King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1

Yesterday afternoon I almost started crying on the bus, listening to "Apt. #5" by Julie Ruin. It felt a lot like having my heart shredded into a thousand tiny pieces. It felt a lot like that first time he dislocated my shoulder, how I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, tried to pop it back into place, cried where at least no one could see, though I'm sure he could hear me through the wall. So I tried to listen to something happier, forced myself to mouth the words to "The Punk Singer" and remind myself of this summer when really all I could think was:

you can tell anyone anything you want
but if you're gonna talk about how i deserved what you did
you can look now cause i'm gone

I remember being fifteen, writing Julie Ruin lyrics on scraps of paper and taping them over my bed like protective charms and I think it just might have worked, because nothing bad ever happened to me in that bed. It seems like an awfully long time ago, but sometimes it's so close to me that it hurts and every aching joint is a reminder.

I rode my bike today, just from Peabody to Bachelor, but it felt good to move fast against the wind, even if it meant the snow clumping thick on my eyelashes. I listened to Rancid and pedaled away some of the dread that's been following me around, singing along with the same old songs, pulled desperately between forgetting and remembering this past summer. I want it to be warm, I want to ride around town with my stereo in the basket, I want to have bike parties and picnics and I want to feel like I can write again because lately all I do is literally drag words out of myself and work desperately to get them down on paper.

There are moments (like right now) where I feel almost hopeful, ready to try a little bit harder, to treat myself a little better. But mostly it is an uphill struggle and I am constantly doubting myself, wondering how it got to be this way.

The Beer

I said that I didn't want to be up late, and I don't, but I am. Up so late that I can't seem to do anything except listen to "The Beer" on repeat and whisper to myself, "No, I'm rock and roll," thinking about how I spent December 30th and what I wrote in my journal after I came home that night:

Last night was Marty, "This one time, I was on mushrooms and it was great until my buddy left and my stomach started to hurt and I started thinking that I should just fucking cut myself open and take my stomach out," and Alex's hands over her face while I whispered, "Oh god, oh my god." Last night was Kayla making banana pancakes and her new boyfriend, whose name I can't spell, saying, "So, have you ever heard of the Unicorns?" And all of us going, "Uh, yeah." Last night was a list of Jay-Z's 99 problems (3. Overcompensates, 23. Sometimes gets tired of being Jay-Z, 40. Afraid of the dark, 57. Bested by allergies, 68. Will someday die) and the invention of a new dating show, Cool or Tool? which we will someday take to public access tv. Last night was reminiscing about the Good Old Days, Marty laughing, "Man, I used to be way too into coke. I'd put a fucking gram in a bottle of Mountain Dew, shake it up, and drink it. It made your whole stomach numb." Last night was the phone ringing and Marty screaming HELLO! in a crazy voice, only to pick the phone up and have the best of manners. Last night was Kayla making a big pot of green tea and everyone smoking so many cigarettes that individually owned packs became community property and lighters were tossed back and forth across the table. Last night was Autumn and Marty, "Remember when we were stoned and we thought that there was a cap over the earth and stars were really just holes in the cap? Remember that?" Last night was, "Is there anything that I can do to make you more uncomfortable?" Last night was walking out to the car in the dark, Skippy lumbering toward us in a ridiculous oversized hoody. Last night was, "Don't even say hi, Skippy" and "It's fucking dark, I don't know who you are!" Last night was Alex, dropping me off and "I think your heart can only break so many times before it's broken forever. God. That was really sad, I'm really sorry that I said that."

Right now I'm homesick: for my own bed, for Kayla's kitchen, for sunlight coming in my windows in the morning and the feeling of someone's arms around me and the sound of the wind rushing through the attic. I'm trying hard to make it through the days, to remember that there is some good out there.

Loose Lips

It rained today. I rode the bus home from class, my knees still knocking from a reading of "City between cycles of light" by Eleni Sikelianos (which I can only wish was as awesome as Ash's reading of "Milk" by James Schuyler.) I was walking into Peabody as Mike was running out, rushing to catch the bus to the theater. A few minutes later, he messaged me on AIM:

dear kathee

my life is incomplete without

you

i'd like to see you someday without a fast post-busride passing.

lets make a date. K? K

ttyl

~Mikey

Later, coming out of 304, I saw him standing outside the theater. I rushed over, my Adidas jacket slipping off of my shoulders and my ponytail swinging, gave him a big hug and smashed my headphones into his face.

