This is my town
this is my town, my home, this is my crown, my thrown....
My day was quiet. The rain puttered in, and out; the sky was five colors. It felt like home.
We went to Santa Rosa on shift. It was rainy and our Sonoma State event kicked us off campus, so I stayed on Petaluma Hill Road all the way to downtown, and the mall where we ran into too many high school folks. People look so different in the north bay, like they're in a haze. They wear sweats and slippers and they dye their hair in streaks. Daughters walk in a meandering stride with their mothers, the perpetual flesh-filled versions of themselves. Hands are held by uneven couples and the Starter caps claim the cities of "far away." There is a simplicity in the disconnect, a simplicity that can be missed when you zip through the old neighborhoods, waiting to escape again. I had forgotten about sitting strapped tight in the backseat of an almost friend's car- touching knees with someone else's friend through the slow, swooping curves of the back roads. About peering into every car, expecting your boyfriend's mom, your soccer coach, your math class crush. About catching the bedroom eyes of passing strangers and the fatefullness felt- about the quivering smirk that followed, the rebuttle never to be seen.
Maybe Petaluma was never so bad. Maybe the cracking roads and friendly nobodies are the best we'll ever find. Can you name better? Is there a place with the same rain-soaked center? At the mall, we ran into one of the Poole brothers (hard to tell which one) who was immediately jealous of the power my Red Bull-branded lifestyle had over the cute, bright-faced girls working at the Buckle Store. "Give me that backpack and let ME go make their day," he said. "This is totally unfair." It was so refreshing to see someone pining for something, someone burdened with normalcy. Every day I meet another person bold enough to do this or that. But it's tough to find subtlety when there are so many windows to watch. It is difficult to find romance in a city that expects it.
"What did you guys do here for fun out here?" my co-worker asked as I turned onto Adobe Road. I thought back to the hickeys I'd force onto Ben's neck as he shifted gears through the country against songs unfit for roads called Middle Two Rock. About climbing the prickly, snapping hillside of Helen Putnam with Alicia and writing letters demanding the importance of Dan's death to the editors of the Press Democrat and the Argus. About singing lyrics along railroad tracks and faking sleep under the stars and braving fire-washed buildings just for a picture, just for an original kiss. Maybe the nothingness of home has made us spoiled and unfit for anything else. "You're looking at it," was all I said back to her. She shrugged and continued editing the recap of our day. "I just can't believe you came from here," she said a group of kids drove by, honking sporadically and pointing a video camera at our circus act of a car.
....this is me on my own
My day was quiet. The rain puttered in, and out; the sky was five colors. It felt like home.
We went to Santa Rosa on shift. It was rainy and our Sonoma State event kicked us off campus, so I stayed on Petaluma Hill Road all the way to downtown, and the mall where we ran into too many high school folks. People look so different in the north bay, like they're in a haze. They wear sweats and slippers and they dye their hair in streaks. Daughters walk in a meandering stride with their mothers, the perpetual flesh-filled versions of themselves. Hands are held by uneven couples and the Starter caps claim the cities of "far away." There is a simplicity in the disconnect, a simplicity that can be missed when you zip through the old neighborhoods, waiting to escape again. I had forgotten about sitting strapped tight in the backseat of an almost friend's car- touching knees with someone else's friend through the slow, swooping curves of the back roads. About peering into every car, expecting your boyfriend's mom, your soccer coach, your math class crush. About catching the bedroom eyes of passing strangers and the fatefullness felt- about the quivering smirk that followed, the rebuttle never to be seen.
Maybe Petaluma was never so bad. Maybe the cracking roads and friendly nobodies are the best we'll ever find. Can you name better? Is there a place with the same rain-soaked center? At the mall, we ran into one of the Poole brothers (hard to tell which one) who was immediately jealous of the power my Red Bull-branded lifestyle had over the cute, bright-faced girls working at the Buckle Store. "Give me that backpack and let ME go make their day," he said. "This is totally unfair." It was so refreshing to see someone pining for something, someone burdened with normalcy. Every day I meet another person bold enough to do this or that. But it's tough to find subtlety when there are so many windows to watch. It is difficult to find romance in a city that expects it.
"What did you guys do here for fun out here?" my co-worker asked as I turned onto Adobe Road. I thought back to the hickeys I'd force onto Ben's neck as he shifted gears through the country against songs unfit for roads called Middle Two Rock. About climbing the prickly, snapping hillside of Helen Putnam with Alicia and writing letters demanding the importance of Dan's death to the editors of the Press Democrat and the Argus. About singing lyrics along railroad tracks and faking sleep under the stars and braving fire-washed buildings just for a picture, just for an original kiss. Maybe the nothingness of home has made us spoiled and unfit for anything else. "You're looking at it," was all I said back to her. She shrugged and continued editing the recap of our day. "I just can't believe you came from here," she said a group of kids drove by, honking sporadically and pointing a video camera at our circus act of a car.
....this is me on my own