Nora

To whom it may concern:

Listen, trust me, I know. It feels so important- so irreplaceable- so deep. Like a blessing dressed up in a curse. You’re sure it’s worth it- those disagreements are evidence of the love- the passion, obviously. But you’ll both grow tired- it’ll exhaust you eventually. And I swear, you’ll make each other miserable with no reprieve. You won’t make each other whole-er, complete-er, better, or safer. You can’t fix him and you’ll get fed up with his attempts to fix you. You’ll slowly see that hard love isn’t best love. And challenging love isn’t an indicator of true love. Maybe you’ll move away and be loveless for years and years. His affections-attentions-criticisms will be missed. No one else is interested in holding your chubby little hands or listening to your loud mouth. But hey- trust me- being alone doesn’t make you less alive. It makes you a better writer and a better friend. You’ll become smarter and more interesting. When he’s not your purpose, you’re free. And we can’t blame him- only ourselves. Only our weakness and dependency. Only our yearning for love. We accept the blame and stop asking him to make us whole-er, complete-er, better, or safer. Congratulations, welcome- You’ve arrived. You’re real and growing. You’re you, I’m me, and there’s got to be a soft rain falling somewhere. Its time to start new.

Sincerely,

Nora

 

Smoke

I hate these moments- when invisible smoke from a stranger’s cigarette sends me reeling back to you. And instead of reacting with nausea or choking, I find myself transported-eyes-closed to a time that reeks of you. The dialogues are lost- I can’t recall a single word. But in spite of my independence, resolve and will- a soft smile spreads across my face and my hand reaches for yours. It is nowhere to be found so I settle for the cell phone in my pocket.

Kat

She’s defined by her insecurities. Branded by a few glaring flaws- and embellished with the imperfections no one else seems to notice. With every step she takes, she feels uneasy. Stung by the compliments and encouragement from on-lookers. She’s the bad haircut everyone dreads- we’re all just waiting for her to grow out and fix herself- even up around the edges.

Maybe she’s self aware to a painful extreme, or maybe she’s never seen herself at all. She can’t love anyone because she only understands them in relation to herself.

She regrets each message she sends. Each smile. Each joke. Each choice. Each t-shirt. She’s boring- unfilmable, unpoetic. Tortured but not deeply enough to make art or interesting conversation. She feels guilty for feeling so selfish- the loathing deepens- and so it goes.  There are so many photos she wishes she were posed differently in. So many sweaters she dreams of fitting. Glasses she wants to wear and eyes she’d die to catch.

But never is this yearning enough to move forward. Eat an apple- do a sit up- strum a guitar- save a little money- hold her tongue. Maybe she’s too hard on herself- or not hard enough.

In the mean time we listen to her problems and prop her up in the corner. We cheer her on and try to convince her she’s not half-bad. She’ll catch on or she won’t. Oh Kat.

Summer Reading

I’ve always loved reading. This summer (will help from my lovely Aunts) I painted an ideal bookshelf. Choosing ten books wasn’t easy. Some of them are my favorites. Others I really admire. And some of them have influenced my identity as a reader/writer/book enthusiast.

The Bible is the center book on my shelf, because I want it to be the center book in my life. I hope this doesn’t sound cliche or trite, but the words in these other nine books don’t matter if I’m not trusting in the words of the Bible. There are lessons and truths and themes in Hemingway, Bradbury and even Dahl, but these are the imperfect words of men. The things I write aren’t perfect either. That’s the difference. God’s word is a level of perfection that even the most esteemed literary classic can’t reach.

Fantastic Mr. Fox isn’t the absolute best Roald Dahl ever wrote, but I do love it. I love all of his children’s books and most of his short stories. Dahl’s sense of humor and sometimes macabre wit are so much fun.

I read Dandelion Wine years ago, but I remember thinking as a 12 year old dweeb, “woahh check out those descriptions!!” The more Bradbury I read, the more often I find myself gushing over the level of detail in his prose and the ease of his descriptions. Even in his science-fiction/fantasy writing, I really admire his abilities.

Some people call The Magicians “Harry Potter for grown ups.” I wonder if this comparison is starting to get on Lev Grossman’s nerves…but I can’t help linking the two series together. When I read about Quentin and Fillory for the first time two years ago, I fell in love. The story is less altruistic than Harry Potter’s, and the characters can’t be boxed up so easily. The characters have really dark moments- they’re messy and blurry and confused and selfish and strained. They grow up and fall in love and their dreams are realized. And sometimes they aren’t realized and instead they’re blinded by disappointment. I’m so ready to dig into the sequelllll….

I painted “The Sun Also Rises” because I hate Brett and I admire Hemingway. I’m not sure if it’s my favorite of his books, but it’s definitely the one I’ve read the most- and it’s taught me a lot about Hemingway’s style. His swag if you will. For example, I am fairly confident Hemingway would never use the word swag. See how learned I am?

I STINKING LOVE HARRY POTTER. And #3 is my favorite because I love Sirius Black so much. Sirius is witty and clever. He’s blunt and passionate. He’s been through the hell of Azkaban and is still able to love intensely. Partly, I am so attracted to Sirius because he is Harry’s first real family member. Everyone deserves a loving familial experience- I love watching Harry meet his godfather.

