#streetlightdiaries

[streetlightdiaries]

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I can hear the neighbors’ grandchildren having an Easter egg hunt outside. Will we ever get there?

It seems to me that we ought to have paid our dues by now; our days of pining through long tours and double shifts should have passed. It is not for lack of trying that we confuse late-night overwhelm for doubtful truths. How will we ever get past this?

At our age, our parents were chapters ahead of this. Our friends too are plainly in the midst of their happily ever afters. But we took a little longer. We saved a little less, loved a little more. Are we still paying the price? Were our adventures worth their weight in golden years?

I turn the page to continue my spiral and am at once stopped in my thoughts—a note from him. Handwritten, bravely hidden on the upper left-hand corner of a blank page in my book is a note, left in faith for me to find.

We’ve put stake in the future. There are bright spots between the blades, we just have to keep searching.

T.

[streetlightdiaries]

I should let you in.

Pink clouds move across my morning sky. The sun and I share a sleepy smile as I think about him, about my favorite band, about coffee . . . and a poem nearly falls to my fingers. Then I think about how long it’s been since I wrote a Streetlight—are Streetlights even relevant? Are they worth anything to anybody? Do they matter if they aren’t trending? Am I just embarrassing myself? Should I sign off once and for all? Am I still me if I haven’t shared every heartbeat along the way? Am I still a writer if I’m not posting, to you, here? Sigh. Hello panic, good morning again.

“And then it all went black, that was that—”

As mentioned, I’ve picked up this new habit of gathering everything I love, anything that makes me happy, and hiding it from the world. An emo Silas Marner. Last year, it seemed like every outstanding story I’d ever gazed starry at came to a point. Characters came out swinging and I was quickly overwhelmed. I floated through the fallouts, I didn’t write the bridges. I didn’t tell you because, well, I didn’t feel safe here anymore.

I think about the way they used my lines against me. You said you used to read Streetlight every morning. I’m afraid she’ll take something from me and I won’t know how to get it back. I’ll be damned if a passing line gives him a moment’s reprieve from his guilt. I can, but I won’t. I should, “but I’m not ready yet.”

I’d go outside and get some air if it wasn’t so damn cold. I’d reach out if I thought I could trust you. But it is and I don’t, so here we are. My body falls back into bed and my chest sinks to a hollow. It’s uncomfortable, but at least it’s familiar. I roll my eyes at myself and press play just to drown out the noise for a little while.

The drumbeat regulates my pulse long enough for me to get up and pull on a borrowed tee. A beanie begins to bop along on top of my head. And an hour later, I’m skanking on the couch, still singing the same song--his favorite bridge--and feeling kinda brave again. I think I’m gonna do it this time.

You’re a punk even when you’re not dressed as one. You’re poet even if your lines don’t rhyme. My all-time favorite bands re-wrote their entire albums in the eleventh hour.

It’s obvious that I cannot go on without processing and putting it all here, in little melancholy packages never to be lost or forgotten completely. It’s apparent that the only thing left for me to do is say my own name, then go back and unpack. Let’s see what makes sense now that the sun is up again. Believe in what you can. Chase down your hooks. Everything you need to know lives in between the harmonies.

Love, T.

[streetlightdiaries]

The Battle at Carmans Avenue

What is it about a sunny, autumn afternoon that prompts the pen?

One year ago, I returned to the castle. Many of my cottars and characters were still there, which was comforting at first, and then swiftly suspicious. It turns out you can indeed go home again, but you probably shouldn’t.

Over the course of our latest chapter—which had everything to do with the past and only contrivedly spoke to the future—I was accused of treason, witchcraft, and cowardice. I could not tell which of my characters were in earnest, and which simply needed me to behave a certain way in order to preserve their own narrative. I did not stop writing. I stopped posting because I didn’t have the energy to worry about how my words might be twisted. I no longer cared to share my side of the story.

