Tuesday, May 26, 2009

before San Diego, after the cookies burned

Everything was new and we could barely make our way around those halls. I hung out with some people I now hate. I ate some food I can’t afford anymore. We didn’t walk anywhere that summer, we rolled; because why would you walk when you can roll? When I came back home from a place that rolled with the tides I lost the most precious woman on a Thursday night. I had nothing else to lose so I said, "ok, lets do this," And I woke up gazing at my ceiling knowing that I would never feel normal or vivid again. I didn’t stop, of course. No, I definitely fucking didn’t. I continued gazing all year long until I gazed so hard I forgot to wear shoes or comb my hair. I fought to save the forest that year, but I don’t think I won. I met you, though. Not that it mattered, you couldn’t be won over. You were quite the equation, but I was never good at math. There were four of us at this point. We all had the same shoes we all smoked the same cigarettes. We were all in the same classes where we snorted the same drugs off of the same desks. The attention started shortly after that. I knew what I wanted to do, and he knew what I had to do. He was from Spain and he helped. God, did he ever help. I sat at new desks now and spent hours with Spain in the dark room. Images appearing on paper captivated us. We captivated each other. Those might be the days I’ll look back on. One day. Even he left, though. He had to, and now there were certain places I couldn’t go without him anymore, so I didn’t. I went to a concert one night. I couldn’t stand up at this concert so I asked to lean on a boy with curly brown hair. I ended up leaning on him for 9 months. I could talk about him forever but he is just a time and a place now. He’s a bed. He’s my thumb insisting it be placed over his when we held hands. He’s March; my least favourite month. It took me a while to forget him and when I did I didn’t have a home anymore. I gazed at someone else’s ceiling each night before bed and ate someone else’s cereal in the morning. My favourite bed had red sheets on it. It is a house that I wish I could say I still slept in. It is the house where he lives and I was quite content with that. We had seen the moon together. I was quite content with that. And then I threw a party. Your pupils were huge and I broke a lot of glass. I was gone the next day. I woke up in a place that didn’t sleep. I stayed in this place for three weeks and didn’t sleep, either. There were two men there that I could not live without. Actually, three. No, four. Four men, four letters that mean the world to me. And then we were worlds apart. I cried in the airport, knowing I’d have some explaining to do when I got home. But when I did get back, I couldn’t talk, or maybe I just didn’t want to. I landed myself in the hospital two days later. I don’t really like to talk about it. Nothing really happened after that apart from a display of six canoes falling on me and my cousin one night. The cops didn’t believe our story. I couldn’t believe I didn’t slur my story. And then came the melodic field where you asked for a cigarette and we laughed about bees. We held hands on a Sunday, kissed on the Monday and fucked the following Saturday. We smoked cigarettes in bed and ashed on his wooden floors. We didn’t really care about anything. We didn’t really care about each other. He couldn’t make the call, so I did and I never called him back. I cried for a little while feeling sad and guilty and hurt. But looking back on it, at least he made me feel in the dead of winter; when the cold numbs my hands and creativity. I ate pink pills to keep me awake and scribbled incoherent thoughts until the sun crawled it’s way into the sky in the morning. I made life plans; "I’m moving to France." But France made a move on me first. He came to me one night at the bar, and just as easily whisked me away backstage. The minutes felt like hours, and the hours like days. When daylight found us I was off to English class and he was off to Cleveland. And on to Chicago and Denver and Phoenix and L.A. With each stop he’d call me; in the same manner you’d throw a rope to someone slowly slipping away and tell them to grab hold of it. He threw that rope across this continent and I did just that. I gripped it. I gripped it so tight that I forgot about all that was slipping away around me. He came back a little while after, lacking the fire he once carried. Our last kiss was on King Street, and then we burnt out. I walked just for the sake of walking after that. I walked around familiar streets to get my mind off of the fact that , well, I was losing them to new faces and places The sun came out after that, even thought I was convinced it couldn’t, or at least didn’t want to. The snow melted. The ice vanished. I was still here, very much so until one day California texted me and he was here to. We met up in a huge bus and drank wine in huge amounts. After all they were a huge band that evidently came with huge surprises. "Come to Montreal?" It didn’t seem so far when we were cuddling. And if we never left that bunk, I’m sure it would have been nice. But I was on a bus home the following day with a feeling so genuinely amazing it didn’t seem to want to be confined to sentences, just smiles. I found a piece of paper and scribbled "I have never felt this close to peace." But, piece by piece that fell apart too. A three week revelation, lets smile about it later .I was consumed be absolutely nothing for weeks after that, and when I did interact with society, I was convinced I could not grasp reality anymore. Or maybe I was just stoned. I delved in the past, wore a lot of hats and looked through a lot of lenses. It was then that you saw me and we never looked back. We screamed from that skyline. So much so, that when we hit the ground we lost our voices, said goodbye and never spoke again. I just wanted to tell you that it was then that I ran away.

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