i almost cried during mass twice today. i couldn't sing because the lyrics kept choking me up. and the singing's my favorite part of mass.
i am destined to remember, and the memories make me wary. how'm i supposed to find my way back when i've wandered off so far? how could he have let me wander off that much? and why does it feel like there's no one there?
i remember him taking me to first friday at the blue star art complex in the king william's district of san antonio. i'd never been. he lead me up a narrow flight of stairs, my hand in his. i asked where we were going. an elderly woman on her way down looked at me, smiled, pointed and said, up.
indeed. i was going up. it was marvelous. i don't think i've been that happy since.
i remember bolting from his apartment because i didn't want to, couldn't let him see me cry. i made it to the phillips sixty-six gas station across the street, to the attendant, who sold me a carton of marlboro lights in a box and a bic lighter, to halfway between the door of the station and the door of my truck before i broke. right there, on the concrete, hunched next to the rocks that were the station's shell, for all the world to see.
i don't think i've been that miserable since.
i wish i could get it out of my head that significance isn't measured by the work you've done or will do, or the number of friends you have or the number of times you inspire laughter.
drain
the structure outside in the park reminds me of a whirlpool, of you, of drowning, of lying on your sofa with your arms around me, your legs entwined with mine, your words beating on, then breaking my happy, idyllic bubble, sinking me, my
tears leaking onto your shirt, mopped up with your tissue. a boy whizzes past on his skateboard. the wheels over the concrete sound like water down the drain. there i go. there we go. but everything goes on around me, just as it had
seconds before, reminding me that this was years ago and not yesterday, that i have resurfaced. memories of you pull me
back under, but not as deeply as before, and not nearly as long.
there’s laughter, squeals, joy in almost everything. a
girl hangs upside down and
grins. i watch
from inside
and
wish.
tears leaking onto your shirt, mopped up with your tissue. a boy whizzes past on his skateboard. the wheels over the concrete sound like water down the drain. there i go. there we go. but everything goes on around me, just as it had
seconds before, reminding me that this was years ago and not yesterday, that i have resurfaced. memories of you pull me
back under, but not as deeply as before, and not nearly as long.
there’s laughter, squeals, joy in almost everything. a
girl hangs upside down and
grins. i watch
from inside
and
wish.
my favorite sweatshirt is one i purchased last year at aggie outfitters at the mall in college station. it's too big for me, but that's one of the reasons i love it. it falls to the middle of my thigh and the sleeves are long enough that my hands are hidden by the fabric. and it's hooded.
i can get lost in this sweatshirt.
and it's thick, good, strong, warm cotton. wearing it is like being wrapped up in a thick, flannel blanket.
but the best thing is the giant twelve imprinted on the front in worn white numbers, trimmed in gold. big, bold blocks of twelfth man.
if you ever go to wales, builth road isn't a station. there i was, standing on a platform, staring at endless trees to my right and left and a handful of windows opened on the second floor of the building in front of me. residences, folks. and when you yell at the windows, no one answers. i had to knock on doors. i had to pay a stranger, some guy who, thankfully, wasn't a serial killer or rapist, twenty pounds to give me a ride. had the lady at the cardiff train station asked, i could've taken the train to hereford instead and caught a bus that would've deposited me two blocks from my bed and breakfast. of course, i got there on a sunday. maybe that had something to do with it.
sitting in my parents' living room, in one of those cozy, old-school armchairs near the front windows so that i can watch the sun set, the sky change from blue to white to gold and see the sun burst through the leaves and branches of the shrubs and trees, just over the hood of a squeaky clean phineas bubbaphat.
the painting on the wall on the other side of the room.
it's hard to see it right this second. it's so incredibly dark and the sun's just now gone, so there's no light from the windows highlighting it anymore. but in the middle of all this, if i were to put that nora roberts' novel down and look dead ahead rather than at the pieces of cellophane that once were wrapped around some string cheese and some premiums, there on the wall is a sheet of plywood dripping in wax tinted burgundy, navy and gold.
and amidst all that darkness, in the right light, is this splash of white.
an angel amidst bruises and bloodiness, though my brother wouldn't call it such. probably wouldn't like it that i called it such. he calls it angel in my paints i think. or angel in my pants. i can't remember which. probably the former. but the latter's just silly enough, just stupid enough that it could be that.
on the way home, i passed a church whose sign caught my attention. so i exited the loop, turned around (twice, because i couldn't decide which way i wanted to go to get back to the sign so i could read its entirety), found my way back (eventually, because, of course, it took me longer than it would take a sensible person) and parked on the side of the road to read.
bloom.
i'm trying. but lately, i feel like that grass that keeps trying to come up in the cracks of the concrete that the works progress folks come along and spray the green shit over so that it no longer grows.
