AND THAT'S WHAT IT WAS. Running away was supposed to be arduous, maybe treacherous. And although it was terrifying, when it came to the rough-and-tumble-hitchhiking-living-out-of-a-knapsack lifestyle, I lucked out. There was a small house, there was a big house, there were a bed and a couch respectively, and each night I played out mild nightmares of prodigal return.
I was high every day. I was drunk every night. And in my sleepy mornings in between desperate glasses of water, my headspin caused the makeshift sleeping bag glide against the floorboards. It felt as though a reckless inertia was driving the particles of my body away from each other, which made sense since - as far as Rockland County is concerned - I've vanished into a black hole anyway.
And there you were the whole time, unfalteringly, unwaveringly beautiful. Like watch you in the car when you close your eyes to sing along beautiful. Like hazy teenage trips to the back of my mind when I would trace the shapes of girls for the first time. Now at 19, I'm old enough to feel embarrassed about it but young enough to clumsily hope for more.
We couldn't always hold hands in public, but we could make out in your car. And we did. In a very specific way. Like gravity, like collision. Like the way two teenagers make out in an airport parking lot, hungry and impatient, because that was who and where we were. An agreement made in a fever dream. We felt scared, but never alone. We felt right (we were right). We felt stupid ("We are so stupid"). We felt big (it's still true).
Because I knew that if I knocked long enough at the curve of your ribs, if I lingered just a bit, your anachronistic heart would wake, answering me suddenly, and I would be granted permission to live within the walls of your body.
And you didn't even come with any weird surprises. Not even a tacky winter coat.
In my time here I learned to talk to animals. I feel like that makes it sound like I fell flaming from the sky into the desert, where I was rescued by Bedouin people and given special powers. Or like I'm Eliza Thornberry (and however she got her powers, I don't really remember). In actuality, I just met a dog that didn't know she was a dog and a cat that thought I was a cat. Animal-queer is what Charles said. And I thought it was funny. And then I hid behind your best friend because the cat kept hissing at me.
--
Postcards from Mexico.
Postcards from Dallas.
Postcards from the road.
I am in none of these places, not right now, but they are from where I'm sending my love. It's unrequited, the way we all secretly like it, because there's no return address. Because there's no return, not really, anyway.
I just can't believe I left all my underwear at home. Scratch that, I can't believe I left all my underwear where my parents live.
I'll eventually have to trek it back to the East Coast. And if I could go back on wheels, I would. Fuck, If I could go back on foot, I would. I would send my love not from the places I am, but from the places I've been, so even if you try to go looking, you'll just find tire tracks and whispers, if that.
This is my pledge to never stop moving.
(If anyone feels so moved to read more on the adventures, check out my Autostraddle piece toooo).
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Pretty Girls Don't Light Their Own Cigarettes
Hello, look, here I am back on the Internet!
Obviously, I've been pretty busy, but I've been writing a lot, just not here. You may or may not be interested in checking things out on Autostraddle or The Eagle.
This actually is an abridged version of a piece I did for my creative writing class. Also it's only the first half because shit's just too long.
I was trying to figure out why I smoked.
--
Obviously, I've been pretty busy, but I've been writing a lot, just not here. You may or may not be interested in checking things out on Autostraddle or The Eagle.
This actually is an abridged version of a piece I did for my creative writing class. Also it's only the first half because shit's just too long.
I was trying to figure out why I smoked.
--
Bugler Tobacco
"I never thought this would be us, never thought this would be me, you know? I mean, it's whatever though. Do you have a light? I left mine upstairs.Thanks."
What the hell is going on? I wonder. I'm not wearing shoes, it's 5:57 a.m., and we're waiting outside the McDonald's because it doesn't open til 6.
"Brandon, roll me one? You can use my tobacco."
Marlboro Golds
My parents were smokers when I was younger, and a little smoke went a long way in our small Manhattan apartment. It crept out of the kitchen, where my parents lit Marlboros on the stove. It sneaked around the corner into the living room and settled in the fabric of the couch, where I would lay whining, "Paaaaa, how many more puffs before we can go to the paaaaark?"
Once I burned myself reaching out, fascinated, to touch the ember glowing orange on the end of my dad's cigarette while he knelt down to button my jacket.
My parents were smokers when I was younger, and a little smoke went a long way in our small Manhattan apartment. It crept out of the kitchen, where my parents lit Marlboros on the stove. It sneaked around the corner into the living room and settled in the fabric of the couch, where I would lay whining, "Paaaaa, how many more puffs before we can go to the paaaaark?"
Once I burned myself reaching out, fascinated, to touch the ember glowing orange on the end of my dad's cigarette while he knelt down to button my jacket.
I begged and pleaded and threw the occasional tantrum, and for my thirteenth birthday, they quit.
Camel Lights
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but it is also the truest form of rebellion, or that's what you can be tricked into thinking.
The summer of my sixteen, I learned to sneak and smoke and not get caught, because smoking is an art form of the young and stupid. The only girl I'd ever loved or loved since, even the way you love at sixteen, had gone across the sea to a place where you could smoke at our age. And she did, so I did, because I thought it romantic. I wanted to feel close. She bought a pack of Camel Lights. I followed suit. I wanted to feel close.
