to Sugarland’s “Stuck Like Glue”.

I’m stuck on you, uh-oh-wuh-oh stuck like glue, you and me baby we’re stuck like glue

You took one hand off the railing and wrapped your arm around my shoulders. You had recently taken to calling me “your girl” and I loved it. You kissed the top of my head and said almost nonchalantly, “Yep, you’re my girl.” And one beat later: “…friend.”

At first I thought I had heard you wrong. I snapped my head up to look at you; you were smiling down at me shyly, a light blush forming just underneath your soft blue eyes. “Did you just say…girlfriend?”

“I did. That is, if you want to be my girlfriend.”

I nearly tackled you right there, almost took you to the ground as I leapt into your embrace, one arm holding me and the other clinging to the railing for dear life. I kissed you so passionately I probably would have been embarrassed at such a public display of affection had I been thinking straight. But I couldn’t think straight - I was your girlfriend! Holy shit, I WAS YOUR GIRLFRIEND! I had been waiting for this moment for a year and a half, and here it was, you and I kissing under the disco ball, balancing on our wobbly rental skates, Jennifer Nettles’ voice on the speakers.

you and me, baby, we’re stuck like glue.

Four days later, I graduated from high school and you were there, clapping in the stands next to my parents as I gave the Salutatorian speech and accepted my diploma. After the ceremony, I led you around the cafeteria crowded with royal blue caps and gowns, finally able to introduce you to all my friends. Up until then, Bryan was the only one who had ever met you; everyone else probably thought I had been making you up. It was also there that we took our first picture together - you in a blue plaid shirt that matched your eyes, me in my cap and gown, grinning ear-to-ear with our arms flung around each other.

It was the start of a long and beautiful summer.

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 9

Dear D,

I’m going to be honest. I didn’t have high hopes for our movie date the Friday after prom. I figured it would be like all the rest of our dates; we would spend the evening making awkward conversation and avoiding eye contact with each other, we may or may not kiss at the end of the night, and then I wouldn’t hear from you for three days. Still, I wanted to look my best for you and it was a pleasant evening, so I wore a strapless floral sundress with gauzy tulle underneath, and took extra care doing my hair and makeup.

I wish I could remember what we talked about on the drive, but I can’t. We went back to the same movie theatre we had gone to for New Years Eve; it felt like it had been a million years since that double date. Like the last time, you took my hand as we crossed the parking lot and you paid for two tickets to The Cabin in the Woods. We entered the dark auditorium and took two seats in the middle, near the back. The theatre wasn’t crowded, a few couples speckled here and there but plenty of empty space. As soon as we were seated, you did the smallest gesture that made my heart do a flip inside my chest.

You reached for the armrest separating us and lifted it out of the way.

I looked over at you as you were reaching out to wrap your arm around my shoulders. “C’mere,” you whispered tenderly with that smile I loved so much. I don’t know who leaned in first, but when our lips touched there was no trace of the awkwardness that hung in the air the last time we had kissed. It felt like we were made for each other, the contours of our mouths and our faces fitting together so perfectly.

By the time the lights dimmed and the previews started to roll, I was lying across the seats on my back, my head cradled in your lap, gazing up at you as you stroked my hair and leaned down to kiss my forehead, my nose, my eyelashes. Truth be told, we paid very little attention to the movie - I remember it was one of those horror movies that was more funny than scary. We laughed at some parts, but we were far too caught up in each other to follow the storyline too closely.

After the movie was over and we were heading back to your car, you abruptly threw your arms around me; I squealed in surprise as you lifted my feet off the asphalt, spinning me around underneath the glow of the streetlights. When we got back to my house, you walked me to the porch, crickets chirping all around us as we took five, then ten minutes to kiss goodnight. I wrapped my arms around your neck and burrowed my face into your shoulder, fearing that if I let you go, you would disappear again. I told you not to be a stranger; you promised me that you would come around more often.

After I watched your car vanish down the long driveway, I turned and let myself inside, my feet floating on air but my head heavy, confused. What the hell had just happened tonight? Oh, believe me, I was overjoyed at the sudden turn of events, but you had disappeared on me so many times I couldn’t bring myself to trust that you wouldn’t do it again. I slipped out of my dress and into a t-shirt and a worn pair of Soffe cheer shorts. I took my makeup off with a baby wipe and collapsed into bed, overwhelmed with so many conflicting emotions. Pure ecstasy and anxiety, excitement and terror. But my back still felt warm from your arms and my lips still burned from kissing you so many times; I was just starting to drift off when I felt my phone buzz on the sheets beside me:

Can’t wait to see you again ;-)

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 8

Dear D,

The weeks following the tornado felt like the Twilight Zone. Two days after, I couldn’t bear to be in the house any longer, so when I heard my dad say he was going to an emergency town hall meeting at the local elementary school, I asked to go with him. In the gymnasium, I helped sort through and organize donations: clothing, canned food, bottled water. A couple of my close friends were there too, along with some other kids from the high school. We all sat at a table in the library waiting for the meeting to start, joking around and making friendly conversation, all of us just so glad to finally see some familiar faces. One of the girls at that table, mousy and honestly quite forgettable, grew up to be your wife. Damn it, if only I could have seen the future.