To someone who is not ready to hear the truth, honesty is treason. To someone who refuses to take responsibility, actions are caused by an invisible magical force (very flattering, by the way). And to someone who does not want to lose their power over you, leaving is cowardly. But manipulation is not chivalry, and it is important to me that the reader understands “running away” is acceptable when your peace has been compromised. A year later, I drove through a one-bank town with the windows open. Somehow, my hair did not tangle and my lungs did not tire as I indulged in a golden-hour, Jerry-Maguire moment with Tom Petty on my side. Will I write about my characters again? Probably. Love remains after the embers of battle extinguish. I’d be interested in writing a new chapter, and knowing us it’ll be nothing simple, silly, nothing so mundane. You know where I’ll be waiting.

T.

“Free Fallin’”Tom Petty

“Your Name Here (Sunrise Highway)” Straylight Run

[streetlightdiaries]

For the rest of my days

Have you ever been so afraid to lose something you hang onto it forever? You never let it change or grow; you do everything you can to keep a shred of it just as it was. This is how boys become baggage and hearts learn doubt.

I used to write of days so struck by wonder they became legend the second we passed through them. Like butterflies flying off our shoulders, those days dripped with color that I collected and used to pen a million pages. But even the most confident kids can’t control time, and we watched those wings migrate to new destinies across the map. I found myself all too aware of the fact that everything I have is someday gonna be gone, and I spent the next decade absolutely crushed by this reality.

I cried three times the day after the night I spent with him:

First, because I couldn’t believe it’d happened at all. The sun pierced my ambiguous eyes and tears splashed unexpectedly into my morning coffee. Somehow, without hope or full heart, it happened, and I couldn’t imagine what I’d done to deserve this.

Later, I cried when I realized we’ll never get that day back. Old fear set in. One of the best days of my life had passed once again, and I was so scared that this delicate little being would die at any sudden moment.

Finally, I cried when a blackberry bramble snagged my tan skin. I realized in many ways, I haven’t grown up at all, and that these are all the ways he said he wanted to get to know me better.

It’s true; we’ll never be this age again. We’ll never feel these firsts under this moon with this gin on our breaths or this love in our eyes. Moths turn to dust and starlight to dawn. I thought the rest of my time here would be spent writing stories I had once lived, but perhaps there are a few new chapters left after all.  

I have this memory of us standing in her little apartment giving her the news like it’s not real until she knows. That memory hasn’t happened yet.  

Don’t press your prom flowers. Give their seeds to the wind and put on a new song.

T.

[streetlightdiaries]

You’re so cool, yeah, you are

A few months ago, I told a confidant that I felt like a party clown whose friends roll her out for cheap nostalgia. Terica, who will wear fishnets and Dr. Martens, shows up with pre-dirtied hair and a demeanor that suggests she is just coming off a heartbreak or hangover. My confidant laughed at me, objectifying me far worse than others would dare, and I wondered--what exactly do I get out of this arrangement?

In the wavering sun of May, I go through the motions of becoming Terica. I have been asked to come see a set and am already running late. Still, I make an effort with the grease paint partly because I don’t want to disappoint and partly because I don’t know how many more chances I’ll get to be her. Once in the city though, it takes at least ten minutes to work up the courage to get out of the car. I saw a little girl with wild hair, running across a yard in mud boots on the drive in; I wonder if she’d be proud of me if she knew me now. Would she be impressed? Would she think I was cool?

The Syracuse music scene is punkier than Long Island ever dreamed of being. It gives rough edges and real dirt, and I am taken aback because for me, it’s love at second sight. I cross the street to meet a crowd of happily affected outcasts as they spill out of the venue onto hot sidewalks. It’s cool to see a punk in the daylight. The frays of their denim vests become individualized in the light breeze, and their smeared eyeliner is so textured I have to concentrate on controlling my gaze. 

Inside, performers appear the way they are supposed to; they have all the right tattoos in the right places and look perfectly cute in their mildly skinny jeans and winged eyeliner. I wonder how long it took them to get into character. It’s pretty clear who in this room knows me, who wants to, and who needs me to act my part. I can tell all of this by where they stand when they look back at me, by how hard they try to summon that staircase wit, and how they act when I lean into ask about the opening riff, as if I don’t already know the answer. 