Late summer nights led to acrobatics, contorting my body to fit out my window, to bare feet on my roof. Coughing and sputtering like a 16-year-old with a cigarette does, I stood against my chimney, sharing secrets with the sleepy silhouettes of Clay Street and watching the cars pass pass pass through the gas station down the block.
Marlboro Reds
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but it is also the truest form of rebellion, or that's what you can be tricked into thinking.
The summer of my sixteen, I learned to sneak and smoke and not get caught, because smoking is an art form of the young and stupid. The only girl I'd ever loved or loved since, even the way you love at sixteen, had gone across the sea to a place where you could smoke at our age. And she did, so I did, because I thought it romantic. I wanted to feel close. She bought a pack of Camel Lights. I followed suit. I wanted to feel close.
Late summer nights led to acrobatics, contorting my body to fit out my window, to bare feet on my roof. Coughing and sputtering like a 16-year-old with a cigarette does, I stood against my chimney, sharing secrets with the sleepy silhouettes of Clay Street and watching the cars pass pass pass through the gas station down the block.
Marlboro Reds
They slouched against walls in the faculty parking lot, those kids. They chain smoked Marlboro Reds because they were cheap and gave you a really nice headbuzz, or that's what they told me when leaving school late after leaving class on time, they offered me a Red.
For the most part though, that wasn't us, my friends and I. We were the good kids. We were always in class, and when we weren't in class, we were in the school. Honors courses, extra curricular activities, and early applications to college marked us.
For the most part though, that wasn't us, my friends and I. We were the good kids. We were always in class, and when we weren't in class, we were in the school. Honors courses, extra curricular activities, and early applications to college marked us.
And that was tiring.
Acing tests, we ducked out early to trade drags in ventilated bathroom stalls or, on the weekends, abandoned playgrounds. And while the cool kids were getting drunk in their parents' empty houses on Friday nights, our weekend cruises around town were incomplete without a stop at the convenience store to pick up a pack (requested in a gruff voice, as I thought one needed to sound tough to buy cigarettes) before heading down to the river to kill a pack and talk all night.
Smoke creeping into our lungs, we felt a pulsating rebellion moving through the chambers of our hearts, into our bodies, to our fingertips, still holding our cigarettes. We left high school desperate for change, but we were unsure if it was a change of scenery or a change in us.
Camel No. 9s
Having shaken the gruffness from my voice and the illegality from my age, I began to purchase Camel No. 9s. Each drag was unapologetic hometown nostalgia, every pack deceiving me into a fond re-creation of my high school experience. I disregarded ridicule or loneliness, favoring the last memories of my friends, an after-prom weekend at the Jersey Shore. We were sober still (kind of), and in our sweatshirts we beckoned the dawn and waited for our moments to become memories.
In college, packs once split among friends became my own. Piling up like bricks, instead of shutting us out, they walled us in with each other on smoke breaks, bumming one here and there, no big deal, got a light?
Parliament Lights
I could call it a social thing.
I could call it something I only do when I'm drunk.
I could call it a stress-relieving tactic.
I could call it something to do with my hands.
Acing tests, we ducked out early to trade drags in ventilated bathroom stalls or, on the weekends, abandoned playgrounds. And while the cool kids were getting drunk in their parents' empty houses on Friday nights, our weekend cruises around town were incomplete without a stop at the convenience store to pick up a pack (requested in a gruff voice, as I thought one needed to sound tough to buy cigarettes) before heading down to the river to kill a pack and talk all night.
Smoke creeping into our lungs, we felt a pulsating rebellion moving through the chambers of our hearts, into our bodies, to our fingertips, still holding our cigarettes. We left high school desperate for change, but we were unsure if it was a change of scenery or a change in us.
Camel No. 9s
Having shaken the gruffness from my voice and the illegality from my age, I began to purchase Camel No. 9s. Each drag was unapologetic hometown nostalgia, every pack deceiving me into a fond re-creation of my high school experience. I disregarded ridicule or loneliness, favoring the last memories of my friends, an after-prom weekend at the Jersey Shore. We were sober still (kind of), and in our sweatshirts we beckoned the dawn and waited for our moments to become memories.
In college, packs once split among friends became my own. Piling up like bricks, instead of shutting us out, they walled us in with each other on smoke breaks, bumming one here and there, no big deal, got a light?
Parliament Lights
I could call it a social thing.
I could call it something I only do when I'm drunk.
I could call it a stress-relieving tactic.
I could call it something to do with my hands.
I could, and I have, but with a cigarette behind my ear at all times and smoke breaks working their way into my walks between classes, I finally have to admit it:
I'm a smoker.
I'm a smoker.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I Was Going to Google It, But I Thought We'd Have a Conversation Instead
I WANTED to document 30 minutes of an amphetamine crash.
These are the most unproductive moments of my life. My heart has never beat so fast, and my eyes have never moved so slow. I'm darting. I'm shaking. I'm drafting notes.
Is this a panic attack?
The sun doesn't rise until 6:38 a.m., did you know that? The fuck is that about? Did you know I'm a little more than a mile from campus, and there's thunder and lightning and rain, and that might make it dark for a little longer? I think it will, and I don't have an umbrella or a hood or an excuse.