We didn’t go back to school for two weeks. The night of the town hall meeting, snow began to fall; we marveled at the fluffy, plump flakes descending from above, covering the wreckage with several inches of glistening, white powder. This further set back the efforts to get the town’s roads passable, the power back on and the water running, and one of the city schools rebuilt from scratch. During those two weeks, I didn’t have much to do to keep my mind off of the disaster, the jarring sense of loss that accompanied the destruction of our small town. It felt as if my entire life and childhood had been blown away, along with the movie theatre, the city pool, my mom’s office where I’d cried about the terrible boy in the folk band nearly a year before. Gone were the pizza place, the massive brick church with the bells that chimed on the hour; the goal posts and bright lights of the football field lay twisted like pipe cleaners, the ground stripped of its turf, broken shards of glass embedded in the dirt.

Slowly but surely, though, life went on. We returned to school, spending our entire first day back just talking in all our classes, sharing our stories, expressing our disbelief and sadness, talking about all the small things we had taken for granted. My class still went on our senior trip in early April, taking an Amtrak train all the way up to New York City. On that trip, I tried sparkling water for the first time (I hated it), and hummus (loved it). I discovered a love of black and white cookies, fulfilled my childhood dream of visiting the Pokémon store, saw Mamma Mia! on broadway, and nearly got hit by a taxi in Times Square. And it was all highlighted by near-constant texts from you. One night, we were on the subway headed back to our hotel after a dinner cruise on the Hudson River. Somehow, you and I started texting lyrics back and forth to one another - first “Bruised and Scarred” by Mayday Parade, and then “Fall for You” by Secondhand Serenade. I still hadn’t worked up the courage to ask you what the deal had been with Hipster Girl, but you were back and she seemed to be history and that was all I cared about.

Soon after senior trip, we had prom, taking pictures in the park like years past, despite the backdrop of trees snapped in half and flower gardens washed out by flooding. I took Bryan; I asked you first, but you laughed and said you didn’t even go to your own proms and that you wouldn’t be caught dead at one now. As a compromise, you asked me to the movies the following Friday night, and of course I giddily accepted.

That Friday night was when our story would finally reach its crescendo, the magical moment when you would stop fighting the connection I had always known we had. It was and still is remembered as one of the most beautiful nights of my life.

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 7

Dear D,

March 2nd, 2012 is a day that will forever live in my mind as the start of one of the most horribly surreal expanses of time that I have ever endured. Starting out as an unseasonably warm, sunny morning, nobody would have believed that with the end of that day would come the end of our small hometown as we knew it.

You were still painfully absent from my life, still out chasing after my strawberry blonde, artsy nemesis. I was still texting Devon but becoming increasingly creeped out with every message exchanged. During the course of our online courtship, it had come to light that Devon was twenty-two years old, had actually dropped out of college, and was about to be evicted from the dilapidated apartment building across the street from campus. Completely disregarding the fact that I was underage and still living under the roof of my parents, Devon had begun pestering me to come to his apartment to watch a movie; naïve as I was then, I knew full well that watching a movie was just a euphemism for what he really wanted from me. Regardless of all this, I continued to text him out of boredom, but deflected his attempts to meet up again.

The second morning of March was a Friday. That spring had been an early one; the daffodils bloomed in late February, temperatures averaging in the 60s and 70s. Also unusual were the weather patterns we had been hit with - severe storms one day, sunshine the next, a rogue dusting of snow the day after that. On March 2nd, I left for school as the weatherman tracked the latest storm system, cautioning our empty living room of the possibility of hail, wind, and tornadoes for that afternoon.

At school, it was rumored that they were going to dismiss us early in anticipation of the severe weather. Kids were rowdy in the halls, stomping milk cartons to make them pop against the peeling tile floor, cracking jokes about tornadoes in trailer parks. Sure enough, just before lunch, the vice principal announced over the intercom that school would be dismissing at 1:00. Nobody considered that we were being sent home early for good reason; we celebrated all the way to the waiting buses, the student parking lot.

Back at home, I headed straight for the basement workout room. My parents had begun to monitor my exercise, limiting me to thirty minutes a day and only if I ate what they considered to be an adequate dinner. Since they were still at work, I used the opportunity to get a nice, long run in. I put on The Killers’ “Sam’s Town” album and listened to it all the way through, twice, as my feet pounded away at the treadmill and my abs burned from dozens of reps on my mom’s Ab Lounge.

I was out of the shower and heating up a Lean Cuisine in the microwave when my dad’s truck came thundering up the gravel drive. He came inside talking on his flip phone, telling my mom to get home as soon as possible as he switched the TV over to the local news station. On the screen, the evening weatherman gestured to a green, yellow, and red-splotched map of our state, coolly explaining, in his suit and tie, the difference between a watch and a warning.

By the time my mom arrived home, the radar had become more red and yellow than green, with spots of purple beginning to infiltrate the map. The colors had begun to take on a swirling pattern in a few locations. The weatherman had shed his coat and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. Watches had turned to warnings in some places; he was speaking directly to certain towns, even specific neighborhoods, urging people to take cover. I stepped out into the yard and was struck by how eerily quiet it was - no vehicles on the road, not a bird in the sky, not even a dog barking in the distance. The leaves hung as still as frightened rabbits; the sky took on a green tinge, the clouds forming a harsh line just above the treetops. I snapped a picture of the clouds on my iPod touch, shuddered and went back inside.

