keyculator, stoop and hall

already oh dear the thought where is it
it is an unflinching thing. sharp.


maybe what i liked was the unfamiliar. or wthat's what i crave. or think i did. bc i adjust to everythihng. chameleon. sinking into patterns. i crave that sinking in feeling. the passageway. maybe that's why i'm sitting in the hall right now. sitting in the floor, looking at the painting and the dust and my feet, and here's my cup of wine, and i hear jerel playing a game at the end of the hall, all the sounds. but i don't look at my hands and that's good and okay. i am just thinkig thoughts almost. isn't this ohow i think? it's sentences. it didn't used to be. i am not sure, i've wondered always, what form do other people's thoughts take? what's their shape? jerel says there's always images. that's more rare for me.
look at that. my cat comes back. the end of the hall. an angel! he's learning the house, nervous, stalking. he's learning the circle. the house is two concentric circles sort of. the hall is the main vein. there are times i avoid it. there are times it feels unnecesssary to my movement, my destination.
jerels' game is getting loud. i should close the doors.


four pockets, four directions.
a stone - a rock, really. i recognize it as one of my own, sitting on my parents' coffee table. i slip it into my front right pocket. a fake flower - fabric. pink. i like it. i was looking for whatever mom thinks willikers was playing with in the (non) living room. i don't see much / i see too much. the flower could be the thing? maybe, maybe not. but i like the color. (my room needs color.)
a twist tie - the color of cardboard. implies "recycled" or "natural" unlike the blue/white/yellow ties normally found on bags of bagels and the like. i don't know what it came off of. i feel like this is a thing that i always expct to be there, and never ever am i gonna pay for it. here is one on teh counter, unused. pocket
packet corner - the plastic yellow corner of a bag of cough drops from the floorboard of my sister's car. i am suupposed to open them for her. i do not litter. i take trash towards me. i bring it home. (i am home.) i bring trash home. i bring it towards its home, my body. you get it.

i wish i could remember which pocket housed which item. why do i wish that? what purpose would that really serve? it's not like pants have directions. i can assign them as i wish, as i prescribe to where my mind/body/center sits.

two weeks ago at movie night, franklin made popcorn, two delicious huge bowls. at some point near the end of the bowl, i wish i remembered the cue (she probably does) morgan tells me "i've been holding these kernels in my hand." i tell her "i put mine in my pocket." she asks "will you take mine too?" and i put her moist discarded mouth seeds into the pit of my pocket. along with my own, i am sowing them for somethign, the possibility of the pocket.
the pocket
the portal
the pocket
the portal
i wish i had a cigarette
i'm tempted to go buy one
instead i am gonna look for my rolling papers and make an herbal thingie. raspberry leaf and uva ursi and shit. and maybe some of this cbd business that smells like weed but isn't. let's try. i have the urge to be under moon, under wind. i dont' want to leave my cat, but the night is calling me. the cards want the night. i am listening.

p.s. when i took off those pants and found those treasures, i put on new pants and found new ones - selenite and bitten off finger nails. what to do with such things!

i'm surprised how much video game noise distracts me. (am i?)

(wondering, did you turn the game down once you heard me moving outwards? or did it just get to a quiet part?)

realizing i'm sneaking again. SNEAKING in my own home! is it for fun or is it from fear?
i realize i'm trying to small myself, curl up, walk toe to heel down the whole hall. i've already left my slippers in the kitchen to be quieter. i realize my throat is tight, closed.
this was one of the things, one of the whole same things. open open open. project. speak. fill. this one is so big. i just want to sing and squeak. instead i smoke and drink. i dont know. i dont know.
i see it.
i'm working on it.
right now i am going to smoke this herbal thing intentionally. i am drinking wine. i maybe should just sleep but i feel like this is one of *those* nights. is that fair?
i dont' care. i'm trying to follow the impulses. i'm trying to feel which are mine, if that exists.

what about holding space for the dialogue between air and electricty? earth and plastic? i know we have enough worshippers of pollution. but how can we have a beter conversation?
i don't entirely know what i'm thinking.
just remembering feeling a magic in electric light, from a distance, like a wish of fairies. the intimacy of parking lots. (and of course their opposites, going both ways. the loneliness of parking lots. the intimacy of a thicket of trees.) what have we actually changed by replacing plants with concrete? what spirits linger here now?

p.s. feather of swords is lookiing up at me when i open the box - after court last shuffled. i hold the cards just for a moment - the only peek i get is the lovers, reversed. just the bottom left 1/8 of the card, but i recognize it. goddamn.
okay.
gonna use a spread i saw on instagram a few months back and have been meaning to try. lets see.

things yr gonna do

start a workshop series

host movie night

host writing group

host salons

host art hours

make an installation show

write a script

make a zine

publish an essay

release an album

tour a show

write a biography

i have all this big glorious thoughts about reminding people about magic
but all of my actual ideas feel grotesque or at least dark

MY BODY HAS A LOT TO SAY

and it’s full of revelations

firstly being how right kat’s dance teacher is that if you want to write you have to first move. i switched up my body and my mind woke up. so full so sure.