No, really, is it?
Hours ago my heart felt like it would swell until it exploded. MY BODY WAS ALL CAPS. I was so excited. I love(d) you all, I want(ed) you to know it. My arms tingled. My thoughts chased after my words, which tumbled carelessly and endlessly out of my mouth, my eyes were bright. I laughed into your collarbone, I told you all how much you meant. Now, alone at 5:09 a.m., an amphetamine rush is only panic. My mouth is dry. I don't want water. I want water. I have to get up for water. No water. Where is my love now, where are my thoughts? I have no more words; the insomnia stole my words. Where are all those whom I've neglected for fear of missing? Where are all those whom I've avoided because they kept calling, unknowingly waiting for my anxiety to subside? Where is everyone now that my hands are shaking and the sun's still hiding and the clock moves two minutes forward only to fall one minute back?
-
I think I have effectively broken every basic rule my parents have ever given me. All at once.
I think I look like an asshole when I try to dance like a hipster. I think everyone looks like assholes when they try to dance like hipsters. But I think I do it wrong, so the asshole-ness is extra. Like, I get a gold sticker.
-
By the way,
Sorry I stole the sheets from your bed.
Sorry I didn't let you know what was going on. I didn't mean to, or not to.
Sorry I was drunk when you saw me. Sorry I'll be drunk next time you see me. I'm actually only a little sorry, but I know I should be more sorry, so here's my apology.
Sorry I did exactly what I begged you not to months ago. Sorry I cried then. I cry easily; it's a little stupid and a lot embarrassing.
-
What if we made fewer confessions and told more truths?
-
Sometimes there are nights that disappear into haze. Maybe you forgot what you were on.
Sometimes you wonder where you were all night, and then you wonder where you should have been, and you wonder if you should have been the source of the noise. If you should have been making the floorboards creak and wail with your jumping, if if the walls would have been happier to echo your voice. Entire portions of night disappear. Where did they go? More importantly, where did I go? I think that I stopped existing for just a little. I think I got lost in an alcove; it was pretty dark, y'know?
-
I think that I live far away from home, though I don't really know what that means.
Hometown nostalgia tricked me in those last few days, made me think it was real. Made me desperate to be seen before I disappeared. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be wearing skinny jeans and plaid, I wanted all of you to see how the band of my boxer briefs peeked out the top of my pants. I'M GAY, I wanted you to know. I'M GAY, and I was gay when you knew me, but now I'm not sorry, and no one needs to tell me it's okay and that I'm okay and that high school doesn't really matter, because I always knew those things. It's just that now I believe them.
Leaving was sad. Leaving was final.
They said you'd go to college, and you'd come back, but you'd never come back. I think I'm going a little farther this time.
Sorry I didn't let you know what was going on. I didn't mean to, or not to.
Sorry I was drunk when you saw me. Sorry I'll be drunk next time you see me. I'm actually only a little sorry, but I know I should be more sorry, so here's my apology.
Sorry I did exactly what I begged you not to months ago. Sorry I cried then. I cry easily; it's a little stupid and a lot embarrassing.
-
What if we made fewer confessions and told more truths?
-
Sometimes there are nights that disappear into haze. Maybe you forgot what you were on.
Sometimes you wonder where you were all night, and then you wonder where you should have been, and you wonder if you should have been the source of the noise. If you should have been making the floorboards creak and wail with your jumping, if if the walls would have been happier to echo your voice. Entire portions of night disappear. Where did they go? More importantly, where did I go? I think that I stopped existing for just a little. I think I got lost in an alcove; it was pretty dark, y'know?
-
I think that I live far away from home, though I don't really know what that means.
Hometown nostalgia tricked me in those last few days, made me think it was real. Made me desperate to be seen before I disappeared. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be wearing skinny jeans and plaid, I wanted all of you to see how the band of my boxer briefs peeked out the top of my pants. I'M GAY, I wanted you to know. I'M GAY, and I was gay when you knew me, but now I'm not sorry, and no one needs to tell me it's okay and that I'm okay and that high school doesn't really matter, because I always knew those things. It's just that now I believe them.
Leaving was sad. Leaving was final.
They said you'd go to college, and you'd come back, but you'd never come back. I think I'm going a little farther this time.
About that thing, about my parents, about how we fucked it up. We just fucked it up, this thing. That they always saw their lives, secure and prosperous, without lesbian daughters or heartbreaking arguments or silent stalemates. We should have been sad to see each other go; instead, I think we're relieved. How does that thing happen? That thing where your life wasn't what you wanted or expected or believed? Does it happen to our unhappy, middle-aged parents? Or does it happen to us all?
-
But hey, what am I scared for? Hey Brandon, didn't we realize today that everything, every moment has already happened at some point in time? All of this has already happened; somewhere it's done. It's just a matter of getting there. I'm worried about 6:38 a.m., but that's okay, because by 7:38, I'll know. It's just a matter of getting to 7:30. Life will just happen until then; we'll get there. We'll know.
-
5:33 a.m.
Street lights still glowing orange. Can't tell if it's raining, can't see through the blinds. Weather.com says it's raining. Guess I'll have to trust that. I wonder if, when I get outside in an hour, I'll be trapped between places, locked out of one apartment, a mile away from the next. It's going to be raining, which is too bad, because I wanted to walk along to the sunrise. Maybe I should memorize these directions, just in case the newly inked napkin melts through my fingers on the way.