I don’t know how much later it was; it may have been ten minutes, may have been an hour. The sweaty weatherman had loosened his tie, his hair disheveled, bangs hanging limply down the center of his forehead, when he began to name off communities that were frighteningly familiar. It became hard for me to sit still; I would get up, pace around the room, stare out a window, sit back down. Finally, I wandered over to the big windows overlooking our backyard. I can remember calling for my dad as I stared at it, a massive, black cloud shaped like a cone. “Is that a funnel cloud?” I asked him.

“Yep, that’s a funnel cloud.” He squinted his eyes as he watched it, then sudden realization dawned on us both as we saw a large tree come out of the ground, roots and all. “That’s not just a funnel cloud,” he breathed in disbelief, “That’s on the ground! Get downstairs! NOW!”

The next few minutes came as a series of disjointed scenes: racing down the basement steps as the lights flickered and went out; huddling with my mom underneath my dad’s desk, screaming prayers at the top of my lungs, crying out to God or whoever was listening to make it stop; the sound of a freight train barreling past the house, rattling its windows and its very foundation; jumping out of my skin as baseball sized hail smashed through one of the basement windows.

When it was over, we crept up the stairs, half expecting to see open sky as we emerged. Miraculously, it was our kitchen, just as we had left it. The house was completely intact. Our barn wasn’t so lucky, and neither were the massive pine trees that lined our driveway, but we still had a home. We would soon learn that we were very fortunate compared to many of our neighbors.

The town was decimated - homes reduced to toothpicks, businesses destroyed. There was no electricity, phone lines were dead, cell towers down; no way of knowing who was alive, who was dead, and who lay injured beneath the rubble. Rescue efforts started, the national guard came into town, a caravan of tan Hummers lumbering past our house.

It didn’t take long for my dad to get the generator up and running; it didn’t produce enough energy to power the whole house, but at least we were able to have a few lights, the fridge, TV, and internet. I was finally able to log into Facebook, let my friends know that I was alive and make sure that they were all okay. I hadn’t been online for five minutes when a chat window appeared.

S! It’s you. Holy shit, it’s you. Jesus Christ, thank God. Are you okay? Are you hurt?

So that was what it took. A natural disaster, you thinking that I was dead. Three weeks of radio silence, and now here you were, no mention of hipster girl. It was as if she had never existed. Suddenly I was the center of your world again, and as much as I didn’t want to trust you, you re-established your place as the center of mine.

[halcyonramblings]

Henry Miller, from a letter to Anaïs Nin, featured in “A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953″

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 6

Dear D,

For the remainder of February, I tried to stay off Facebook. I didn’t want to bear witness to the mating ritual that you were doing with this girl, so similar to the way that you got me hopelessly addicted to you. Sometimes, though, I couldn’t resist trying to make you sorry. When it was time for my next haircut, I asked for some long layers and thick, side swept bangs that nearly covered my right eye. Back in the car, I put on my oversized sunglasses and took a sullen-looking selfie for social media. You “liked” it.

I had a pair of fake, nerdy glasses from Hot Topic that I bought for shits and giggles on a school field trip the year before. One night, I put those and a purple v-neck shirt on and did a “sexy” photo shoot with my webcam, a whole series of pictures of me posing seductively with my journal, tapping my chin with a pen as if deep in thought, and lying on my stomach pretending to write. I posted my favorite, and you liked it too. Just apparently not enough to start talking to me again.

Meanwhile, my best friend Bryan and I had solidified our decision to go to the local state university where nearly everyone from our hometown, including you, went. We both had scholarships and were already familiar with the town, so it just made sense, and of course I pathetically still had ulterior motives for going there. Bryan decided that he should get a jump on trying to meet people, so he searched the university on Facebook and just started sending friend requests, mostly to guys that he found attractive.

In late February while I was still moping over you, he mentioned a guy he had met on Facebook named Devon. Turns out he was straight, but he had seen a picture of me and asked about me. I asked what he looked like; he showed me a picture of a guy holding a basketball, nicely built but just average in the face. I wasn’t especially interested at first, but then Devon added me and started messaging me.

He seemed genuinely interested in me, asking all about what I was planning on studying, giving me advice on which professors to take and which ones to pass on, asking if I played any sports, what my parents were like, what kind of music I liked, etc. He wanted to meet me in person, so I took Bryan with me just in case he turned out to be a weirdo. In retrospect, that was probably a good call on my part.

One day we cut school and drove up to the university, and when I saw him bounding up to us, the first thing that struck me was that he didn’t look like his pictures. He was obviously the same person, but he was shorter than he had appeared and his face was almost entirely covered in angry, red pimples and rough scar tissue. I knew he couldn’t help these things, though, and I also knew that I used filters in my pictures too, so I couldn’t fault him for that.