How much do I love my friends? So much.

The rain soaked through me and I went home to change, peeled off my navy tank top and blow dried my hair. Warm weather always makes me think of home, skipping school with Britt, blasting "Tall Cans" by Transplants and throwing our hands in the air at each, "Fuck you!"

I worry a lot these days and write the same thoughts over and over again in my diary. It's hard to believe that I'll be student teaching next semester and graduating next spring. Part of me believes that I have all the time in the world and the rest of me knows that I will be out of time before I know it. Karen and I have been talking about "after college" a lot lately. She has this really great, clear idea of what she wants to do and I'm totally clueless.

In my dream world, I would apply for the Iowa Writers' Workshop or grad school at the Evergreen State College. In my dream world, I wouldn't have to worry about money or student loans. I just don't know what I'm going to do when I don't have college to hide behind anymore.

Last weekend I was digging through my closet in search of a souvenir from Summer in Oxford '07, one of the all-time low points in my life, and I found: old Chuck Taylors, a tiny blue coin purse (since repurposed), and a letter from April. I reread the letter on Sunday morning before leaving to come back to school (to home, to I-don't-know) and I had to work hard not to cry.

Later that day, I drove back to Oxford with Karen, stripping my clothes off at red lights and singing along to Blink 182 and Bikini Kill. When we were on the way from Franklin to Oxford, we listened to the Mountain Goats, sang along to "This Year," "The Best Ever Death Metal Band Out of Denton," and "Palmcorder Yajna."

I think I am going to give up introspection for Lent.

I Wish I Was Him

It's dark and rainy today. There was a wind tunnel on the front porch blowing my hair into my eyes while I waited for the bus.

James called last night and a tiny part of me fell apart, jumping up from my seat in Mike's room and sprinting down the hall. I thrust my phone into Karen's face and she said, "Calm down, find your inhaler, go tell Shiree."

I called him back and we spoke for what I think might be the last time. He said, "I've decided I can't take it here anymore. I'm leaving on the 14th." And maybe a month ago, I would have been sad, but last night I was just relieved, hanging up and lying face down on my bed, my heart trembling from all of the Albuterol.

Today I went to the library and stayed there exactly long enough to listen to: "Wave of Mutilation," "I Bleed," and "Here Comes Your Man." I checked out six books of poetry and walked to work where I listened to my three favorite Kathleen Hanna songs: "I Wish I Was Him," "Heartbeat with a Message to Mike Watt," and "Steppin' Up to the Mic." There's something safe and comforting about Kathleen's solo songs, but at the same time they remain deeply powerful and dangerous for me. When I listen, I never know whether I'm going to sing along or start crying.

Today in Mary's class we had a writing workshop. We listened to mediocre music and wrote about whatever we wanted to. I wrote five pages that ended like this:

It's around one thirty when Dave's truck pulls up. Kayla hugs me and says, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," runs down the front steps - still in her pajamas - and they drive away. I have trouble sleeping that night. I can't stop thinking about Kayla - the two of us sitting on the floor of her mother's room, sharing a slice of cassata cake, the strawberries cut up like little hearts.

I wish that I could really write.

I've been reading a lot of poetry lately and sometimes I think that reading poetry is one of my favorite things to do. I've been writing lately. Not poetry, but sentence fragments. I've been trying to reconstruct and, sometimes, deconstruct my own History. I am trying to make sense of myself. Most of this happens in sentence fragments, like this:

Remember February, 2003:
The year that Dave was frosting cakes part-time and talking about dropping out?
Britt and I were planning our own escape-
we had it all mapped out on a white board.
I woke up on Valentine's Day to find a stolen garden gnome on my front steps.
Later, I broke up with him (for good this time - except later we got back together.)
Dave made me a cake, frosted: "Congratulations, Kathee" on it
and we threw a dance party at my house and Kayla dyed her hair in the kitchen sink and Jason broke the gnome while dancing.
Later on, Britt's steady hands pieced him back together.