-
But hey, what am I scared for? Hey Brandon, didn't we realize today that everything, every moment has already happened at some point in time? All of this has already happened; somewhere it's done. It's just a matter of getting there. I'm worried about 6:38 a.m., but that's okay, because by 7:38, I'll know. It's just a matter of getting to 7:30. Life will just happen until then; we'll get there. We'll know.
-
5:33 a.m.
Street lights still glowing orange. Can't tell if it's raining, can't see through the blinds. Weather.com says it's raining. Guess I'll have to trust that. I wonder if, when I get outside in an hour, I'll be trapped between places, locked out of one apartment, a mile away from the next. It's going to be raining, which is too bad, because I wanted to walk along to the sunrise. Maybe I should memorize these directions, just in case the newly inked napkin melts through my fingers on the way.
Monday, August 3, 2009
When Faraway Things Seem Close
This post is long overdue.
Originally intended to be a cross-post with Emily, this was written by both of us at various points throughout the 24 hours leading up to Pride Weekend. Intoxicated and driving around my hometown and the surrounding highways aimlessly, we stopped at a CVS to purchase a notebook. And by that I mean I got nervous, shoved two dollars in Emily's hand, and made her go buy a notebook. I don't think we kept this up as long as we intended. Nevertheless, I present to you the chronicle of two really anxious girls overwhelmed by possibility. And Tegan and Sara a little bit.
---------------------------------------------------
I'm working on a lot of things right now. While you wait anxiously for them, check out how the rest of this weekend turned out by clicking my link at the top or reading Emily's exceptionally beautiful coverage of the same event. You could also do both.
Originally intended to be a cross-post with Emily, this was written by both of us at various points throughout the 24 hours leading up to Pride Weekend. Intoxicated and driving around my hometown and the surrounding highways aimlessly, we stopped at a CVS to purchase a notebook. And by that I mean I got nervous, shoved two dollars in Emily's hand, and made her go buy a notebook. I don't think we kept this up as long as we intended. Nevertheless, I present to you the chronicle of two really anxious girls overwhelmed by possibility. And Tegan and Sara a little bit.
---------------------------------------------------
June 26 2009 10:30 pm (Emily)
I GOT INTO Katrina’s house last night at 1 am. I went 24 hours without sleep and woke up at 1 pm.
We drove around Rockland aimlessly listening to Tegan and Sara which was so epic it cannot properly be described. We should ideas and dreams and things that would make us happy. I’m having an I-Thou relationship with the road. The roads in America are all the same.
We have the same idols and we constantly bring the conversation back to autostraddle. We auto-dance. We are auto-hot. We are auto-blazed, auto-drunk. We auto-win.
We don’t know how to get there. All we know is that City Girl is the best Tegan and Sara song and it’s possible to be nowhere and not lost at the same time.
The road is magnificent.
-
June 26 2009 10:45 pm (Katrina)
WE'VE BEEN ON the highway searching for the overlook for about 20 minutes. It probably would have been only ten, but as I am probably in no condition to be driving, I’ve been going at a steady 40 mph on a 65. This adds a new element to auto-blazed.
I look over at the clock. 10:40. There is so much night to be had. It reminds me of DC, of the apartment, where we’d be too high on uppers to sleep but too stoned to have a real conversation. It’d be 2:30 and we’d feel like the night was so new. 10:40 is so early and I wonder if this is what it’s like to not know you’re young.
If someone asked me how long I’d been young for, I’d say my whole life. If you asked me when I’d stop being young, I would tell you that’s not up to me. When does one stop being young? Do you wake up and know, or is it something that only occurs in retrospect? And if youth is defined by behaviour, I plan to always be young. If growing up means giving up your voice and forsaking your selfish desires , and well... being no fun, then, regardless of the number of years we've actually been around.. well, I’m gonna be forever young. So suck it, Rod Stewart.
-
June 27 2009 1:51 pm (Emily)
DRIVING IN THE CAR with Katrina’s parents. We’re listening to The Clash. My heart was pounding at the beginning, thoughts like “holy shit” kept going through my head and I almost forgot where we were going. To be honest, when “Rudie Can’t Fail” came on I felt relaxed, it was a little sound from home, something familiar. Because everything here is new. Every step I take is one into the unknown and it is both exhilarating and terrifying. In fact the past two days have been exhilarating and terrifying and these next two should be so intense I’m expecting my heart to explode at any time.
Except I’ve got this feeling we’re all in this together and together we can deal with anything.
Katrina joked about me sleeping in the car to avoid questions but now her brother is passed out next to me.
We’re about to get on the highway and it’s end to end traffic. My heart begins to pound again. I just want to get there.
I don’t know if the nerves are from pretending to be from Boston and going to AU or from meeting autostraddle and really Riese really. Both options are plausible.
I am having a heart attack again. We are on Lexington.
2:34 pm we are on the corner of Lexington and 56th.
-
June 27th 2009 2:44 (Katrina)
WE JUST DROPPED EMILY off at Brooke’s which means we pulled off this incredible charade.