I read The Giver with my favorite English teacher. Since then I’ve read tons of utopian/distopian stories and enjoyed most of them- but Lowry’s story has stuck with me. I reread it three summers ago and it touched me just as much after all those years. I am not a visual artist by any stretch of the imagination, but I did really like the way The Giver‘s book spine turned out in the painting. It is simple- but the black and white of the cover takes me right back to the colorless world Lowry spins in her book.

Jonathan Safran Foer is one of my favorite authors. Hearing him speak at the National Book Festival last fall actually inspired me. Everything is Illuminated is an awesome representation of him as an author because he’s written himself into the story. Also, I am really encouraged by the real story behind the book. Foer wrote this book when he was so young. I’m pretty young too. Maybe I can write something cool before I’m 50? Foer did it before he turned 30.

I like Krakauer simply because of his journalistic approaches. He writes the feature stories that I love so much in longform. And people read them! I want to do that! Into the Wild really really stirred something in me. Chris McCandless’ story impacted me in a big way. In the heart-wrenching sort of way.

To Kill a Mockingbird is the first real book that I felt proud to complete. I remember being excited to finish Take Me to the Zoo because it had the word “hippopotamus” in it. And I read The Hobbit in the fifth grade which is probably an accomplishment, but I’m not sure if I totally understood it all. But reading about Scout, Atticus, Jem, Boo and the rest of Harper Lee’s characters felt good. When I put the book down I was pretty sure I’d experienced something great. Something that old lady librarians and college professors and high school hipsters and civil rights activists all valued.

Driving

You pick me up after my parents are in bed. This way I don't feel guilty for missing out on opportune quality time with them. I slam the door shut and lean my seat back as far as it will go as you put the top down. Hottest day of the year makes for the perfect midnight convertible ride.

 

You tell me about your boys. Some of them suck, I remind you. Most of them are cute, we agree. All of them need to grow up, we change the radio station and drive a little faster. I love this song. "I got this CD at the library today," I'm earnestly excited to tell you that for some reason. You laugh- my nerdiness is adorable to you- because we're best friends.

 

We're quiet for a while because it feels right. I remember the people who used to sit where you're sitting. I loved those people too. And they're gone but I'm willing myself not to regret that. I close my eyes- breathe breathe - and open. The stars multiplied since the last time I looked. I stare straight up- the power lines on either side of this country road frame the starry picture. It's almost like an orderly staff for the twinkling notes in the black sky. Our headlights shine on the trees, making them look cartoonish- as if we're driving through the illustrations in Where The Wild Things Are. Or that scene in The Lion King where Simba sees his dad in the stars above the Savannah. And I'm so comfortable. My skin and hair have a film from today's sweat and tonights wind-whipping ride. It's so muggy and thick. It's summer.

 

We keep on driving and we don't dare think of some other way to spend our evening. We drive through town for the ten thousandth time tonight and see familiar cars at the bar. We talk about what it would be like if we stopped by- just to say hello. Then we drive on. I sing you the next few songs that play over the radio and you just laugh.

Benjamin

Exhaling slowly, you brace yourself. You clean your glasses with the corner of the blue button down shirt you painstakingly selected from the six shirts hanging in your closet. You walk into your class reunion and find only the most popular percentile there. You’re the only one who walked to the bar because you don’t have a car of your own. You’re the only one who lives in those apartments behind McDonalds. You’re the only one with nothing to say. You clean your glasses a second time.

So why did you come? What were you expecting? Its only been five years- none of these people have grown up. Sure a couple of them are married. One has a baby. Most of them went away to college- at least for awhile. That doesn’t mean they’ve changed at all. They probably feel mature and their accomplishments are shinier than yours. You work and you walk and you eat and you sleep. Not exactly a sophisticated schedule. But you’ve still grown. You understand. Hey, you might even be well on your way to wisdom. You’ve learned to treat every human interaction like it matters- because each one really does matter to you. A smile and a wave to those girls from high school isn’t a polite conditioned response for you. You mean it. When the former captain of the basketball team asks what you’ve been up to, you answer, “work,” but you mean one thousand other things. You’ve strained and groaned to lift loads heavier than you thought possible. You’ve fallen in love with the girl  who jogs passed your apartment every day. Your boss values you. Your coworkers do sometimes. Your grandfather passed away- he was your greatest friend in the world. Your dad lost his job. You were the employee of the month in June. You know how a transmission works. You understand the strategy behind a game of chess. You look back on high school with fondness- and you pray that these classmates of yours remember a few positive things about you too.

The band playing in this bar is terrible. You like music. Maybe that’s a good way to strike up a conversation. A member of the homecoming court buys you a beer. You smile. You say, “Thanks.” You hope he understands. You mean it.

Vacationing

I haven’t been to the beach in eight years or so. I love it. The whole idea of the seashore. The smell of the salt water. The leisure.

So now that I’m back in this place I’ve idealized so much, I’m refusing to let any of its charm slip by without my noticing. I’m approaching it with a stubborn attitude. My Aunt calls me a kamikaze beach-goer. No sunscreen. No trips inside to the hotel. Minimal shade. I keep returning to the water even though it’s freezing and crowded. No seashells are left un-gathered.  After every stroll down the boardwalk I run back to the beach to reapply a coating of sand to my legs and feet. When the sun goes down I come look at the waves in the dark. When it starts to rain, I let the pages of my summer reading get soggy. I’m not leaving any of this behind.