You're responsible for your rose.
I know that I'm completely ungrateful for my life and the advantages and beauty that I have been exposed to over the course of it. My memories really are so precious to me. I love looking back at the little moments of pleasure and beauty and depth in my life. Recognizing how they weave together and meld into a human.
I think about the horses that used to live next door to me. One was black and there was a dappled grey mare too. I remember my first in a long succession of nannies: she was black, and pretty, and would play with me amongst the tall, tall, Christmas tree-like pines. There were pansies along the long driveway, because we lived in the country. Once when we were driving on it, we stopped and moved a box turtle out of the way of our car. There were red-breasted robins in the woods. And snakes. So many snakes in the ceilings, and termites. Goldenbook Fairy Tales.
I remember Massachusetts. I lived in a condo on a steep steep hill. I was always sick. Our neighbor was eastern european, and her daughter couldn't speak English at all. When it snowed there, everything absolutely glittered with it. I had a tricycle that I was only permitted to ride in the parking lot. And I made snow angels with my father at the base of the hill while the cars sped past. I threw tantrums on purpose for the fourteen year old boy who babysat me. Goodnight Moon.
I think about the rusty orange color of these maple leaves that littered a road that my mother pulled my brother and I along in a red wagon in Rhode Island. It was near his friend Clayton's house. And I disliked that boy because he laughed too much. I remember recess and monkey bars, and this huge hollowed-out tree stump that children made "potions" in with their lunches. I remember making forts out of leaves, and climbing the back staircase because we were too dirty and would muddy-up the front one. I remember (attempting and failing miserably at) playing soccer. I remember the mysterious name on the back of the tile in the fireplace, and learning about discrimination in class. My Mama Had a Dancin' Soul.
I remember disliking the uni-season of Florida. The glaring sun always everyday. I remember riding bicycles--into my neighbor's parked car. And the strange, strange, ugly flora and insects here. I remember realizing that I lived in real, stereotypical suburbia. I remember piano lessons. I remember Fredrika Takk. And the beginning of the drifting cycle of friendship. Ella Enchanted/ Sirena
The beach when I was pre-adolescent and self-absorbed. Bleached out colors under the bright sun, and the burning and sifting of the soft sand that I romped around in. Rainbow vanilla ice cream. Making friendship bracelets out of embroidery thread and reading fashion magazines. I remember the aqua-vastness of the pool. And almost drowning in the inky black ocean on a bleak day. Honeysuckle nectar and grilled cheese sandwiches. The Catcher in the Rye.
I can recall first understanding the fear of tangible fatness. My seventh-grade friend had cellulite, and another girl showed it to me, disgusted. I remember the false sexuality of middle school. Or at least, it certainly was false for me. Chalk on the sidewalk measuring out the entire length of the human digestive system. Dipping slippered feet into the dust of translucent, yellow crumbs of rosin. The approximate commencement (because I don't know that it ever has a starting point or an ending) of six years of confrontation, alienation, and ongoing resentment of my mother. The initial episode in a series of unofficial spiraling internal collapses. The Bell Jar.
Fresh start. Adolescence. Insecurity. Constant Instability. Hair dye. Vaguely romantic encounters. Intellectual pursuit. Carnies and electric daylight and adrenaline and movie quotes. Becoming nocturnal. Music Music Music. Being hopeful, guarded, inexperienced, conflicted, deceitful, intoxicated, confused and ultimately very wretched. Swimming in nostalgia, and Dadaism, and being guarded again. Sleeping. Warmth and softness and disconnection. Being semi-serious. Letting go, accepting, and trashing something that I couldn't grasp anyway. Repeat, except not literally. Love in the Time of Cholera/ The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Basking. Dabbling, but being more serious. Self-image reassessments. Social outlets. Vehicles and pavement and signs and lights. Music. Cutting the ties that bind too much. Cultural ambitions and pursuits. Self-assurance. Plunging into a future that shifts before my eyes like a mirage. Panoramic beauty. Learning to adjust to the fluctuations that always roll in like weather clouds. Not holding on or clinging to what is already gone. Color placement, folk songs, gossip. Medication for living. Sleeping in sunlight. Degenerate activity! Oddly enough, Walden.
This is what it means to me. It won't always be wonderful, and it won't always be heart wrenching. Seasons of life, you know, ripen and rot, but for a time, immerse you in thier mood. I may not be on the threshold of something fabulous right now, but it's coming. Really, it's all worth it, in a cumulative sense.
p.s.
mmm hmm.