it’s not that “everything happens for a reason.”
it’s that everything means something. (does it? me who loves nonsense, do i really believe that?) or maybe it’s more like nothing happens in a vacuum. everything is attached to something. but maybe everything does have meaning and if it seems like nonsense it’s because the riddle isn’t unscrambled yet? after all, we’re just the conduits.

driving along and thinking about the past, my past self. my happy list - the joy in simple things. picnics and mud and swings and dancing. just friends. those are all the real things. when did it get so bogged down? and when did i decide that my depression has always been eating me alive?? i mean it has but it’s not like i never enjoyed anything. i felt miserable in a cruel world that made me hate myself and makes people have to do horrible things to keep up with it. i was never actually the problem. i had so much passion and energy and i knew what was important!!! i’ve got to get that back.

and that was another revelation - all along six of cups. for months six of cups - good memories, childhood, family, roots, growth. i have to remember how to play. i have to get some of that child essence back. to be good and do good and CLOWN and remember how to be happy.

HARRY COULD ALMOST CRY AT THIS SIMPLE GIFT OF THE UNIVERSE.

i’ve been staring at it all along and i never really saw it. i’ve been saying yes yes i know and thinking it has to do with being home but now i see it’s about something i’m missing, or don’t have enough of, something essential. REMEMBERING TO PLAY. remembering to move. appreciating sensual experiences. i see now how i have to kill some of the adult learned bullshit to get back to a place where i felt better being a blank slate. (i’ve looked for that feeling so many places. sex, masochism, drinking, fire, internet, candy crush, dancing. playingggg and moving without myself is the best one. yeah?!)

i have to say thank you to the clown gods for being patient with me on this one. i’m sorry i had to ask so many times. i need to find a better way to process these tarot readings. through dance, maybe??? today i had the urge to get off after the reading, to be open and explode pleasure in the presence of the cards. i thought that would give them energy. obviously they don’t need it! i’m the one who needs the movement, the rhythm, the process!!!! to take it into my mind it has to come through my body. or vice versa.

is it a gift that the clown gods, the earth messengers, others, out there, are communicating with me? i guess they must talk to everyone like this, but not everyone listens (or knows how to). not trying to talk like i’m some great listener!! obviously i missed the six of cups message for months. (why haven’t they given up on me??) but i want to learn and i want to do better. better, bigger, harder, brighter magic. i want to make it good enough. i hope they’ll keep helping me understand how.

also side note i really need to get “brett” or whatever skeptical voice out of my head so that my thoughts stop getting distracted. ugh. at this point, how can i even doubt????

moments of clarity

brighter, harder, bigger MAGIC

feeling it today, feeling good. remembering that i don't need to swing wildly from the extremes of "i'm the worst" to "i'm so special and good" and actually there's this nice safe place in the middle. i'm not better than other people. i think everyone has the capacity to tap into magic, to pull down the moon, breathe fire. maybe i have some different channels open than other people do, but that doesn't make me better or special. i don't need to be huge, or be a star, or change the whole damn world, if i can change who's in the room, speak truths, bring in the small magic.

follow the fool
follow the impulse
the body knows something the mind doesn't

DANCE FREAK DANCE!!!!!!! DANCE FOOL DANCE!!!!!!!!
that would be an awesome queer dance party, lets make that happen. where??

i hear the right songs and i CAN'T NOT MOVE. i know what they are. cultivate htem and put them together. let's have a fucking dance party already. i can take it to the woods. i can take it anywhere.
i can take the clown to the woods without the nose, the hat, the covered body. i can clown wherever i need to, with anything. haven't i always??? when did i get hung up on accoutrements?!!? yes i want to keep learning and growing, yes i've got to evolve it all. but when did i ever want to do only one thing? can't i be clowning and dancing and following no rules? except the main one - give up give up give up. give up your thoughts and give your body over and let the gods move through you. stop thinking stop thinking stop wishing stop wanting. this is all there is, now.

yes okay fine the question of the audience, but right now they're not here. it's just me in my room. and sometimes i IMAGINE they're there, and that trips me up, traps me. i can't let them come in. it's dancing more than anything else because i fear the predatory eyes and the judgment and they think they own my body. i want to say, when i feel that gaze, my whole body will revolt, contort, i will become bug and beast. never for you never for you never for you.

take it through. if they want to come to your world, they can be an audience and we'll talk together. if they want to ride the wave and the rhythm of this mess, we can make it work together. they don't just get to come here and make demands.

keep the mind open keep the body moving
find new eyes find new power
yes yes yes yes feel that fire !!!!

can we always be dancing?? can we warm up wake up dancing every day? how can we try?
(we need a floor first, oh yeah)

stop thinking

listen i'm not even drinking
listen i'm stone cold sober
(unless you count adderall, 9 hours before)
i'd like to keep talking but i need to go take care of the dogs and then pack and then blah

maybe there is a lesson here about HOW I AM FUCKING OVERTHINKING EVERYTHING IN MY FUCKING LIFE and it shouldn't take this long or this much stress to pack. i'm going to the woods, but what do i really need?? a toothbrush and some clothes and a flashlight. why do i think i need more?