I decided to give him a chance and leaned in to hug him hello when he turned his head at an unnatural angle just to kiss me right on the mouth. Less than ten seconds after I first laid eyes on him. I shrugged it off and suggested that the three of us walk up to the lake by campus. As we strolled along the sidewalk past mid-century modern classroom buildings, I tried to make small talk, but it was difficult because Devon kept trying to hold my hand, slip his arm around my waist, and plant slobbery kisses on my cheek. He smelled like mothballs. We sat up by the lake and talked for a while, Bryan carrying the conversation while I tried to ward off Devon’s PDA, and then we excused ourselves stating that we needed to get home.

After we left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something seemed off about him. But I told myself that I was being ridiculous, that he was probably just socially awkward and had maybe never even had a girlfriend. I was trying so hard to convince myself that I went so far as writing in my journal, for myself only, about how nice he was and how much I liked him. I know now that I was just that desperate to purge you from my thoughts and my life.

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 5

Dear D,

After our New Years Eve date, I heard from you just about every day. Some days it was a meme, sometimes it was a song, and sometimes it was a deep philosophical question meant to initiate heated banter. Those were always my favorite.

Valentines Day came and went with little fanfare, but it didn’t matter because you spent your evening with me. Granted, it was through texting as opposed to in-person, but still you dubbed me your Valentine and we talked all night, so I went to bed with a contented smile on my lips and - dare I say it? - love swelling in my heart. I had three months until graduation, I had recently been awarded a full scholarship, and I was falling hard for you. I swore to myself that my first night at college, I was going to sleep in your arms.

Two days later, February 16th started as just another mundane day of high school until it all fell apart during 2nd period, AP U.S. history. Mr. Brown’s classroom felt as chilly as the biting air outside, and the fluorescent lights felt too bright as I shivered against the fuzzy fleece of my North Face jacket. Classmates chattered idly all around me while Mr. Brown swore under his breath at the Smart Board, which was refusing to display the Power Point that would guide his lecture.

Covertly, I slipped my iPod Touch out of my pocket, the pink and white giraffe print case cool and smooth in my palm. It had recently become common knowledge that the school’s wi-fi was unsecured, so we could freely use apps just so long as we didn’t get caught. I clicked onto Facebook and began to absently look through my newsfeed, when the sight of your name made me pause my scrolling. You had “liked” a photo.

I had never seen the girl before. Never had I seen a trace of her in the comments of your posts, never a tagged photo, never a wall post, never a mention of her as part of your regular rotation of friends. Already feeling panicked, I clicked through to her profile. Right there, under her recently added, there you were. Brand new Facebook friends. I clicked back to the picture, began to scrutinize her.

As much as I hated to admit it, she was kind of pretty, in a hipster sort of way. She had shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair in flat-ironed layers, thick bangs covering a large portion of her face. A purple bandanna was tied in her hair like a headband and she wore a gray t-shirt bearing the emblem of your university. Her eyes were partially obscured by thick, rectangular glasses and she smirked at herself in the mirror she was using to take her picture.

At this point, my heart had completely fallen out of my chest and landed in stomach acid, where it threatened to come up my throat and splatter like a tomato on the grimy tile floor. I clicked back to her profile, tears bubbling up in my eyes. She was pretty. In one picture, she didn’t wear her glasses and instead flashed huge, ice-blue eyes, black mascara piled on long lashes. In another, she played a guitar in the middle of a convenience store, right in front of the icee machine. There was one where she sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, trippy posters on the turquoise wall behind her and a Spam can on the bookshelf being used as a pen holder. She had a professional grade camera; photo after photo featured her holding up random objects in front of a fisheye lens.

I couldn’t deny it; she was everything I wanted to be. She was perfect. And she was your type. As the day wore on, I obsessively stalked both your Facebook profiles. You “liked” another of her photos, an older one taken with a webcam; she had obviously recently showered, hair in damp, wild curls framing her face.

That night, though, you texted me as if everything were normal. You made no mention of this mystery girl, instead sending me a song to listen to: “Warning Sign” by Coldplay. In return, I sent you “Bedroom Eyes” by the Dum Dum Girls. We continued like this, back and forth musical tag with some conversation sprinkled in, until you said goodnight around midnight. You promised you would talk to me tomorrow, punctuating your text with a ;-) face. Perhaps I had overreacted, I told myself as I burrowed under the covers.

You didn’t text me the next day, though. In fact, that was the last I heard from you. Days or weeks passed, I’m not sure. It felt like forever.

You certainly had time for your new friend, though. Over the next several days, I endured constant “likes” and even wall posts between the two of you - feigned sarcasm, playful arguing, exchanging songs, just like we did. It almost felt as though you were rubbing it in my face. But the thing that hurt me the most, the twisting of the knife - remember one of the songs you sent her?

Fucking “Warning Sign” by Coldplay, D.

[halcyonramblings]

The Edge of Glory - Lady Gaga

September, 2011. I hit play on my iPod touch right as Coach Keith tells us to start running. It’s the third stormy day in a row and having cross country practice inside the school is starting to get on everyone’s nerves. We set off from the building’s central hallway where the senior lockers are, and where the popular kids congregate during the school day. Drumbeats echo throughout the surrounding halls on all sides; we are sharing the space since the marching band can’t practice on the football field and the volleyball and girls’ basketball teams are splitting the gymnasium. Coach has set his timer for thirty minutes and we are to keep up the pace until it goes off.