I am quickly charmed by the band I’ve turned up for. They’re sweet, but keep up with my sarcasm. They drink white Russians, have never read this blog, and when tempted by a debate over the new Foo Fighters song, their eyes light up the same as mine. Is it a match made in heaven or hell? Me with my red lips, them with their black hoodies. We talk in tight circles, too old for games, too young for white flags. Sometimes it’s safer to coolly stay in the role you’ve been given and it has always been my position to stand, possibly approachable yet highly flammable, just off the back wall. So when the merch guy tugs my coat sleeve in an effort to coax me closer to the stage, I can’t help but laugh out loud in discomfort. It’s then that I dare to think I’m not their clown. Maybe not here, not them. I buy another round and a few more laughs. Show me something I haven’t seen before and I will show you the parts of her you haven’t yet known. 

I like frontmen who watch the local bands and girlfriends who don’t want to be there. I like photographers who ironically wear “pancakes, pancakes, pancakes” tees to a waffle house. Did I want to take someone home? Fuck yes. Somewhere in the middle of a disenchanting setlist I got that glow right in the center of my chest in a way I thought was long since dead. But I played it cool, and I took what I could get in the low lights of a familiar scene.

The next day, I lie out on porch cement daydreaming about things that did not happen. The going rate of a nostalgic scene clown is the privilege to spend time with characters who perhaps would not be immortalized on page, if they hadn’t found a writer who is as equally uncool.

A few days ago, I told a confidant that I thought Streetlight was a waste of energy. But it’s my diary. It was my first crush. And it carries on, like a nonsensical conversation on a tour into Upstate, New York. 

T.

“Kool” by Meet Me @ The Altar

[streetlightdiaries]

The way (he) works is; all love no proof. The proof is in his subtleties, in his lyrics, and in what he doesn’t say. I have to trust that he loves me, and only then do I know that he really does.

Posted 13 years ago

[streetlightdiaries]

Your favorite toy

“The road that stretches out is calling us to find our way back home”

It used to be that we merely had to be in a room together and we were inspired. We used to write whole stories—entire albums—in a single glance. We were each other’s favorites—favorite muse, favorite kind of love, favorite fellow destructor . . .

“He knows every bad thing I’ve done; he was there when I did them.”

It used to be that I didn’t care who faced judgment after a Streetlight was posted—I thought if I wrote the truth then whatever rumor was confirmed, whatever relationship was put in jeopardy, they were only facing what scrutiny they eventually would anyways. And I was right; karma is real, and it’s inevitable. It also spares no one, not even the Writer.

These days, I struggle between loving the extra letter in my name, and hiding from everything it has done. There are anxieties that come after a passing whim reminds me for the hundredth time, and nightmares that never bother to announce themselves. I always wince when a new boy and I have mutual friends on Instagram.

“…do you already know me?” I asked him.

“I know that song,” he stated. And we never did get that cup of coffee.

Last night I drove an hour to see a classic character stare at his white Converse shoes as he realized it felt a little awkward to introduce a song about his depression in a bar full of drunken kids. And I wondered if he wasn’t still one of my favorite things; I wondered if artists need other artists, if I had ended up in this bar, in this town, listening to this Singer for a reason. How sturdy is the hand of fate upon the small of my back? How trustworthy? After I left the bar, I wondered if anyone new could ever know me like my "favorite boy" does.

Eventually, even the craziest of minds gets tired. Like a baby left to cry it out, my mind ultimately gives in and sinks—like a cocktail napkin in a puddle made by a hurricane—under the immobility of seasoned depression. I spent all day in bed, and then restlessly got dressed and threw myself into the car.

“Why did you drive so far tonight?”

“I did the most awful thing to him . . . and he forgave me anyways.”

. . . But also, because even under a heavy blanket of depression, the Long Island Expressway is still there. It smoothly winds past the exits to memories that need to be left behind, and it holds its empty lanes together as effortlessly as the guitar tracks on a Coheed and Cambria song sound. The streetlights along the LIE cast down a Creamsicle orange air that spreads across the pavement, glides over my car, and warms my tired, frightened mind. Maybe it’s true, that I will always be driving away from one demon into the arms of another. But what pages those horrors will make.