And even though it is my own writing, it will never reflect my feelings and memories quite as accurately as this stanza from "Archipelago" by Marge Piercy:

Yet always we do meet
as we grow older and more
ourselves, we meet
flashing in and out
of trouble, we meet
as the decades swell and buckle,
openly in cafes, clandestinely
on corners, at apartments
camped in overnight
scattered through ramshackle cities,
we meet and always
you are one of the friends
I think of in my life.

Nine Lives to Rigel Five

Last night was ignoring the sage advice of, "Dress to get fucked!" in favor of jeans and an old Int'l Noise Conspiracy t-shirt and a yellow sweater with a bunch of goofy lace trim. Last night was, "Oh my god, that guy's in my cohort," and being the only girl at the party with her hair in pigtails. Last night was dancing with Brandon in spite of the absence of good dance music. Last night was a party at Mikey's, where the first keg is always honey brown and the rest are always Natty Light. Last night was Brandon shouting, "Are you serious?" and my own vindictive self responding, "I know, Crimpasaurus Rex, right?" Last night was the arches of my feet trembling and the tendons in my neck straining, my whole self overwhelmed with memories of the first party, the last party, and a need for everything to mean something.

---

I've been rereading old diaries, like I always am, looking for moments that can be salvaged and made into something bigger. Last night I had to write a poem for Mary's class. I struggled to stitch images together, to make sense out of 296 pages of my own cramped handwriting. (The last sentence of my old diary, p. 223: I had a good time tonight.)

It amazes me how entire nights can be reconstructed from the most ridiculous things:

4900 Rialto rd.
Westchester, OH 45069

5:45

Sabor Peruano

The Sickness Unto Death

There is no date on this entry, no notes explaining the meaning of numbers and names, but I still remember everything: especially the parts that didn't get written down. Distance makes everything seem profound. But none of this is something that can be written about.

Life During Wartime

There is something about working in the writing center that makes me want to bite my lips raw.

Today I was writing in my journal during class when I heard something odd, heard words that sounded familiar. I looked up slowly, shyly, and listened as Mary read from my show and tell essay. My hand, almost unconsciously, began to scrawl the words "heart attack" over and over in my journal. Later, the essay was handed back to me, Mary's loose cursive filling up the margins:

Kathryn, you've one of the most sophisticated syntactic styles in class -- readable, compelling, smart. I loved this first piece because it bodes extremely well for the term's writing. Hooray! Mary F.

I have been exploring old journals, examining my development over the years, seeking for signs of the "syntactic sophistication" that Mary believes I have. So far, I have had no luck.

However, looking through old journals has helped me reconstruct the past. In February of 2002, I saw Kiddo, Yo La Tengo, Holly Golightly, Of Montreal, and Frank Black and the Catholics. I am 99% sure that I don't really remember any of these shows, that if I didn't keep a journal, I wouldn't even know that I had gone. I also wouldn't remember that this was a time in my life that involved a near offensive overuse of the word "rad." There is a lot that I don't remember anymore, but sometimes it comes back to me in flashes. Last weekend I drove to Cincinnati with Karen and Shiree and had to fight back tears at the sight of a billboard reading, "We buy ugly houses!" The strangest sights can evoke the saddest memories.

Sometimes I think I keep a journal to remind myself of why I am the way I am; I keep a journal to remind myself of why I flinch when someone touches me, why I can't look anyone in the eye, why I run.

Here are two journal entries about two different nights with two months between them. In real life, they're like two separate worlds. On paper, they don't seem so different.

From my journal, April, 2006:

Last night was bad music and good friends. It was walking around barefoot and sipping fizzy orange punch. Last night was trying to sneak photos of Brenton sipping out of his flask and listening to Craig tell amazing stories about his band performing at a kindergarten graduation and how he would intimidate other kids in his high school's marching band. Last night was sort of dancing and mostly lurking and spending hours in Hilary's room being stupid and doing teenage girl things. Last night was singing along way too loud to "Lola" and "Jesse's Girl." Last night was piling into Shiree's car and sneaking into the art building so that Hilary could show us her Dream Box. Last night was sloppy introductions and my heart beating way too fast. Last night was thinking "I have to call April so that I can tell her how lame and beautiful all of this is." Last night was ginger ale and toasted rolls with powdered sugar. Last night was buying Fruit Stripes gum and putting the tattoos on our tongues and arms and collar bones. Last night was Davida going "No, you have to wear this dress and stripping all of my clothes off while I squealed "No, don't!" and hoped that no one would notice all of my freckles. Last night was footless tights and open-toed shoes and Hilary giving us all fake moles with a brown eye-pencil. Last night was planning for next year and talking about how amazing things are going to be. Last night was talking with Craig about Young Adult books and how amazing it is to write and read about kids and how it's so grown up, but no grown ups seem to notice. Last night was sweet and shy and sort of like a John Hughes movie where Hilary and I lurked on the sidelines and danced awkwardly and teased each other and everyone around us. Last night was Brenton opening up his umbrella and saying "Are you two being catty? Can I be catty with you?"