Waking up at a quarter to noon and laying on top of the sheets listening to “City Girl” on repeat, we knew we wouldn't be this still again.
Tegan and Sara were singing about me when they said “I know you’re scared even though you say that you’re not”. They know this as I try to stride confidently through my house in my baptism-ready dress and heels, sending secretive, self-assured smirks to Emily, trying to convince her we’ll make it through the car ride.
We will, and we do. Off I go to the house of God.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Also, if you just read that and thought to yourself, "Well that was cool, but I'd prefer it as a stoner comedy," here's a badly edited video that was never really supposed to see the light of day, due to its bad jokes and continual breathless laughter over nothing.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Your Actions in Life Will Reflect in Eternity
Total Asia Swineflu Mask Count: 16
Portion of which found at the airport: 7
Once upon a time I went to Asia, made a lot of swineflu jokes, came back, and was afflicted with cough, runny nose, and slight raise in body temperature. Swineflu. is not. a joke.
(no, it totally still is)
Right now I'm trying to fix my jetlag. Last night I slept from 6pm-11:30, and I've been up since, and now I have that stinging headache you get when your body is just pissed that you've been up on the computer all night and you're not sleeping and you have swineflu.
I feel like I have a lot of things to say about the Philippines, but a proper recap post will never actually materialize. I turned into sort of an introvert over there, I think I lived a lot in my head and just stared out into the strange world around me and had conversations with myself. This resulted in a lot of observational-type writing, since 1) it is my favorite, and 2) it was all I could really do...observe. It feels like a weird shift from when I started this blog ranting about gender and sexuality and societal norms. Does anyone have strong feelings about this? Can I get some feedback? Maybe that's a school thing. Maybe I'm several different people, or at the very least several different writers. I'm nervous about this going back to school thing that's happening in less than three weeks. I'm not really sure who I became over the summer, or if I became anyone at all, or if everyone else became something and I didn't, or vice versa. Different post for a different time.
Hey look, here's this!
----------------------------------------------------------------
'YOUR ACTIONS IN LIFE WILL REFLECT IN ETERNITY' is what the billboard said on the way to Makati. It wasn’t in front of a church, like a fun fact or a quick tip for eternal salvation. It wasn’t “Jesus is the way, the truth, the light” illuminating the side of a building, turning it all neon and glowing and casting a dim, colored light over Manila’s chronic traffic jams. Its letters were arranged, all caps, on what seemed to be the header of a former movie theater, as if weary traveling souls could stop in and have their 120-minute salvation session accompanied by popcorn and soda. I wish this was a movie. I wish it was the vehicle for Vin Diesel’s comeback.
Portion of which found at the airport: 7
Once upon a time I went to Asia, made a lot of swineflu jokes, came back, and was afflicted with cough, runny nose, and slight raise in body temperature. Swineflu. is not. a joke.
(no, it totally still is)
Right now I'm trying to fix my jetlag. Last night I slept from 6pm-11:30, and I've been up since, and now I have that stinging headache you get when your body is just pissed that you've been up on the computer all night and you're not sleeping and you have swineflu.
I feel like I have a lot of things to say about the Philippines, but a proper recap post will never actually materialize. I turned into sort of an introvert over there, I think I lived a lot in my head and just stared out into the strange world around me and had conversations with myself. This resulted in a lot of observational-type writing, since 1) it is my favorite, and 2) it was all I could really do...observe. It feels like a weird shift from when I started this blog ranting about gender and sexuality and societal norms. Does anyone have strong feelings about this? Can I get some feedback? Maybe that's a school thing. Maybe I'm several different people, or at the very least several different writers. I'm nervous about this going back to school thing that's happening in less than three weeks. I'm not really sure who I became over the summer, or if I became anyone at all, or if everyone else became something and I didn't, or vice versa. Different post for a different time.
Hey look, here's this!
----------------------------------------------------------------
'YOUR ACTIONS IN LIFE WILL REFLECT IN ETERNITY' is what the billboard said on the way to Makati. It wasn’t in front of a church, like a fun fact or a quick tip for eternal salvation. It wasn’t “Jesus is the way, the truth, the light” illuminating the side of a building, turning it all neon and glowing and casting a dim, colored light over Manila’s chronic traffic jams. Its letters were arranged, all caps, on what seemed to be the header of a former movie theater, as if weary traveling souls could stop in and have their 120-minute salvation session accompanied by popcorn and soda. I wish this was a movie. I wish it was the vehicle for Vin Diesel’s comeback.
I also wonder if there ever was a statement simultaneously truer to those with belief and more false to those without, though its something we wished were true. We wished it were true knowing that nothing survives an eternity, not even our own, knowing that eventually we’d all bend to question marks, then fade, and then what? Just a movie billing. Just a shrug.
-candles
-manila paper
-safety pins
-pastries
-cake
-postcards
-twister fries
-priest
We’ve been sent on an absurd scavenger hunt, my cousin and I. Today is the blessing of her family’s new house, and we’ve been made responsible for picking up all necessary supplies. And nothing is more necessary to a house blessing than a priest. The car ride is long because Manila traffic is notoriously unforgiving. Bumper to bumper at any and all times of day, drivers so aggressive that when it loosens up even bus drivers navigate their monolithic vehicles by weaving between cars. What do you listen to in the car with a priest? We think Coldplay. We’re not sure why. I don’t have any Coldplay on my iPod. I think this means I’m not meant to hang out with priests.