The building is all one story, a hulking example of mid-seventies architecture with what once was an “open concept” floor plan. Now the portals between classrooms seem to have been sealed off with whatever the custodians could find lying around. The history room is separated from the Spanish room by a thin piece of plywood painted to match the piss yellow walls; the geometry and calculus teachers’ rooms are divided by a polka-dot curtain. State-of-the-art Macs line the dingy walls of the computer lab, looking horribly out of place in the hodgepodge of mismatched chairs and beat-up particleboard tables. In the cafeteria, a crushed milk carton sits forlornly in the center of one of the round tables. Class composites that date back to the 1940s cover every wall and the trophy case is somehow full despite us not having won any kind of playoffs in at least ten years. The Pepsi machines in the corner offer only diet pop, flavored Aquafina, and Gatorade G-2. The only option not currently sold out is some garish purple variation of Mountain Dew.

As I run, I pass the open band room and see a couple making out in the shadows of the supply closet. The band director sits in his office five feet away, either oblivious or indifferent as he scrolls down his Facebook newsfeed, one hand on his mouse and the other reaching into a crumpled McDonald’s bag on his desk. In the back corner of the building, the paltry drum line practices in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, one of the only glimpses of the outside world the fortress-like school has to offer. I steal a glance at the cute nerd with the bass drum, playing it off like I’m looking at the thick, gray curtain of rain just behind him. I accidentally make eye contact and he smirks, his thick rimmed glasses catching the glare of the fluorescent lights. I will write about this in my journal later.

He told me he likes me, but I don’t want to date him because my heart belongs to the blue eyed hipster who graduated two years ago and sends me memes and mixed signals from his dorm at the local university that everyone from our school goes to. I spend the rest of the run remembering the one time I kissed him, last winter in his old Pontiac as snow fell silently around us. By the time I dash across the flooded parking lot to my best friend’s waiting minivan, I’ve imagined our future together from our next late-night Facebook chat to our wedding night. I’ll journal about this later, too. The van’s windshield wipers are on full blast as we glide out of the student lot, singing whiny pop-punk songs on our way to get pies from McDonald’s to fuel our college app extravaganza tonight. Life is simple.

[halcyonramblings]

A preview of what happened Feb. 16, 2012. Story to come when I have time.

Teenaged heartbreak as it happened. February, 2012.

The day another girl rawr’d at my emo dream boy.

[halcyonramblings]

Tonight I’m home, sleeping in my childhood bed. The bed where I fantasized about teenage crushes, the bed where I cried my heart out over boys, the bed where I used to freak myself out so much with r/nosleep stories that I legitimately could not sleep. Where I used to lay on my laptop for hours, scrolling Facebook, creeping on people and listening to alt rock. Where I said countless prayers, where I desperately waited for text messages, where I poured my heart into the pages of books not so different from this blog.

Do you think, if I fall asleep praying, begging God hard enough, I can time travel? I want to wake up tomorrow to find the walls pale purple and plastered with photographs, art projects, race bibs, ticket stubs, and notes. I want the flip-flop patterned border and the purple spray-painted antique furniture. I want stacks of Seventeen magazine and nail polish in every color imaginable. I want lime-green and blue throw pillows with faux fur and squishy micro beads and built-in iPod speakers. I want the white stuffed dog with red ears and a heart shaped nose. I want Hollister and Abercrombie, Dooney purses, and zebra print everything.

I want to wake up to autumn sunlight coming in around the edges of the purple curtains. I want to see my mom outside with Cubby, still a young dog and not buried in the backyard, bracing herself against the crisp, foggy morning. I want to put on my favorite jeans, or maybe my homecoming dress, or maybe even my cross country uniform. I want apple dumplings and strawberry surprise and funnel cake. I want to run around at the fair with my friends, gossiping and stalking boys. I just want those precious, simple moments back - moments I took for granted or didn’t even notice at the time, back when I was free and life was good.

But I know it doesn’t work that way, unfortunately. Still, a girl can wish.

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 4

Dear D,

2011 was quite an eventful year.  I had my first prom, spent most of the summer at a liberal arts college a couple of hours away for a scholarship program, and started my senior year begrudgingly, wishing that I didn’t have to waste another year in that windowless, freezing-cold, hulking slab of 1970s architecture.  My days were occupied with a rigorous courseload of AP classes, college applications, scholarship opportunities, and extracurriculars.  

My nights were occupied with you.  If we weren’t having one of our 2 a.m. MSN talks, then I was busy listening to all the songs that reminded me of you, writing about you in my journal, or obsessively combing over your Facebook profile for new pictures of you, while at the same time checking for the presence of other girls in your life.  Your MSN away messages were another good source of entertainment; I remember one night you had written, “Showering, join?”  It drove me crazy, you putting such fantasies into my head like that.