It used to be that you could always find me—unbrushed hair, etching my craziness across a diary page, and listening to a song that I swore would be my favorite, forever, always. I suppose there's a little left to get out of bed for after all.

  Terica.

"Toys" Coheed and Cambria

[streetlightdiaries]

I’m summing up my year and you can’t stop me.

It’s real easy to be sad this time of year; there are so many highs and lows tied to the holidays, not to mention the influence of the gallons of alcohol we traditionally take down at their celebrations. It’s almost peer pressure at this point, to be sad or regretfully nostalgic, but—I’m just not. And I wanted to write about why if only to make it clear to myself:

Ok, maybe not everything worked out like I thought it would by the end of this year. Maybe I was not planning on falling back into the chaotic trap of misguided passion that is my Long Island friend zone. I was not expecting for my return to be so suddenly complicated or confusing, and I couldn’t have remembered how intense their effects on me are. Once in love, always in love, I think I wrote. This year, I was not going to run full-speed away from decent guys who smiled at me . . . but I did. And I really didn’t foresee getting dumped by someone I wasn’t even dating . . . although I should have. Maybe I'm just comparing it to the disastrous few that came before it, but this year was fucking awesome. I can’t remember the last time I felt so much magic, saw so many sparks of honest love, or believed so whole-heartedly in things, even if those things are misguided and passion-happy. I wanted to come up with my 5 favorite dates of the year, but dang it if I couldn’t cut it down to less than 10.

I remember going to that party in January; “Holy shit—” he said, when he saw me walk into the room. In February, someone sent me on a wild, ridiculous treasure hunt with clues everywhere, but mostly in old song lyrics. And I realized I’d been loved, even if they never did know how to show it.

March was the best of all; the book came out—FINALLY! And I could breathe again. And you all . . . well, you all just made me feel like the greatest little piece of scene trash that ever did grow up and try to use her talents for good. I am trying, I swear.  

April was ridiculous; BW’s dad wore blouses and I sat in a studio again. And I saw him; I saw my main character on a night that didn’t seem real or attached to time at all. And he meant everything to me all over again.

I tried all summer to keep things exactly as they were. I think we can presume how that worked out for me. I had my heart stolen in August, before another sun soaked season faded away. I was grounded that day in Central Park, which was lucky timing, because the fall rocked my world . . .  

October 27th and then all of November. The fall was everything I’ve been dreaming of for the past 7 years, and then suddenly everything I’d never dreamed at all. This winter has been all about difficult realities.  

My biggest accomplishments were One Way Down and coming across cr again. I like that I know who I am and I like that I could be alone today, in complete happiness without the need for attention or validation.

My best decision was signing up for Spotify; my worst has already been alluded to (I’m sorry tS and M, I’ll love you both forever and ever, apart or separate, and I think you know that).

# of Hair Colors: 3, only

# of Times I Thought I Was in Love: 4, including Nick Santino allllll over again.

# of Best Buds: 1, much to his annoyance, I'm sure.

# of Friends Who Constantly Put Me in My Place: 3

# of Shirts I Wore on a Regular Basis: like, 2

# of New Songs that Became My Jam: 57,000

# of Things I’m Absolutely Sure Of: 3 . . . and I’m rounding up.

There are some things that will never be the same again. There are others, I realize, that will never change. There are pros and cons to each. My important discoveries this year were that he loves me, that soul mates really are forever, and love . . . it’s not at all what I thought. Also, I’ll never be able to listen to MKTO, because I am constantly terrified he’ll up and say, “Get up, John,” at any given measure. This is a tragedy and a heartache.

Believe in what you can. Do you. Keep your eyes up. Take selfies, write songs, buy the boots, and for Heaven’s sake, listen to The Maine! There is only older than this age, so right now we’re still young. Call her. Tell him. Go get yourself some regrets for this time next year.   

Happy New Year, tumbleweeds.

Terica.

[streetlightdiaries]

4 to the Floor.

What do I want? 

 I want to be given a fair chance in a world that doesn’t do fairness, equality, or leaps of faith.

I want you to ask me what I think is right, instead of telling me.

 I want them to be proud of me.

I want you to believe in me the way you used to.

I want to know I’m not a disappointment.