From my journal, July, 2006:

Last night was cruising the dollar bins at Target for presents. Last night was running through the rain to get to the car and parking so close to the trees that I had to climb over the seats to get out the driver's side door. Last night was hundreds of bottle caps arranged in a mosaic reading "Thugz' Mansion" on the table in the back room. Last night was Paul T. jumping out of a second story window and bouncing high up into the air on a well-placed trampoline. Last night was Skippy leaping off of the stairs to land between me and Alex, as acrobatic as he was in high school, but not as cute with his head shaved. Last night was getting out of the car and hearing Matt Lee shout: "We bought you root beer!"

Last night was Kayla, half drunk, shouting: "Do you know what was on tv last week?" and then both of us screaming: "Valley Girl!" Last night was talking with her so fast about so much that Skippy just leaned back with this bemused smile on his face and said, "I'm just trying to figure out what the fuck you're saying."

Last night was Kate passing out in Kayla's mom's bed and Paul saying something, I can't remember what. I just know that I said: "I'm not sure if that was incredibly noble or extremely callous" and that Paul responded with: "Yeah, I've been reading a lot of Hemingway lately."

Last night was drinking blood orange soda from a giant bottle that Alex had labeled sXe and feeling so hot that I couldn't stand to have my hair on my neck, which made me think of Bob, scowling in the summer sun and saying: "Don't touch me. It's hot," every time someone came near him. Last night was making plans for a John Cusack movie marathon and shouting lines from Empire Records. Last night was pretty much epic.

Craters on the Moon

I ran for miles today, my feet cycling through the cross-trainer while I listened to "Gangsters and Thugs" and Sleater Kinney's cover of "More Than A Feeling." Karen and I picked up Davida and ate a late dinner (brown rice with mustard greens, carrots, onions, and squash, salad with raspberry vinaigrette, lemon pepper chicken - all organic), showered, and watched "The Life Aquatic." We both sighed towards the end, as each crew member placed their hands on Steve in the fading glow of the Jaguar Shark. Karen said, "What a beautiful moment," and she was right.

I have been going through old books of mine, each one dated on the inside of the front cover (date of purchase, date first read, date of something). "The Rules of Attraction," bought over Winter break of last year. Passages underlined throughout: pg. 164, "I wonder if everyone goes through this much hell at college?" Pg. 261, "No one ever likes the right person," I say. "That's not true," he says. "I like you."

I got an e-mail from a friend today. He said, So I had a dream where we happened to run across each other at some type of camp ground, and decided to waltz together as our "hello."

I've never waltzed before and I can't imagine waltzing hello with anyone. Normally my hellos are subdued, contained, ritualistic. I greet the same people in the same ways, over and over. I keep myself closed up inside, rarely letting anyone touch me in a way that matters. There are hellos called out from bicycles, one hand waving and the other steadying my handlebars. There are kisses hello, leaning across the front seat of the car to brush my lips against Alex's cheek. There are, rarely, hugs and sometimes high fives. Mostly, I avert my eyes and hope for the best.

I haven't written in my diary in almost three days. This morning April called and I paced in the hallway while talking to her, thinking of the book on my desk with the yellow card catalogue card wedged into it, marking a poem by April Lindner. I can't remember when or why I saved it, but there it was.

First Kiss by April Lindner

This collision of teeth, of tongues and lips,
is like feeling for the door
in a strange room, blindfolded.
He imagines he knows her
after four dates, both of them taking pains
to laugh correctly, to make eye contact.
She thinks at least this long first kiss
postpones the moment she'll have to face
four white walls, the kitchen table,
its bowl of dry petals and nutmeg husks,
the jaunty yellow vase with one jaunty bloom,
the answering machine's one bloodshot eye.