As autumn gave way to winter, I became close friends with Chelsea, a girl who lived down the street from me and who just so happened to be dating Jason, one of your best friends.  I told her all about our bizarre friendship as she and I attempted recipes from Pinterest, hiked the secluded trails around our houses, and babysat her two younger brothers.  She tried to get information out of Jason on how you really felt about me, but it became evident that guys just don’t talk about those kinds of things.

One morning in mid-December, she rushed up to me in the hallway before classes started and told me with hushed excitement that she had an idea.  She wanted to organize a double date for the four of us on New Year’s Eve.  I, of course, wholeheartedly agreed to the idea, so Chelsea told Jason, Jason told you, and before we knew it, we had a plan in place.

Chelsea slept over at my house the night before our big date.  We woke up late that morning and spent the entire afternoon getting ready.  We curled our hair, painted our nails, and together we went through the entire contents of my closet, looking for the outfit that would make you fall in love with me right there in the dingy bowling alley.  I finally settled on a pink and white striped shirt, scoop neck, with a lace cami peeking out from the neck and hemlines.  I paired it with dark jeans and cowgirl boots.  Chelsea’s outfit ended up being almost comically similar.

You and Jason were supposed to pick us up at six o’clock but rolled in fifteen minutes late after sleeping until almost four.  We feigned disapproval of your tardiness as we got into your new car - a white Kia Forte.  Chelsea and Jason carried the conversation while you focused on the road and I stole glances at you from the corner of my eye.  We drove to a slightly larger town about an hour away, our first stop being Applebee’s, and as we turned into the parking lot, we saw that it was absolutely packed.  There was exactly one spot left, a tight squeeze between a large SUV and a Cadillac parked on the line.  You did it, though, and we carefully nudged our doors open and slid out of the car.

As we approached the restaurant, an older man met us on the sidewalk and demanded to know who had been driving the white car.  You stepped forward as he asserted that he saw you hit his Cadillac.  We all chimed in at once, stating that no, he did not hit the Cadillac because we were all in the car and would have felt it if we had hit something.  The man wasn’t having it, though, and asked that you follow him back to the parked cars.  Jason went with you, but it was freezing so you told Chelsea and me to go on in and get us a table.

From our table in the bar area, we could see the scene outside unfolding, the man becoming more agitated and you looking more baffled by the second.  Then, the city police showed up, and everyone stood around arguing some more.  Chelsea and I sipped our Diet Cokes and speculated on what was being said.  After what felt like an eternity, you and Jason came inside and sat down.  Nothing had come of it and the man had left.  Our waitress bounced up to the table to take our orders, mentioning that they were fresh out of French fries and chicken wings.

The rest of the night went more smoothly; the town had a movie theatre attached to a bowling alley, so we went there after dinner.  We saw a bad horror film and then went next door and bowled a couple of games.  Chelsea said I should have seen the look on your face - a look of pure adoration - as I jumped up and down with delight after I got a strike. 

The clock struck midnight as we were driving home.  Chelsea and Jason kissed in the backseat, but since you were watching the road, I just kissed my finger and pressed it to your cheek.  You winced, said, “What was that for?”  I giggled and whispered that it was your New Year’s kiss.  You guffawed and admitted that you thought I had been trying to poke you in the eye.  I cringed into my seat, embarrassed that my cute gesture had backfired.  When we made it back to my house, I gave you a genuine hug and you pecked me on the cheek.  I waved goodnight to everyone as I riffled in my purse for my house key. 

The next afternoon, I texted Chelsea, distraught that I hadn’t heard from you yet - completely forgetting the fact that you had slept until four in the afternoon the day before.  At the time, however, I was positive that you had decided that I was just a silly little girl, unworthy of the grown-up kind of love I so desperately wanted from you.  Chelsea had information, though: she said that after you had dropped us off at home, you and Jason had had a long talk in the car about me.  You had told him that you liked me.  You liked me a lot, and that was the problem.  You liked me so much that you thought I could be the one, and it scared you to death because you didn’t ever want to hurt me.  I wasn’t sure I believed that, but neither she nor Jason had any reason to lie, so I carried on with tentative hope that we would have our happy ending.

You did go a bit quiet for a couple of days, but you quickly recovered yourself and started texting me again.  I was falling in love.  I don’t know if you knew it, but I have a feeling that you did.  You continued to keep your distance, which drove me mad, but I was happy enough with the attention that I was getting from you and couldn’t wait until the fall when I would join you at college.  This was starting to get good.

Until February 16th brought it all to a screeching halt.

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 3 (TW - SA)

Dear D, 

After the night of our first kiss, you stopped texting me and I couldn’t understand why.  Then one Saturday afternoon, as snow fell silently outside my bedroom window, you sent me a message over MSN.  You essentially said that you weren’t good for me, that this couldn’t work, that you would just end up hurting me, and that we shouldn’t talk anymore.

Despite how infatuated with you I was, I took it in stride.  I didn’t cry; I just snapped my laptop shut, put in my earbuds, and headed down to my basement workout room.  Because fuck you, that’s why.  You were probably up there at college, going on dates and sleeping around with beautiful sorority girls with much more experience than I, who couldn’t even go in for a kiss correctly.  My mother was right.  You were too old for me.