please alanna please stop being so sucked in by the computer. you think you need to know stuff that you don't need to know. most of what you are doing is actually hoarding. much of the time you are just following a line of tabs that never get read or watched and just pile up and pile up. REMEMBER WHEN you didn't miss that???? remember the communes in 2015 and remember the freedom of being phoneless in the loony bin???? you can't know everything and it stops mattering. the focus shifts. you've got to get to that. you've got to get to your body and intuition and the computer is neither of those things. you've got to stop. you're going to stop right now and you're going to stop writing and turn off the computer and go do the htings you have to do. you're going to cleanse your body and spirit in the woods, in the mud, in the river. when you come home, you're going to organize your fucking room and set up a fucking work space. you're going to make some fucking art. you're going to write. you're going to get one of those copyediting jobs and bring in some green beans. things are on the move and they're going to happen but we have to make them happen.

CAN WE DO A TWO WEEK COMPUTER CLEANSE OR SOME SHIT

okay here we go

do you remember the children's book "frederick" by leo lionni?

the good feeling i've been riding took a dip last night and i'm worried it'll run away and i still won't have pinned it down at all. it's so hard to even believe it enough to say it, or if i manage to find the words, they'll become only that, and the feeling will fade. but now that it's a question it's better to just do it... right?

i can already feel myself overthinking this. that is the last thing i want to do. what do i have? i have these fast fast fingers and i can type my brain better than i think! i can write the words my mind makes up! i can sound like a real me in text! (i know because laylee told me that 15 years ago and rex told me so today and so i have to BELIEVE or what if i lose it or what if there's something important i could be doing that i miss because i haven't done anything about it. you know.)

it's so hard to believe. it's so hard to let myself remember what i'm good at.

BUT after xmas after snata craws and rodent carols and another round of GREAT GROUP i was near convinced, i clowned for myself in the mirror and i was able to get there which surprised me - but why should it? donna said not to look at ourselves to practice our turns and i totally understand that advice. but so often when i look at the mirror and i see this strange face and i think this can't possibly be me or be real or be anything at all, and i just shut down. for so long i have turned away i have pushed my nails into my palms to unsee i have gritted my teeth and pushed breath through to see to be anything else. now i find that in the times in the late night in the mirror i can explore and see what this body can do. i can see how to find the biggest expressions of the face, i can elasticize.


FORGET FORGET FORGET

i forget. i forget who the body belongs to. i froget we frog together. the mirror thing, with the perfect dissociative cocktail, surprises and delights. the mirror thing becomes elastic, electric, fantastic.

the thing that hurt to look at, the thing i could never understand how to belong to, i find this thing, when stared down, goes wild. it can't behave and doesn't want to try. it wasted a lot of toilet paper.

this is only partially a new discovery. the feeling is in the body, some of it is already memorized. it's burning embers in there all the time, even though i forget.

i guess i'm rambling now. the important part is -- i have gotten so tired of beating myself up for being bad at stuff. of course that sounds very reasonable written down in such a way. but the things i'm bad at are things that many people find necessary to function - eating, sleeping, organizing belongings, remembering information, simple math, wearing clothes, forming words, etc. i don't really want to care about being bad at all that mess. it happens or it doesn't. i can't remember the names of important people or pretty much anything i learned in school. i can't remember why i hate mother teresa until i look it up on wikipedia (and promptly forget the facts again, but i remember the feeling).

i remember the feeling i remember the feeling i remember the feeling

i am toying with the idea of applying to physical theatre school. i am considering how to make my body into a rubber band or flower. i want to be able to squeeze everything out of the present moment and explode it out of myself. i want to roll around and jump and shriek and freak and confuse the fuck out of people. i want to present another way to be.

if not me, then who? if not a someone with hardly any logical memory but great arches, then what am i even around for? surely someone out there is gonna do it. surely they could stand some company.

this was all made abundantly clear, several times in fact, right around the winter solstice. as it turns out, that was right when i was completing my first saturn return - and perfect timing to say fuck you everybody, i don't care what you think, i can see so clearly what is important. (reminder of what is important: friends, love, art, magic. this is an incomplete list but you get the idea.)

morgan got back in town for the holiday and wanted to go out to the bar with friends. she picked the so-called irish pub, not knowing that a bunch of us had gone there for trivia the night before (don't worry, we lost) so many of our group didn't come along this time. and it ends up me & brett (& later kat) in the weirdos corner with morgan's most type A segment of friends all crowded into the booth on the other side and all i can say is "YEP here i am again indeed, oh and what now? i'm doing an in depth study of mental health, now that i'm back from the loony bin" and there's nothing like a night like this to remind me how much i don't want that life, with the husbands and the babies and the business casual luncheons. UGH writing that is so obvious i could just spit on myself but no no that is most of the world and i think i can be allowed to write it down occasionally. the important part here is that i maybe felt a little embarrassed at first and especially trying to explain wtf i'm doing with myself, yes back in memphis, yes living with my folks, yes again, but more than ever, i feel like answering this questions is more a nuisance than anything else. i don't really care if they judge me for the answers. i don't really give a fuck what they think, truly. are they judging me for being practically unemployed and living with my parents at 30 and oh ordering another drink this late? yes they definitely are. and am i judging them for being salaried breeders who always vote democrat? yes i definitely am. so we're even.