I think about the horses that used to live next door to me. One was black and there was a dappled grey mare too. I remember my first in a long succession of nannies: she was black, and pretty, and would play with me amongst the tall, tall, Christmas tree-like pines. There were pansies along the long driveway, because we lived in the country. Once when we were driving on it, we stopped and moved a box turtle out of the way of our car. There were red-breasted robins in the woods. And snakes. So many snakes in the ceilings, and termites. Goldenbook Fairy Tales.
I remember Massachusetts. I lived in a condo on a steep steep hill. I was always sick. Our neighbor was eastern european, and her daughter couldn't speak English at all. When it snowed there, everything absolutely glittered with it. I had a tricycle that I was only permitted to ride in the parking lot. And I made snow angels with my father at the base of the hill while the cars sped past. I threw tantrums on purpose for the fourteen year old boy who babysat me. Goodnight Moon.
I think about the rusty orange color of these maple leaves that littered a road that my mother pulled my brother and I along in a red wagon in Rhode Island. It was near his friend Clayton's house. And I disliked that boy because he laughed too much. I remember recess and monkey bars, and this huge hollowed-out tree stump that children made "potions" in with their lunches. I remember making forts out of leaves, and climbing the back staircase because we were too dirty and would muddy-up the front one. I remember (attempting and failing miserably at) playing soccer. I remember the mysterious name on the back of the tile in the fireplace, and learning about discrimination in class. My Mama Had a Dancin' Soul.
I remember disliking the uni-season of Florida. The glaring sun always everyday. I remember riding bicycles--into my neighbor's parked car. And the strange, strange, ugly flora and insects here. I remember realizing that I lived in real, stereotypical suburbia. I remember piano lessons. I remember Fredrika Takk. And the beginning of the drifting cycle of friendship. Ella Enchanted/ Sirena
The beach when I was pre-adolescent and self-absorbed. Bleached out colors under the bright sun, and the burning and sifting of the soft sand that I romped around in. Rainbow vanilla ice cream. Making friendship bracelets out of embroidery thread and reading fashion magazines. I remember the aqua-vastness of the pool. And almost drowning in the inky black ocean on a bleak day. Honeysuckle nectar and grilled cheese sandwiches. The Catcher in the Rye.
I can recall first understanding the fear of tangible fatness. My seventh-grade friend had cellulite, and another girl showed it to me, disgusted. I remember the false sexuality of middle school. Or at least, it certainly was false for me. Chalk on the sidewalk measuring out the entire length of the human digestive system. Dipping slippered feet into the dust of translucent, yellow crumbs of rosin. The approximate commencement (because I don't know that it ever has a starting point or an ending) of six years of confrontation, alienation, and ongoing resentment of my mother. The initial episode in a series of unofficial spiraling internal collapses. The Bell Jar.
Fresh start. Adolescence. Insecurity. Constant Instability. Hair dye. Vaguely romantic encounters. Intellectual pursuit. Carnies and electric daylight and adrenaline and movie quotes. Becoming nocturnal. Music Music Music. Being hopeful, guarded, inexperienced, conflicted, deceitful, intoxicated, confused and ultimately very wretched. Swimming in nostalgia, and Dadaism, and being guarded again. Sleeping. Warmth and softness and disconnection. Being semi-serious. Letting go, accepting, and trashing something that I couldn't grasp anyway. Repeat, except not literally. Love in the Time of Cholera/ The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
Basking. Dabbling, but being more serious. Self-image reassessments. Social outlets. Vehicles and pavement and signs and lights. Music. Cutting the ties that bind too much. Cultural ambitions and pursuits. Self-assurance. Plunging into a future that shifts before my eyes like a mirage. Panoramic beauty. Learning to adjust to the fluctuations that always roll in like weather clouds. Not holding on or clinging to what is already gone. Color placement, folk songs, gossip. Medication for living. Sleeping in sunlight. Degenerate activity! Oddly enough, Walden.
This is what it means to me. It won't always be wonderful, and it won't always be heart wrenching. Seasons of life, you know, ripen and rot, but for a time, immerse you in thier mood. I may not be on the threshold of something fabulous right now, but it's coming. Really, it's all worth it, in a cumulative sense.
p.s.
mmm hmm.