He’s wearing plaid, and this confuses me because I sometimes forget that priests are also people, and people sometimes wear plaid. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and faded blue jeans made of that really resilient material and he speaks loudly and gruffly as he laughs and tells us about barkless dogs and gives us advice on convenience stores where we can buy alcohol. He is not at all like the priests I've known in the States. They are old and stern and do not like plaid. They furrow their brows and move slowly and take careful, agonizing steps, their shoes are weighed down by the heaviness of soles. They do not know where I can buy cheap beer.
By the time the house creeps up on us, Gaby and I are singing along to the Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back,” I am wondering how this song manages to seep into my life at all junctures and how, in every sense of the phrase, we've gotten to this point. Father Ben is happily tapping along in the front seat. Maybe he wants to hear “Billie Jean.”
The house is extravagant, beautiful, sweeping in that cold, modern sort of way. High ceilings, ever-expanding white interiors, stone floors, walls of windows like eyes dumbstruck and gazing into the abandoned house next door. It’s not yet been furnished. Six cardboard-wrapped chairs are lined up in the living room, and the granite dining table stretches the length of the dining room, flanked by plastic patio chairs. The workers tape our manila paper to the windows, obscuring the view. “The theme of tonight’s party is ‘Furniture Warehouse,’” says Gaby. She motions to the scaffolding outside the door, the pile of construction rubble on her front lawn. “Deconstruction under construction. Post-modern. Deep.” These are the kind of jokes you make when everyone you’re related to is an architect
Father Ben enters the house, shaking hands with our grandparents who sit demurely in the barely-furnished living room. He opens up his backpack and takes out his priestly robes, throwing them over his plainclothes. Oh, okay. There we go. Phew.
We’re lined up in the doorway, all of us. The air conditioners have yet to be functional, and in this short span of time, we’ve learned to gather in the corridor that runs straight from the front door to the dining room at the very back of the house. It’s breezy, which is relieving, unless you’re trying to light candles for a blessing, which we are. We’re jammed into the doorway and cannot focus on what I'm sure were Father’s sagacious words about hospitality and family and home. We’re too busy hovering over our candles, hands cupped over flames, shielding the flickering, flailing, frantic little lives on top of the wicks. My candle is out, we whisper. Can I light off yours? Oh, it’s out too. What’s he saying? Does this blessing still count if we’re just holding wax sticks?
Maybe it will be better once we’re in the house, like really in the house. We follow Father through the rooms as he sprinkles Holy Water over the Furniture Warehouse. He leads us in prayers, incantations, a repeated murmur of the Hail Mary. He loses some of us along the way. My grandparents can’t climb up the stairs, the train of people is too long to navigate the tight U-turns in the hallways. Didn’t we go into this room already? I’m waiting in the kitchen next to the KFC.
How are you even supposed to hold candles? Who the fuck forgot to get the paper to catch the wax? Oh, right.
I wince and swear as the wax drips over my fingers, down my wrist, onto my exposed feet.
And I remember that time I watched drops of wax turn opaque and harden on your chest. And how you gasped and grabbed my collar when your skin burned because I was new and clumsy and held the candle a little too close. And how, though I was intrigued by the flame, I knew I could never even try because my pain threshold was too low and besides, what had just happened to you made me feel nervous and stupid.
When did it happen that in my mind, that everything in my life turns to sex? I wonder if this is something like growing up or if I’m having a really prolonged adolescence or maybe I just watch too much TV. I’m like an explicit Midas. Straw to gold, blessings to sex. I wonder what’s with this business of turning things, transforming them. I wonder if this means growing up, and that maybe it's just nothing more than gracelessly executed alchemy.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
I Have a Chronic Need to Explain Myself
1. Tonight is my last night in the Philippines. I will miss Biblical flooding and laying on the bed being too hot to move and being too shy to speak too much in public and getting drunk in my grandma's house after she insists that I eat lasagna.
2. Last night was my second to last night in the Philippines, and it was wonderful, and it reminded me feel that I have a lot to come back for.
3. There are gays here. As a general statement, they're cute and always willing to talk to my drunk ass.
4. Have you received your postcard yet? Well that's because I didn't send it. Here's a preview!
For anyone who doesn't know about Katrina 'Asian' Casino Postcard Project 2009, here's a brief explanation.
A couple of days before I left, I collected addresses of people who wanted postcards (this part is relatively straightforward). Now, I was going to write you all personalized rap songs, but as I have a tendency to always insist on being embarrassingly honest, I decided to put a spin on it (the postcard project, not the rap songs. That could come later though). I collected the names, and drawing them at random, assigned the recipients to one another. I also threw in some extra people who I haven't been talking to/didn't ask for a postcard. Just for funsies. And because I didn't have any dark secrets to reveal to some people. Everyone who's receiving a postcard is receiving a confession, secret, or general pointless rambling/crazytalk to another person. Just something I've never told them because I'm too awkward or shy or lazy or I have social tact or something (this is a lie, I have no social tact). Each postcard begins with "You don't know this, but" and then continues on to whatever one-sided conversation I wanted to have. I feel like this post is going to turn into some absurd Filipino post-secret ripoff, but sometimes that's just how it is.