i'm tired of the waffling shuffling pretending i can play for both sides. when i lived in baltimore i felt like 2 people in 1 body-- a demure, polite, if slightly eccentric, part-time librarian with sensible shoes and nothing but patience, and a barefoot feral drunk at the local anarchist commune / urban farm (except not even totally that because i still had to make sure the bills got paid and be The Sensible One which is not me at all and was boring as fuck).

i'm tired of fucking around with that world pretending i can play along. i just can't hack it.
i know i know i don't have it. i'm far from it. it's been six months now since i got out of the loony bin and came home. it doesn't feel like that long but i know my folks are getting antsy for me to figure my shit out and get a move on. meanwhile i don't want to rush making a decision because that is what keeps getting me into messes, it seems like. but i think i'm getting somewhere this time. maybe.


when i was a kid we lived in a small bungalow house in the artsy neighborhood of town, before it got gentrified. the dining room in the center of the house had 8 walls, branching off to the front hallway, our bedrooms, the kitchen, the bathroom, the back yard. "the octagonal room" was the true center & the heart of the house. at that table, my mama accidentally served us inedible cake decorations at the table. at that table, we grew crystals for SIX WHOLE WEEKS on plastic toys & charcoal for a science fair project. and under that table, most importantly, we made our own world. no fort could compare to the one on the persian carpet, table cloth on all sides, and pillows snatched out of beds. what did we do under there? i'm not quite sure but it was all magical, always, because it happened there, in the secret sacred space.

that's the space i want to create for people. if i am not here to take people under the table, i'm not sure what i am doing at all.

***there are other worlds there are other worlds there are other worlds* and they are all around us**

now i've got 3 glasses of wine in me and i still haven't packed so. i'm annoyed bc i dont think i even said what i was trying to say. or it all come out wrong. fuck all. the point is, i am frederick. (or i wish i were.)

hex

I cut the cord. I take back everything I've ever given you. My time, my energy, my love, all of it is flowing out of you and back to me. I give myself these gifts. I deserve my own kindness. I have the power to heal.
You have none of me. You will feel cold and alone. You will find yourself left with nothing until you do the work of healing. Your silver tongue will turn to stone. You will get exactly what you deserve.

(sloppy words found on an envelope, some time during or after clown class, spring 2017)

i always stand there thinking I COULD DO THAT so why not?

it must take a massive leap. no more pretending to be REAL, no more faking.

i'm tired of being the Responsible one. ugh

kiss them up dearest touching (????)

kiss face to wind to sip or spin

kick up the dirt that isn't dancing

if i can't go now, i never will go

if i can't know (?) now, who will fucking tell me?

no one will mourn nor remember you

it's already too late

oh to write the things that think

before the thoughts are formed

BUT how to be so quick?!

somehow all this bland shit is just
pressing the pause button
in between what is surely
the greatest show on earth or ???
I'm craving (?) to get out of
this version of myself.
NOTHING I WANT is allowed.
is that me? or is that just
totally pathetic. i'm tired
of feeling totally pathetic.
i want it all to be a rush (?????)

i have a lot of work to do.
realize these notes will never be read.
even you will not read them.
become as indecipherable as possible.
you are not made to last.

i want to make everyone believe in magic
that is hard + true + dissonant.
i want to be bugs + dirt + children +
death. how can we bring it.
it's not here in this place with these people.
you didn't find the thing you thought.
it's not your fault. you had to try.
it's not a place, it's a feeling + a purpose. you
know that. you can't rely on a new location.
how is it that you feel more bright and
alive now that nothing is real, no one is
awake, and you've got four drinks inside?
not even blurry silly, just convinced. This is
not the hovel you're looking for. the right
answer is not gonna come in a flask. there
is no right answer. but you have to kill the
feeling that something is wrong + find out

(found words on an envelope, winter 2016 in Baltimore at Cafe Hon)

they want you to leave the restaurant. they're talking
about you and you can almost hear them. am I making
someone uncomfortable? what happened now?
too ugly? bookish? poor? smelly?


GET RID of regular pop culture in yr life
there's no room, no time. RETREAT. go back.
no point in gross fascination anymore. there's more for you to do!



why do I relate to the words of survivors?
what fucking happened to me?