so one of my favorite things about the holidays -- christmas and easter and whatnot -- is the phone call we get from my great uncle, a trappist monk at a monastery in huntsville, utah, outside of salt lake city. his birth name was clarence, but upon entering the monastery he became brother nicholas, or nick.
he'll call at around eight a.m. -- we are one of many families to receive the pleasure of his company via phone conversation, as he is an incredibly popular dude ... relatives from all across the country clamor for his attention, and i like to think he calls our house first, though there's this part of me that knows that's probably not the case ... still, i delude myself, and happily.
so i used to go to school in missouri. one of the (many) things i didn't like about being in school out of state was that i had to eat inferior -- and it is inferior...all of it, even your silly ben and jerry's -- ice cream.
i'm a texan, boys and girls. i might bitch about the stupid pollen and the hurricanes and the flatness of it, but when it comes down to it, i was born here, and i'll die here.
because as much as i hate that blasted pollen and the stupid hurricanes and the flatness, there are three really, really great things about this place:
the abundance of trees.
the beauty of the hill country.
and the bliss that is blue bell ice cream. that one, sometimes, i missed more than any other. even my mommy.
r is for reese
and the bliss that is blue bell ice cream. that one, sometimes, i missed more than any other. even my mommy.
r is for reese
Zoe stood at the passenger door with a her hand on the handle, waiting. “I wish Mom and Dad would lemme have a car.” She blew out a breath, scowled. “Sucks that I have to bum a ride anytime that I wanna go somewhere.”
“Get a job. Save your money. Stop being such a miscreant.” He walked to the car as though they had all the time in the world. He did. She didn't. But that was her fault. She was late. Walking any faster wouldn't change that.
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, if you’d stop getting into trouble all the time, we wouldn’t have to draw straws to see who was gonna baby-sit while the folks are out of town.” Knowing it would irritate her, he waited until he was a foot or so away before unlocking the doors.
She yanked hers open, climbed inside, glared at him as he settled in and cranked the engine. “Spare me the music this morning.”
“When you do get a job, Zo, and have saved up the money for a car, you can play whatever music you’d like. Until then, you will ride happily—”
“Reese!”
“Okay, then, quietly, while the driver listens to the music of his or her choice.” He rummaged through his satchel for his iPod, plugged it in, set it on shuffle, then put the car in gear and pulled out of the driveway.
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re a hellion.”
blame it on the janes
could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your circumstances?
i love this line. i love how it cuts. i love how the word choice -- the sharpness of the k and the x and the ct sounds, the bite of it, the hiss of the soft c and the s and even the f -- contributes to the sentiment expressed. there's such disdain there. such frustration, not just in that sentiment, nor its language, but in the delivery of it, as well. it's a fantastic line. marvelous, really. and it, more than any other, sums up mr. darcy quite well, i think.
i hunted up that bit of script while at work one day, so eager was i to see the film, to know the story. i printed out the page or two of dialogue i'd found, and, after work, taken it in to macaroni grill with me to study while i had dinner.
actually, i did more than study it. i took my red and blue crayons and diagrammed the whole of those sentences -- darcy's in blue, bennett's in red -- on the butcher paper that covered my table's cloth.
“Get a job. Save your money. Stop being such a miscreant.” He walked to the car as though they had all the time in the world. He did. She didn't. But that was her fault. She was late. Walking any faster wouldn't change that.
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, if you’d stop getting into trouble all the time, we wouldn’t have to draw straws to see who was gonna baby-sit while the folks are out of town.” Knowing it would irritate her, he waited until he was a foot or so away before unlocking the doors.
She yanked hers open, climbed inside, glared at him as he settled in and cranked the engine. “Spare me the music this morning.”
“When you do get a job, Zo, and have saved up the money for a car, you can play whatever music you’d like. Until then, you will ride happily—”
“Reese!”
“Okay, then, quietly, while the driver listens to the music of his or her choice.” He rummaged through his satchel for his iPod, plugged it in, set it on shuffle, then put the car in gear and pulled out of the driveway.
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re a hellion.”
blame it on the janes
could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your circumstances?
i love this line. i love how it cuts. i love how the word choice -- the sharpness of the k and the x and the ct sounds, the bite of it, the hiss of the soft c and the s and even the f -- contributes to the sentiment expressed. there's such disdain there. such frustration, not just in that sentiment, nor its language, but in the delivery of it, as well. it's a fantastic line. marvelous, really. and it, more than any other, sums up mr. darcy quite well, i think.
i hunted up that bit of script while at work one day, so eager was i to see the film, to know the story. i printed out the page or two of dialogue i'd found, and, after work, taken it in to macaroni grill with me to study while i had dinner.
actually, i did more than study it. i took my red and blue crayons and diagrammed the whole of those sentences -- darcy's in blue, bennett's in red -- on the butcher paper that covered my table's cloth.
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