In March, a boy at school began paying attention to me.  He wasn’t as intelligent as you, and nowhere near as attractive, but he was a musician in a local folk band, and I thought that made him cool.  How painfully naive I was.  I should have seen the red flags, like the fact that he was constantly criticizing girls’ looks, and their bodies.  Or the fact that he sometimes referred to girls as sluts and whores.  Or, worst of all, the fact that he told me I needed to be on birth control by prom because he didn’t *do* condoms.  Never mind the fact that I had never gone any farther with a boy than passionate kissing.  He told me that I was his girlfriend now, and it was my job to give him what he wanted.  “Don’t worry,” he had said, “We’ll ease you into it.”

Which is how I found myself in his truck, parked at the county fairgrounds, with duct tape over my mouth because he said it was sexy.  And apparently it was sexy when I screamed against the tape because it hurt when he put his fingers inside me.  Because then he ripped the duct tape from my mouth, pulling out strands of my hair that had gotten caught in its adhesive when he applied it, and ordered me to go down on him.  He told me that no one would ever want me if I didn’t know how to do this stuff, and besides, he was falling in love with me.  So, with tears streaming down my flushed cheeks, I tried.  And I gagged.  And I tried again.  And he grabbed me by my hair and forced me down farther.  And I gagged again.  “Damn, you’re bad at this,” he remarked as he let go of me.  As we drove back into town, he told me he hadn’t really meant what he said about loving me.

A few days later, he told me we needed to talk.  We pulled into a bank parking lot, and he acted genuinely troubled by what he was about to say.  After taking a few minutes to choose his words, he began: “Look, I didn’t want to say anything to you, but someone is going to have to tell you.  You are weird.  You’re socially awkward, you smile too much, you laugh when it isn’t appropriate, you don’t make eye contact with people.  All my friends talk about how weird you are, and I’m sorry, but you are embarrassing.”  He then dabbed at my tears with a napkin from his glovebox and reassured me by saying, “It’s okay though, I still like you even though nobody else does.”

I was shocked by his words but believed with everything in me that they had to be true, and it hit me like a punch in the gut that maybe that was why you didn’t like me anymore.  I ran from his truck, and with my house fifteen miles away and nowhere else to go, I walked to my mom’s workplace in tears.  Her office was right across the hall from your dad’s, so I know he must have overheard the conversation: me in the chair across from her desk, tearfully repeating his words, another coworker coming into the room and wrapping me in her arms, telling me there was nothing wrong with me and that he was just an asshole, Mom leaving work early to take me home.

That would explain why, on that particular evening, you re-appeared in the form of an MSN message.  You acted casual, asked me how it was going; I broke down and told you everything he had said to me, leaving out the other details that I was too paralyzed with shame to divulge to anyone.  I halfway expected you to agree, to say, “Well, you *are* kind of weird.”

But instead, you told me I was beautiful.  You told me that he was intimidated by me and was trying to tear me down.  He knew that I could do better and was intent on breaking my spirit so that I would not try.  You told me I was brilliant, witty, and so pure at heart that you were terrified of hurting me, and that was why you had ghosted me.  Finally, at your encouragement, I reached for the cordless phone on the desk and dialed his number.

He did not take the news well.  He swore at me, called me a whore, and declared that if I was seeing some other guy that he would break his neck.  I let him throw his tantrum, said goodbye, and hung up.  You told me you were proud of me for standing up to him.  We talked a bit longer and I told you not to be a stranger.

After that, you were no longer radio silent.  Your intensity had cooled and we settled into a bit of a “friends with sexual tension” situation, but that was okay with me as long as you were talking to me.  We continued to exchange songs and still had a few late-night chats, although with less frequency than before.  You left playfully snarky comments on my Facebook posts, and I gushed about you to my friends who probably thought I was making you up.  It would continue much like this for the remainder of 2011.

It wasn’t until New Year’s Eve that things would start to get interesting again.

[halcyonramblings]

— The Empress Yamato Hime (translated by Kenneth Rexroth)

[text ID: Others may forget you, but not I. / I am haunted / by your beautiful ghost.]

[halcyonramblings]

  ― Billy-Ray Belcourt, A History of My Brief Body

[text ID: To love someone is firstly to confess: I'm prepared to be devastated by you.]

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 2

Dear D,

“I dig your Pikachu.”

I was sitting stretched across the loveseat in my parents’ living room when the chat window appeared.  I have to say, I was surprised.  It wasn’t unusual for me to get Facebook messages from boys, but very few ever caught my attention.  When I saw your name, though, my heart skipped a beat and then resumed at twice its normal pace.  I can remember thinking you were just being friendly.  Perhaps you just liked Pokemon.  There was no way you could have had any interest in a shy, socially awkward, voluntarily starving high school junior.

I racked my brain for a clever response.  I do not remember what I said.  I could find it; I still have all of our old Facebook conversations, but I’m not and may never be ready to venture down that rabbit hole.  I’m not that much of a masochist.  Whatever I replied with, we kept the thread going for a few more beats and then the conversation fizzled out.  I didn’t message you again that night.

The next night, as I lay in the same spot, you reached out to me again.  You playfully gave me grief for not replying to your last message.  The conversation picked back up and we talked a bit longer that night.