• the world is old and movements are bigger than right now.
• reconnect to history
• dissociate from self
• devolve
• remember fairy tales 
• research OLD SHIT
• Magic beyond religion, beyond time - learn what this looks like. 
• WRITE
• read alt histories
• plays/scripts about rad ladies/queers
• READ MORE
• Angela Carter
• Jack Zipes

night call

i have a lot to say and a lot of need to say it. it's hard to make myself make time for writing down words. i usually write the first nugget of an idea, intending to continue later, and just never do. half the posts on this blog from the last year are unfinished, you can probably tell.

i've just been sucked into an internet wormhole for the last 2-3 hours. my latest "hobby" is obsessively saving websites i like on the wayback machine so that they are PRESERVED FOREVER by great mother internet. this evening, the category was livejournals and yes you have to click through the whole journal to get every page archived, but there's a big chunk on the screen there so you can't do a whole lot of reading while you're saving, which is very irritating and not productive.

first of all, i miss livejournal. which is blasphemous, i know, since i held out for so long and never really got so into it, always solo floundering about over here instead. but i miss the whole concept, people sharing such small thoughts and writing mostly for themselves-- for the exercise and for the document and for the hell of it. facebook has never been remotely close to that, and never will be. (that very thought makes me want to delete fucking facebook right now, but what am i gonna do, sit over there and be the only non-russian person on livejournal? no.) i wonder if people are still writing somewhere... online? on paper? word documents? and, are these people, are my friends and peers still writing at all? (other than the ones who are being paid to do it, the lucky beautiful bastards) or is it really just something that young people do? and i dunno, i guess i'm old, aren't they all on snapchat? or is there anything at all like lj for these kids nowadays. i'm saying.

and also just seeing these quick flashes, each page a new season, the ups and downs, stresses and excitements, everything so huge and overwhelming, the passion, the potential. and what are we doing now? some of us took off like rockets, having seemingly always known exactly what we wanted. but the rest of us (the real "us") seem to roll along and dip and fall and land and roll along some more. maybe i'm mostly talking about me, but it seems that it's just hard to do the things we're meant to do and harder not to hate every day. i know we're living in a broken world within a spirit-crushing, oppressive system, but to remember so clearly, to look back at all your bubbling words and feelings and the THRILL and maybe you didn't know exactly what you wanted to do with your life, but you knew what it felt like. and we none of us could make it happen.

i'm tired of blaming myself for not being good enough, for fucking up or feeling like one, for not having things "figured out." actually i do have it figured out dammit and what i figure is that this culture wasn't built for us and that's why we're broken. it's time to take it back. and i don't care if you think it sounds stupid because it's fucking true, and if you know it's true, you won't think it's stupid. so let's fucking go. i'm tired of seeing my friends with tense faces and old news and it fucking kills me and i'm so sad that you're not loving your life because you're the best and i want you to have everything and i want us to build it beautiful together.

my life is a goddamn wreck. OR IS IT??? the world is a goddamn wreck.
i have experienced beautiful wonderful terrible things.
i know there is a whole lot more out there than the tv would have me believe.
i just ate a whole bunch of delicious dumpstered goat cheese and avocado on wheat toast and it was delicious and i loved it. the whole fridge is full and all of it was free.
i've met real life witches and i've seen what's in the cupboard and it's amazing.
i know i have to make the steps to change myself.
first i'm moving to baltimore free farm, for the garden and the sweet gentle people and the warehouse event space and the evolution and the egalitarianism, and for john waters.
but the moving, as i've learned before, is not enough. i have to craft a space for myself and my community, i have to create the things i want because they don't exist, i have to make it good.
probably this means i will have to cut other things out, which will be hard, but it's long overdue.
i'll jump off that bridge when i come to it, and i'll let you know how it goes.
there are so many things i need to learn and if i don't start now, i'll be dead soon.
i really do want you all to join me, i want us to go together. it'll be so much easier, and much more fun. and if not here, then where? what does the good life look like to you? how do we get there? what's stopping us?

this is the end of the black cherry cider, and the end of the night, almost dawn. if i can sleep, i'll try for some good visions and if i remember, i'll write them down.

(found mind-mapping notes from Acorn, fall 2015)

create new + better culture

learn to dance again
learn to write (creative non-fiction)
learn to build puppets
learn art history
learn animation
theatre

DIY archivist / folklorist
-document ephemeral culture and dying culture
-oral histories, folk traditions

be a better clown
unlearn
learn new histories
tell untold stories
-write historical fiction movie scripts
-animate with morgan
vaudeville revival / traveling variety show
make zines
write letters
anachronism - move backward from electronics + technology

the lonely heart poetry droning in hearts becomes songs that all objects sing to each other

just decided to pause on the job search when i read "police chef" and thought it sounded like a great way to make money. although i'm not a very good cook, and i don't do the meat thing... still.
yes, i'm still looking for a job. yes, i turned down the offer from the property management company. i feel a bit weird about it still, but i really think i would have been doing a disservice to myself to stop looking at this point. it was my first offer, and i think i have other avenues to explore. as brett put it, "Secretary at Confederated Management is not the way to start your career as a genius." mostly he could say that because my dad had just turned up some dirt on them on the internet.

plus, i asked the runes. basically what i got is that i can't lose sight of the big picture and remember that i don't have to stick to a narrow path to reach my goals. taking that job would have lead me astray. i need to work on not settling and not being so dependent. i got really flustered about how impossible making this decision felt. now i feel a little more relaxed, remembering that not everything is under my control and these decisions are actually not so huge. and... well.
well you all know i love bugs, but this is just ridiculous. i'm afraid to count the number of them in my room right now. is it because i opened the window for a few minutes yesterday to lean out and pet cosmo's little floppy head? is it because there is apparently a huge hole in my wall with only a thin layer between me and the outside world? (no wonder winter is so cold.) or, is it because i am a fucking bug magnet and always will be? and my cats just lie here... it's really not a problem except when they decide to crawl around on the computer screen, which just confuses my eyeballs. well. except for roaches..... DEAR GOD. WAKE UP KITTIES.

listening to: akron/family - ed is a portal

a night on the town

here's a story i'm working on for my intro writing class.... it's not done and it's not perfect, so please let me know what you think, etc!