  I want to scream.

I want to dance.

I want you to get out of your own way. I want for us to be together—for a day, for a week, a month, a year, forever.

I want to sit around and sing those stupid emo songs with you.

  I don’t want denial, or concealment. I don’t need less of a struggle.

I want less time in between my breakthroughs.

I want you to hear me when I scream your name.

  I want to write this book.

I want to never leave ever again. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I wanna cut to the feeling:

  The struggle to maintain mental health is no joke, and when I’m writing—that struggle becomes an all-out fight. I am prone to unpredictable highs and lows. My friends get strange texts at weird times of the day. But you are my constant.

We need to be in a room creating and drinking and laughing and being weird.

 My room is in those 80s-inspired pop choruses. I keep you there too. I can do this if you’re here with me.  

 T.

"Cut To The Feeling" Carly Rae Jepson

[streetlightdiaries]

March.

M: The only thing that matters is—when you lay down in bed at night, what do you think about yourself?

[streetlightdiaries]

Underneath the lights of the motorway

Long Island tastes like stale fast food that was reheated for late-night heathens like us. Maybe we all found each other because the things we’re good at are after-thoughts of the real world. I work really, really hard for anything I believe in, and I believe in you.

Long Island feels cold, like the way we treat each other just before we pick a fight. It’s dark, like our hearts after all that’s passed, and it smells like summer—Long Island smells like summer even in the dead of winter. I can still see magic when I look around me; it’s in the souls standing around the old kids’ circle. It’s in BW’s eyes. Maybe you’re sick of reading about Long Island—"It's been like a decade!"—but this.is.Neverland, and I’ll write until the last Lost Boy leaves.  

Tonight I went to the Kid’s Nebraskan-themed birthday party, and everyone I shook hands with said, “Oh, I’ve heard about you.” Consumer report: Katy Perry lipstick stays on through as many as 10 wincing smiles. “It’s all true,” I said, “but you haven’t heard the whole story.” Tonight I learned that maybe the only way to outrun my reputation is to keep feeding it; to do better next time, respect second, third, and thirtieth chances. Tonight, I finally felt what Nate meant earlier this year when he told me, “Don’t make the same mistakes twice.”

Find calm.

Jealousy is ugly, but it’s in me. I have it for her, because he never loved me. You can’t work really hard for love; it just is or it isn’t. Calm is being friends anyways.

Find cause.

“You mean a lot to me. Always.” In my little world, trust has nothing to do with love. It has nothing to do with happy endings. There are villains I’d give my life for and heroes I’ll never get along with past post-production. But cause is choosing each other every single time.        

Find the part of you that’s strong because of no one else, and don’t take your eye off it for a second. Because honesty hurts, and some love you will never be able to come back from.

Long Island sounds like new mixes that totally suck but hold the promise of us being able to carry on.

Happy birthday, tK.

   . . . Terica.

“Last Young Renegade” All Time Low

[streetlightdiaries]

Press rewind to review.

I received a text at 6:53 on Friday morning. It contained a Spotify link and, “Look forward to your review. Lol.” I thought I could hear the impish snicker attached to the message, because wherever new music from this particular band is concerned, writing about or even having an opinion on it, is no small matter. The link played “Young and Menace” by Fall Out Boy.

I go to Fall Out Boy to hear something I can’t get anywhere else, and this isn’t it. I’ve latched onto the drums because they sound the most real to me, and I miss guitar leads and vocals that are more than chopped up tracks. This song isn’t what I was expecting when their tweet about a special announcement was posted and, after the initial excitement of something new wore off—after the smoke of a full sound blew away in the breeze—I was left wanting. I go to Fall Out Boy to hear something I didn’t know I wanted to hear, and this isn’t it … not yet.  

In 2007, Fall Out Boy released a music video for “The Take Over, The Breaks Over.” Back then, everyone was flipping out that their favorite boys in our genre’s favorite band had changed their sound and apparently sold out. In the music video, Pete’s dog Hemingway uses his dream-state ability to talk to tell an angry group of scene brats to calm the fuck down. “Give the boys a break,” he says, “everybody changes.”  