Then came the music.  You started sending me songs.  I had never explored music much; I typically listened to whatever was on the radio and the classic rock albums my parents liked.  You vowed to educate me on what “real music” was.  You would sometimes send me whole playlists: Motion City Soundtrack, Weezer, Coldplay, Death Cab for Cutie, and dozens of lesser-known indie bands.  As I listened to them, I would send you commentary on what I thought of each song.  You introduced me to so many different genres and artists, including The Killers who still to this day remain my favorite band.

Soon, those stilted conversations deepened into late-night talks where we discussed everything from God to philosophy to sex and then back to God.  I wanted to meet up and spend time together in person.  You kept saying, “Soon.”  My parents said, “He’s too old for you.”  I said, “We know his family.  They are nice.  He is nice.  He isn’t going to hurt me.”

In January, they relented.  They said you could come over so that they could meet you, and that we could watch a movie in the well-lit living room with them elsewhere in the house.  And so one Friday night I answered the door and there you stood, wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, carrying a pizza and a copy of Stranger than Fiction that you’d rented from a Redbox.  The first thing that struck me was how gorgeous you were, standing two feet from me, that dimple on your cheek showing and your blue eyes made brighter by the golden glow of the porch light.  The second was how soft spoken you were.  It occurred to me that I had never heard your voice.

After the awkward introductions and small talk, I shooed my parents from the room and started the DVD.  We sat at opposite ends of the couch and barely said a word to one another throughout the entire movie.  Face-to-face, we found that we were both very shy.  I fidgeted in my seat, messing with my hair and tugging at my shirt sleeves, my palms sweaty.  You nervously laughed at inappropriate times.  When you left that night, I was sure that I would never hear from you again.

A couple of weeks later, to my surprise, you came over again.  Same deal, but we talked a bit more.  That night, when I walked you to the door, I got brave.  Right before you left, you turned to face me.  I tentatively put my arms around your neck and looked up into your beautiful eyes, compelling you to lean into me.  To my immense disappointment, you smiled gently and shook your head.  “Not yet,” you whispered, pulling me in for a hug instead.

After that, my parents came to the conclusion that you were neither a serial killer nor a daughter impregnator, and finally allowed me to go to the movies with you.  You picked me up in your ninety-something Pontiac.  You reached out and took my hand as we walked across the parking lot and into the movie theatre.  We were still very bashful together in person even though our text conversations had become even deeper.  At the end of the night, we pulled into my driveway and the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe.  We turned to face each other, and with shaky hands, we leaned across the car’s center console.  When our lips met, it was awkward; you went into it open mouthed and I went into it closed, intending to work my way into it.  Your hand trembled as it grazed the side of my face.  The whole thing probably only lasted a couple of seconds, but even now when I think about it, I go weak in the knees and get that jittery feeling in my stomach.

I floated into the house and fell into bed, letting my mind run wild imagining what we would do if you were there in the sheets with me, and then the next day

Radio silence.

[halcyonramblings]

Letters I Can Never Send, No. 1

Dear D,

The first time I met you was in a very small, very rural hair salon.  It was November of 2010.  I was 16, sitting under a dryer that felt like a space helmet with my head covered in aluminum foil.  The dry chill in the air outside complemented my mood; my short-lived boyfriend had just ditched me for his ex.  Turns out I was his rebound girl - they had been together for four whole months before I came into the picture.  That’s basically marriage when you’re in high school.

I heard the jingling of the bell on the front door announce the entrance of another customer, and in you walked wearing a dark blue hoodie.  The worn, cotton material looked soft.  You were with your mom.

I knew who you were.  My mom worked with your dad.  You had graduated last year, but I had seen you around our small county high school.  We were even Facebook friends.  You were cute, but I had always considered you a bit out of my league.  Your dad would occasionally show me your senior portrait when I would stop by the office; he certainly was proud of you.

I could see you in my peripheral vision in the salon chair a few feet away.  Dedra was trimming your hair while my foils dried.  You were tall and lanky, had that dark, “emo-swoop” hair that I had always found so attractive, and the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen - soft, light blue with a gentle kindness about them.  They were the kind of eyes that I could imagine looking into forever.

A woman’s voice came from behind me in the small waiting area, a subtle southern drawl: “Are your boots comfortable?”

An embarrassed chuckle came from the salon chair to my left.

Was she talking to me?  I looked over my shoulder, and sure enough, your mom was looking right at me.  I glanced down at my American Eagle knockoff Uggs and replied that, yes, they were very comfy, and warm too.  She said they were cute.  I thanked her politely and turned back around.  Dedra had removed the shiny black cape from around your neck and was heading back over to me.  “Alright, sweetie, looks like it’s time to get you rinsed.”  The bell on the door chimed again, and you were gone.

I went home that night without thinking too much of the exchange.

A few days later, I brought home an art project I’d done earlier in the fall: a cardboard Pikachu cutout colored in with strips of yellow, red, and black acrylic yarn.  “Yart,” my teacher had called it.  I posted a picture of my work to Facebook, because what else was I supposed to do with it?  A few hours later, I got a notification from messenger.

Four words: “I dig your Pikachu.”

It was the beginning of the end.