Also I tried to get the tackiest postcards available.
Also I'm a really poor planner, and these will probably be mailed from New York.
So without further ado, I bring you a series of really serious statements followed by really hilarious pictures.
---------------------------------------------
You don't know this, but...
Sometimes I get a little scared that we'll never be who we were on that first night.
You're one of my favorites, but I'll never admit this to you because I'll always be too afraid to hear I'm not one of yours.
Everyone knows it's always been about you.
And I don't know if you'll ever believe it, but I'm fine.
(The rice paddies that my ancestors slaved on so that I'd never have to wear sunscreen in the summers)
Once I was lurking your Facebook page, and I accidentally liked one of your wall posts, then freaked out because I was way too high to figure out that I could unlike it.
(Alternatively: Meeting you was like meeting myself.)
(Fuck yeah, tigers!)
You and I both need to calm the fuck down.
I'm fully aware that all I really do is break promises to you.
You're the reason I question anything at all.
(Am I the only one who finds proud eagles of all nationalities to be hilarious?)
You're the reason for the flowers in my hair.
Every action that has defined our relationship has also perfectly and explicitly conveyed my deepest personality flaws in a way that I never could have anticipated or expressed.
When I was younger and thought that I wanted to get married and thought that I wanted to get married to a man, that man I pictured was just like you.
(Mabuhay a las Filipinas! We sell slippers, brooms, fans, and...wedding cakes made out of beads?)
Sometimes I find you to be so unbelievably plain that I can't help but find you irresistibly attractive.
(Hello, favorite.)
Though you probably do, I should have kissed you right when I had you.
I love you...not like that, not really, anyway.
(I don't know if I just haven't been paying attention, but I have never fucking seen one of these.)
I'm really sorry we didn't get to talk in the brief time we were together, that time we existed in 3D.
(I have no idea why I don't own one of these hats yet.)
I wasn't even really sure if I liked you until recently.
I think you're really beautiful.
You should stick around.
(Hi, drag show this year plz?)
You're a little boring, but you're so so sincere, and I guess that's okay.
You might well be the reason I don't regret coming home this summer.
I'D LIKE TO KNOW what you think of this. What you think of that, that thing I just said. I'd like to know if you knew, and if you knew then when you knew and why you haven't said anything, and come to think of it, why I haven't said anything either, but I suppose that's not for you to answer. I'd like a lot of things. I'd like hot nights with rolled down windows and loud music. I want to sing along. I'd like questions without answers and open ends and true belief in possibility. I'd like the fifty-yard line. I'd like a deluge, a rainstorm, silencing the world outside my car; I'd like to drive with no headlights. I'd like to know the corner of your jawline and what it feels like to thread my fingers through your beltloops. I'd like the rooftop where I learned to smoke and sneak and eventually not get caught. I'd like my hometown nostalgia. Fuck, I'd like any nostalgia.
And I don't know if you know this, but when I'm gone, I miss you the most.
2. Last night was my second to last night in the Philippines, and it was wonderful, and it reminded me feel that I have a lot to come back for.
3. There are gays here. As a general statement, they're cute and always willing to talk to my drunk ass.
4. Have you received your postcard yet? Well that's because I didn't send it. Here's a preview!
For anyone who doesn't know about Katrina 'Asian' Casino Postcard Project 2009, here's a brief explanation.A couple of days before I left, I collected addresses of people who wanted postcards (this part is relatively straightforward). Now, I was going to write you all personalized rap songs, but as I have a tendency to always insist on being embarrassingly honest, I decided to put a spin on it (the postcard project, not the rap songs. That could come later though). I collected the names, and drawing them at random, assigned the recipients to one another. I also threw in some extra people who I haven't been talking to/didn't ask for a postcard. Just for funsies. And because I didn't have any dark secrets to reveal to some people. Everyone who's receiving a postcard is receiving a confession, secret, or general pointless rambling/crazytalk to another person. Just something I've never told them because I'm too awkward or shy or lazy or I have social tact or something (this is a lie, I have no social tact). Each postcard begins with "You don't know this, but" and then continues on to whatever one-sided conversation I wanted to have. I feel like this post is going to turn into some absurd Filipino post-secret ripoff, but sometimes that's just how it is.
Also I tried to get the tackiest postcards available.
Also I'm a really poor planner, and these will probably be mailed from New York.
So without further ado, I bring you a series of really serious statements followed by really hilarious pictures.
You don't know this, but...
Sometimes I get a little scared that we'll never be who we were on that first night.
You're one of my favorites, but I'll never admit this to you because I'll always be too afraid to hear I'm not one of yours.
Everyone knows it's always been about you.
And I don't know if you'll ever believe it, but I'm fine.
(The rice paddies that my ancestors slaved on so that I'd never have to wear sunscreen in the summers)Once I was lurking your Facebook page, and I accidentally liked one of your wall posts, then freaked out because I was way too high to figure out that I could unlike it.
(Alternatively: Meeting you was like meeting myself.)