I had this conversation once—we call it THE FALL OUT BOY DEBATE—in which Score 24, Set It Off, and I disputed the evolution of Fall Out Boy’s sound for many hours on end. The only consensuses we came to was that every album offered something different and that admittedly, all of us had every album to date in our personal collections.

You didn’t want to hear some super-produced sample track. You didn’t want a second Take This To Your Grave either.  Maybe you don’t know what you want. Maybe you should wait for September. Maybe if change bothers you, you could listen to the latest New Found Glory instead, because there’s no evolution in that. How great is the word menace??

 …Terica.

[streetlightdiaries]

Yeah, right here with you.

You’re the he in all my lines. You’ve been the it of every thought, every breath since . . .  

A little over a week ago I was sitting on a bar stool at the Leaky Lifeboat. I announced to my small circle that I’d never see him again; that I didn’t need to, or couldn’t. Was it that I didn’t want to? I have never decided exactly what I mean, or feel, when it comes to him. Because ‘none of the above’ has always been my only option.

Why are you doing this? This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, I said to myself as I walked towards my car—to meet him. To see him again. I remember reciting the same lines some years ago while walking towards another ominous vehicle, but just like back then, I got in anyways and simply played the music louder than my thoughts.

We’re older, a little worse for the wear, and there’s something strange about our eyes. Maybe it’s that I think they should look differently by now, considering everything, but they don’t; they look and look at each other very much the same. There’s a bit of sadness in the corners of his dusty lungs, and I wonder if he could scream out if he needed to. The same goes for my brow—I wonder if I could hide the pain of knowing what I know if the situation called for it.

I answered my own question on the drive from my shore to his; Why are you doing this? Because I’d follow him anywhere. Even now, without knowing what he’s like; if he’s changed, if he’s angry with me, if he remembers as much as I do—

He does.

I got in the car again at the end of the night and pulled away from things I really didn’t want to. I thought maybe maturity was walking away with questions unanswered and progress was leaving before ruin. He promised I’d see him again; that this wasn’t goodbye. He said he’d never do that to me. And as I drove home, my heart broke all over again and every song became about him. Every line was something we’d already lived through. Except this one—

I wrote:

Long Island could’ve sunk tonight and I would’ve died happily.

   T. All those Maine songs and the added Halsey note.

[streetlightdiaries]

You always criticize the Smiths and Morrissey.

Acquaintance: You're like, obsessed with your friends.

Tera: Yeah--aren't you?

[streetlightdiaries]

"You can't blame the entire human race for Long Island boys"

“I’m legitimately starting to hate the human race,” he said to me, and I didn’t doubt he was justified in feeling this way. He didn’t tell me who had done him wrong, merely that it was someone I knew and that we were not to be surprised that he’d acted this way … again.

I have these loved ones whom I never see and rarely hear from–friends who, to our historian’s eyes, look exactly like enemies (me, I’m the historian). It used to be that I couldn’t get to them because I hadn’t posted the right things, or I’d said the wrong ones; because there was someone prettier or more relevant, someone with better eyes. It still seems a little like that now. Some days our special dynamic drives me insane and other days, I think it could be the greatest blessing of all. It’s one of those curse-type blessings–the kind that really fucks you up in the head, but that your heart can’t live without. I’m nothing without you, and I know some of them still think about me. Suddenly–

Chime! 1 New Text Message.

I looked at the name on my phone like it had 3 heads and smelled of 7-year old cheese curds. Why? What? Is this a joke? I actually looked around my room for a reason as to why such an ironic coincidence had crept into my phone as I typed this very blog.

It was a boy who I’d been very mad at for a very long time. I don’t remember who made who miserable first and I suppose my books only tell what I’ve been feeling all this time. Maybe I know those past words a little too well.

I answered this Long Island boy’s text and after I talked to him, I had to say something to the other, who reminded me to mention that thing to another one, and so on and so forth. Once in love, always in love, I guess.

“We suck,” he grumbled in reference to the blessed curse. “Yes,” I replied, “and I am so grateful.”

…Terica. “Hum Hallelujah" Fall Out Boy

[streetlightdiaries]

Lipstick on a cigarette.

T.