           The heat made him restless. Summer was Tom’s least favorite season – the sickening humidity, all the fucking sunshine, and, dear lord, the boredom. Today, not unlike other days, he had spent cooped up in his fortress bedroom in the safety of his low-lit comic book collection, sipping sweet tea and occasionally napping. He liked to sleep as much as possible during the daylight hours; he awaited sunset like a prince. Even now, under the full moon light, the heat was almost unbearable, and he was getting restless. Adjusting his Yankees cap above his eyes, Tom prepared to give it that good ole college try, one last time before going it alone. He rubbed the small rock between his hands and blew on it for extra luck. He gears up his pitcher’s arm and makes the throw.... Hell yeah! he smirked to himself with pride. The rock had reached its destination, had flown through the broken windowpane of Janet’s second story bedroom, making a satisfying smashing sound upon landing.
           Now all he had to do was wait. Tom was not fond of waiting, especially not on a night like this. The air was electric. Tom’s bones seemed to be pushing outward, onward whether or not his body was willing. He paced, turned cartwheels, and veritably jigged around Janet’s entire backyard before he finally heard the slow creak of the attic window opening. Tom jumps in anticipation as he sees first Janet’s long legs and then her hand waving greetings emerging from the silent shanty. Janet shimmied slowly and gracefully out onto the roof of her home with the practice of seventeen summers. She was no amateur. She scooted to the roof’s edge, held her breath, and launched herself into the giant oak towering over her home. The motions were as familiar to her as breathing, but to Tom, they were an eternity. As Janet climbed, he rolled across the yard, gnawing on grass, silently containing his frustration.
           Janet paused to stand on a small crow’s nest built at least ten years before her family had come into this place. She kept a series of secret treasures stored in a ziploc, hidden here in the tree. Most nights, she would take her time carefully selecting the object that felt most appropriate to the moment, the one that seemed to sing when she held it. These things could come in handy on a long night of adventures. Once, she and Tom had been cornered in a back alley by a rather vicious dog, but it ran away when Janet threw a bouncy ball far down the little street. And another time, Tom had lucked out in a gamble with a hobo, thanks to Janet’s randomly compiled deck of fifty-three playing cards. Tonight, she ran her hands over the cards, the marbles, the bells and whistles. The air, the trees, everything was electric. Janet felt this was an interference. She glanced down at Tom, writhing in a ring of mushrooms, and gave a short sigh. “Oh fuck it,” she muttered to herself, and stuffed the whole blasted thing into her backpack.
           As Janet hopped down from the oak, before her feet even touched the ground, “It’s about time!” Tom exploded, forgetting to stay quiet in his exasperation. “I was like to poison myself on these mushrooms any minute now! I can’t believe you let such horrible things grow in your yard. Haven’t you thought about all the birds you’re probably killing, with this kind of menace vegetation? I swear, it’s like garden warfare from the environment..... like bugs! No decent person lets bugs in their yard, no sirree.”
           As he spoke, Janet’s soft smile had spread across her whole face, until her eyes were squinting with glee and her bright cheeks looked fit to burst. “Haven’t you heard of faery rings? They’re for dancing... and they’re not mine to manage.” At her words Tom began to calm, his breathing turning slow and his irritation fleeting. That smile could stop an army, he thought, as he often did, and decided not to tease her about these kinds of eccentricities she was always spouting.
           “Yeah, okay, I guess I see your point. I still wouldn’t allow anything of that caliber in my yard.” Tom and Jane were both remembering the same incident -- how a couple years back, one little toadstool had crept up from beneath the carpet in Janet’s bedroom and for some reason could not be gotten rid of. A brief moment of awkwardness stretches between them, as Janet’s face grows hot with embarrassment and Tom’s lip curls slightly in disgust.
           The silence is broken by a pitiful mew.
           “Mab! How long have you been out here?” Janet begs of the small white cat, grinning again, and lifts the creature into a cradle of her arms, where Mab instantly falls into a trance of purring, practically comatose in mere seconds. Tom can’t help but chuckle as he watches Janet tickling her kitten’s soft belly, and he reaches out to scratch under her chin.
           “Where are we going tonight, Tom?” Janet knows he has no answer and Tom knows what she will ask next. He frowns, worried about any and all hindrances to this night of absolute freedom. “Well, I’m not absolutely sure yet...” Tom stuffs his hands into his pockets, fidgeting and wishing he could lie. Night was supposed to belong to him, and he chose to invite Janet along.
           “Can I bring Mab along?”
           He had not chosen to invite fuzzy dead weight.
           “Please? I have a feeling we need to be well-prepared tonight.”
           Tom didn’t see how this involved the pet, but he couldn’t say now to these two sets of golden eyes, imploring to him as sweet as honey. He sweeps his red sneakers across the tips of the long grass, and moves his hands to his hat. “I suppose we can manage it...” Janet suppresses a delighted holler, and throws her arms around Tom, inadvertently dropping the startled Mab unhappily into the soft grass. Janet is not sorry; this cat can land on her feet. Tom felt the static air pressing in on him, signaling finally the moment to depart. He decided the cat could present no problems, not tonight, and he let himself go to the bliss of adventure blossoming within all their bones.