(Fuck yeah, tigers!)You and I both need to calm the fuck down.
I'm fully aware that all I really do is break promises to you.
You're the reason I question anything at all.
(Am I the only one who finds proud eagles of all nationalities to be hilarious?)You're the reason for the flowers in my hair.
Every action that has defined our relationship has also perfectly and explicitly conveyed my deepest personality flaws in a way that I never could have anticipated or expressed.
When I was younger and thought that I wanted to get married and thought that I wanted to get married to a man, that man I pictured was just like you.
(Mabuhay a las Filipinas! We sell slippers, brooms, fans, and...wedding cakes made out of beads?)Sometimes I find you to be so unbelievably plain that I can't help but find you irresistibly attractive.
(Hello, favorite.)Though you probably do, I should have kissed you right when I had you.
I love you...not like that, not really, anyway.
(I don't know if I just haven't been paying attention, but I have never fucking seen one of these.)I'm really sorry we didn't get to talk in the brief time we were together, that time we existed in 3D.
(I have no idea why I don't own one of these hats yet.)I wasn't even really sure if I liked you until recently.
I think you're really beautiful.
You should stick around.
(Hi, drag show this year plz?)You're a little boring, but you're so so sincere, and I guess that's okay.
You might well be the reason I don't regret coming home this summer.
(I ran out of photos/postcards, so here's a picture of me getting attacked by a crab at my grandma's house.)
This postcard was discarded because I couldn't verify its truth:I'D LIKE TO KNOW what you think of this. What you think of that, that thing I just said. I'd like to know if you knew, and if you knew then when you knew and why you haven't said anything, and come to think of it, why I haven't said anything either, but I suppose that's not for you to answer. I'd like a lot of things. I'd like hot nights with rolled down windows and loud music. I want to sing along. I'd like questions without answers and open ends and true belief in possibility. I'd like the fifty-yard line. I'd like a deluge, a rainstorm, silencing the world outside my car; I'd like to drive with no headlights. I'd like to know the corner of your jawline and what it feels like to thread my fingers through your beltloops. I'd like the rooftop where I learned to smoke and sneak and eventually not get caught. I'd like my hometown nostalgia. Fuck, I'd like any nostalgia.
And I don't know if you know this, but when I'm gone, I miss you the most.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
We're Sorry to Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Programming
This has nothing to do with the Philippines.
I've been writer's blockin' a little lately, and all I have to show for myself is a bunch of unfinished observational pieces (including a sequel to this one) and some uninspired afternoon poetry (actually a great concept if you like irony and facetious postmodern fuckery).
This, like my last post, is going to be sort of a clusterfuck, as my mind has been sort of a clusterfuck.
So I've decided to drop a lexicon post.
And then I realized I missed school a lot. So I'm dropping my first picture post as well.
Hi, I'm Katrina, and I can't focus anymore.
-------------------------------------------------------
interrobang (v) – 1. to engage in sexual activity resulting from ambivalent attraction; to commit the act of a questionable hookup. May result from drunkenness, desperation, poor judgment, or Welcome Week at American University.
I've been writer's blockin' a little lately, and all I have to show for myself is a bunch of unfinished observational pieces (including a sequel to this one) and some uninspired afternoon poetry (actually a great concept if you like irony and facetious postmodern fuckery).
This, like my last post, is going to be sort of a clusterfuck, as my mind has been sort of a clusterfuck.
So I've decided to drop a lexicon post.
And then I realized I missed school a lot. So I'm dropping my first picture post as well.
Hi, I'm Katrina, and I can't focus anymore.
-------------------------------------------------------
interrobang (v) – 1. to engage in sexual activity resulting from ambivalent attraction; to commit the act of a questionable hookup. May result from drunkenness, desperation, poor judgment, or Welcome Week at American University.
KC Danger: Yeah she’s pretty cute; I just don’t usually dig redheads.
X: So you wanna interrobang her‽
KC Danger: Yeah, I guess.
In collaboration with X Fantastic Walters
Origin
In collaboration with saintmodesto
AUniverse (n) – the self-sustaining microcosm existing at American University, also known as “the AU Bubble,” an example of #smallearth. Katrina Fucking Casino lives here. Rules of the AUniverse include: I’m-making-out-with-you-because-you’re-making-out-with-me, you’re probably gay, let’s get high and talk about gender, sorry I’m crashing from my uppers, Apex Thursdays, drinking on Tuesdays due to classless Wednesdays, and TDR at 2 y/n?
In collaboration with ilikeyourshirt
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Oh hey, remember that time I was short-haired and freshly pierced?
We were alone for the first time
And in love with everyone we met.
We were so curious about each other
That we forgot to wonder about ourselves
And who we'd be in a few short months.
So...
We got drunk
In public
A lot.
We got drunk in public a lot.
And no one ever slept alone.
And in love with everyone we met.
We were so curious about each other
That we forgot to wonder about ourselves
And who we'd be in a few short months.
So...
We got drunk
In public
A lot.
We got drunk in public a lot.
And no one ever slept alone.
I am sometimes embarrassed because I'm prone to getting really emotional (ex. short-term nostalgia) late at night, but for everyone else, it's just the middle of the day.
This would never happen on #smallearth.
This would never happen on #smallearth.
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