           Soon enough, their bicycles were gliding along familiar streets, seeking unfamiliar twists and turns, which they hoped would lead to something unusual. Many of their nights began in this fashion, and very rarely did they end in disappointment. Janet and Tom figured that with odds like these, they had a pretty good system going. Even Mab enjoyed the occasional bicycle outing, although she generally spent them curled up asleep in Janet’s backpack. Janet reached around to unzip the smaller pocket of her bag and managed, although swerving treacherously all over the road, to pull out a bottle of red wine.
           “I brought us a present,” she declares, shoving the drink into Tom’s field of vision. He giggles, knowing that Janet’s parents never realize when these things go missing. Of course, this was still a special occasion; one had to remain cautious when appropriating the belongings of others. Tom kept a number of useful tools in his satchel, and while he may not have had a proper bottle opener, he had his own makeshift one. Janet and Tom float along serenely, Janet holding out the bottle in her left hand and Tom stabbing into the cork with his right. Eventually the cork is pushed in with a plop, and Janet can take the first swig. The bottle is passed between bicycles as the two try to lose themselves in a too-familiar town.
           “Shit, look where we are. I hate this neighborhood,” says Janet, nervously rubbing her short-cropped hair. She is thinking of years ago, finding bottle caps in her long tangled hair, a constant flurry of menacing laughter, the accusations of ‘freak’ and ‘satanist.’ By now, Mab is now fully conscious and aware of her surroundings, but only her gleaming eyes are visible inside Janet’s pack. Tom glances around and realizes they have entered what in daylight is their No Man’s Land – Joe Figeroa’s neighborhood. His house was only two blocks from here.
           They’ve been through this before, and Tom knows what to say: “Don’t worry, Janet. It’s so late, I’m sure Joey is out getting wasted in the ‘burbs. We’ll be fine just passing through.” Janet nods, picking up speed to make the experience as short as possible. Tom believes he has comforted her, failing to notice her tightening lips and darting, nervous eyes. She has not forgotten what they did to her. She kisses the bottle and passes it, gripping her handlebars tighter. The wind rides over them with the force of a train, seeming to cling to every inch of skin with the hug of humidity. The bikes hook right; the main road is now in sight.
           “See? I told you everything would be fine,” Tom declares with pride, but of course he has spoken too soon. The words have barely escaped his lips when the shadows of five bicycled figures emerge from several driveways, seeming to be aimlessly circling a manhole in the street. Tom, not wanting to admit his own defeat, continues riding towards them.
           “Tom… I don’t like this.” Janet hangs back, and the stone in her stomach becomes a boulder. Her backpack begins to softly rumble as Mab senses unease floating in waves down the little road.
           “Oh, come on! We’ll be fine,” Tom insists, waving for Janet to hurry up. Against her and her kitten’s better judgment, Janet began to inch forward carefully on her bicycle. No sooner had she caught up to Tom that the tiny gang was flying towards them; in no time, they were stuck stationary inside a tight circling of bicycles being orchestrated by none other than Joe Figeroa. Tom tried to manuever in between two moving bikes but was pushed back and thrown off his bike.
           “What do you want?!” demanded Janet, sounding far more fierce than she would have believed possible, considering how she actually felt. The cyclists were undaunted, and only continued their snickering. Joe snuck up behind Tom and snatched the wine bottle from his hands. He chugged what was left of it and threw the bottle to the ground, laughing when Tom jumped in surprise. Janet was almost beside herself; this boy had been a bully to her ever since she moved to town. Thinking she might have something useful in her bag, Janet let her bike fall and began to rummage through her belongings on the ground. The sound of clinking bells and Mab’s chirps were hysterical to the cronies.
           “Look, she’s gonna make a potion! Scaaaaarrryyy!” Joe exclaimed. Janet fought back the tears forming behind her eyes, infuriated at these menaces and at Tom’s apparent inability to act. Her poor friend stood there frozen, staring at his feet, without any notion of what to do. He felt that he had failed Janet; she had trusted him and now they were trapped. He was trying his damnedest to think of a plan, but he was no good in these situations, and his nervousness prevented him from thinking as quickly as he was accustomed to. Janet was practically tearing through her bag, cursing herself for not carrying around a set of butcher knives. “Ooooooooh, she’s gonna cast a spell on us! What ever will we doooo?” Joey cooed. Janet shook her bag in desperation and Mab slipped out, unnoticed, while Joey was busy high-fiving each of his cruel friends in turn.
           “Good one, Figeroa,” one oaf managed to mumble. Now Joe had to take it up a step to impress his friends again. Turning back to Janet, Joe picked up her backpack and turned it upside down, letting its contents spill out over the street. Bouncy balls flew everywhere, rolling into gutters and landing in trash cans. The wannabe gang stamped gleefully on Janet’s collection of seashells, congratulating each other for being so badass. They laughed at her book of pressed flowers and her rubber band ball. Janet looked on in despair for only moments before the rage took over.
           “STOP IT! LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE!” she bellowed, her voice echoing back from the empty neighborhood. The cronies were startled, but Joe’s comeback (“Ohhh, we’re soooo scared!”) seemed to return their bravery and had them sniggering again in no time. Janet’s anger was rising steadily, her hands becoming white fists and eyes narrowing with hatred. Tom was just sure she was about to get herself hurt. He began to step toward her, his hand outreached, to tell her to calm down, they could find more violets to press, they could go back to the beach soon, when he noticed that she held the neck of the broken wine bottle in a hand behind her back. He wanted more than anything to keep her safe, but she seemed almost to be in a trance, and in fact, at this moment, Tom was not totally sure that even he was safe from Janet’s wrath. He held back, scared as hell, with no clear concept of what he should do.
           “LISTEN!” Janet demanded so suddenly that one of the terrorists actually stopped his boot midair, rather than completing the destruction of a small ceramic frog. She withdrew the broken bottle from behind her back. “If you don’t get out of here right now, you are really going to regret it. And I mean it.” She waited for their response. She knew that deep down, they were terrified of her. She just had to show them that she was no force to be reckoned with. “Go back where you belong!” Joe’s cronies were looking from this raging girl to their leader and back again, almost as if they were completely devoid of thought.
           Finally Joe cleared his throat and spoke, “This is our territory! And we won’t allow a WITCH like you to come anywhere near it!” The cronies grunted in agreement and shifted their feet to show their possession of this ground. Janet closed her eyes and unclenched her teeth; had she really thought that would work? She let out a tremendous roar and threw the bottle straight at Joey Figeroa. He had seen it coming. The bottle landed with a terrific smash on the pavement, adding shards of green glass to the wreckage of Janet’s most precious belongings. The boys displayed their genuine fear as apathy, praying that Janet couldn’t tell the difference between their truths and lies. Instead of dealing with her outburst, they turned to Tom, who was shocked and terrified, not only by this seemingly one-brained mass of teenage masculinity, but by his dear friend, who he had never seen so upset.
           “How come you hang around this weak-ass girl, Thomas? I thought you were supposed to be a real man... you’re a pitcher after all, right? Oh wait, did I say pitcher? I meant ‘pussy.’ Yeah, that’s right, you’re a pussy. Let’s see that pitch.” Joe tried to encourage Tom to throw Janet’s fallen objects as a demonstration of his throwing arm. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t even speak. All he seemed to be able to do was shake his head and stare at his feet. As the boys prodded Tom for a show, a low sound began to rise out of the darkness. It sounded like some foreign language, but something ancient, the likes of which none of these boys had ever heard before. It took them a moment to realize the source -- it was Janet. She appeared to be in a trance, with her eyes rolled back in her head, and her arms pulsing in front of her, as if they were trying to hold within them a small ocean which insists on constantly rocking back and forth. Her words grew louder and she slowly began to step towards the group before her. Joe and his followers skeptically looked to Tom’s face for a sign of amusement, but his eyes were as wide as sanddollars, his jaw loose and stunned. At this, the cronies really began to panic, although they stayed frozen where they stood. Even Tom could not budge an inch.
           Suddenly, out of the blackness, Mab seemed to fly down from the heavens, letting out a yowl that surely woke up every cat in a three-mile radius. She landed right on Joey Figeroa’s shoulder and dug her claws in so far that when he turned to shake her off, her back legs swung wildly while the front paws kept their position. “GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!!” yelled Joe to his staff, who pulled off the hissing cat in a tangle of fur and claws, not one of them able to get away without having blood drawn. Falling all over themselves, they clambered onto their bicycles and pedalled away rapidly into the safety of their neighborhood, shouting to each other about “witchcraft,” “devil’s work,” and “Satan’s little helpers!”
           Tom opened his eyes. The bright, black sky stretched above him; the full moon almost seeemd to smile. Tom realized that he was lying on the grass in somebody’s front yard, although he could not recollect why. The last thing he remembered was a blur of primordial sounds and a flash of claws and white fur. “I must have fainted,” he muttered to himself, although he had never fainted before so he was not quite sure how this could have happened to him.
           “You did,” Janet replied simply. Tom sat up quickly, turning his head left and right trying to match her voice to her body. She smiled to herself and tapped him on the shoulder from behind. She was sitting there looking perfectly normal, like the girl Tom knew and loved.... mostly. Her smell was the same, her smile was the same, her eyes were..... well, they looked the same enough for Tom. He threw his arms around her, glad to see that she was safe.

           .....to be continued