Too much is not enough --
It's getting late, I'm tired, and I've got a paper on sci-fi as social commentary to write that's due by tomorrow that I've barely started. What am I doing online? My procrastinating tendancies never do me any favors. You'd think I'd have learned by now.
At any rate, here, I suppose, is another bit of the U2 songfic project. This was written in bits and pieces at the Staten Island ferry terminal, on the subway, on the plane back home, and in class. It's rather plotless, and is more a snapshot of a moment than anything else. It is also entirely true. I scribbled this down in fragments, trying to remember all the details as a creative excercise more than anything else, and then found that the song Numb went along with it perfectly, and that maybe I could make it work.
Maybe it's good, maybe it's crap. I honestly can't tell.
Yeah, yeah. Enough already. I'm posting this and then finishing my paper like a half-decent student.
Numb
It is my first day of being 16, and I am standing in a grocery store a few blocks away from Times Square, in a mood as grey as the weather.
Outside it is bitingly cold, damp and windy, but my ragtag group of companions got hungry and decided to find some food. So the five of us put on our boots and dodged puddles and taxis to reach this tiny little shop on the corner. The other three are still wandering the aisles, but Jessi and I are in the checkout lane.
I’m holding the basket, which is filled with perhaps the oddest assortment of dinner-related items I’ve ever encountered. Together, the two of us have selected a container of barley soup, yucca fries, two boxes of sushi, mozzarella sticks, and some Japanese peach candy. Jessi snagged a package of vegan dumplings at the last minute. She’d been searching for vegan muffins all day in honor of Davey Havok, but had given up and decided that the dumplings would probably be more filling anyway.
The line’s barely moving, and I am absolutely exhausted. I haven’t slept properly for the last three nights, and after several days of nonstop action in the city, I don’t know how I’m still moving. Grace made some comment earlier about the City That Never Sleeps being perfect for me, but it barely registered.
I had a chai tea earlier, but it’s not helping very much. The caffeine-induced consciousness is already fading, and the warmth of the building and murmur of conversation around me is lulling me into a sort of trance-like calm.
Absentmindedly, I hum a few bars of the U2 song Numb. I’ve got a certain fondness for the track, weird as it is. Edge’s quiet chant echoes my own mood back at me, and rolling my brain through the familiar lyrics is enough to keep me occupied.
Don’t move/ don’t talk out of time/ don’t think/ don’t worry/ everything’s just fine/ just fine…
The queue moves up, and Jessi and I shuffle forward a few steps. I glance over at her. She looks as tired as I feel. Her eyes are closed, and her normally gravity-defying hair has been matted down by the rain. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, and I feel no need to bother her with my babble. It’s not like I have anything important to say.
I don’t enjoy feeling like this. I’m in New York City on my sixteenth birthday, which is everything I could have ever asked for and more. I have no right to be moody or disinterested. But even though I want to be enthusiastic, it’s just not happening. I’m hungry, my feet hurt, and all my senses are overloaded by the city. There’s just so much to see and hear and feel that I can’t handle it in my current state. It’s tripped some sort of circuit breaker in my head, and I’m left quiet and empty until I can recharge.
I watch the line of people to my left to pass the time, scanning faces and jackets and shoes. I get halfway through and am idly studying someone’s boots when I realize, with a jolt, that they’re mine. Said line to the left is just a reflection in the mirrored wall. I groan mentally. Earth to Erika. I’ve got to snap out of it.
Don’t check/ just balance on the fence/ don’t answer/ don’t ask/ don’t try and make sense…
This is bizarre. Am I really so run-down that I can’t identify myself?
A touch embarrassed but curious now, I look at my own reflected image. It’s no wonder that it took me a second to recognize myself. I’m very pale in the fluorescent light, with pools of shadow under my eyes. My outfit consists of heavy boots, slim black jeans, an old military jacket, and a beanie still wet from the rain. The lighting and the clothes make me appear oddly androgynous, and weariness has brought out the sharpness in my features.
I take off the hat and run my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to salvage it. Static promptly makes it levitate towards the ceiling. The hat goes back on. I’d rather look like the Edge than a puffball any day.
Don’t whisper/ don’t talk/ don’t run if you can walk/ don’t cheat/ compete/ don’t miss the one beat…
We are almost to the cashier’s station. Wordlessly, I hand the basket to Jessi while I fish for my wallet. I extract thirty dollars, expecting a fair bit of change back, but in New York, who knows? Money has stopped mattering in a strange way. I’ve been handing it out left and right on this trip, indulging my impulses without my usual budgetary sense. That’s another thing I don’t like. I brought a lot of money, but I’ve spent nearly all of it. I will be close to penniless when I go home, but that doesn’t seem to bother me, at least for the moment.
Jessi sets the basket on the counter. The items are scanned, I hand over a ten and a twenty, and get two dollars and some change back. No real surprise there.
Somehow, Jen, Kerby and Grace have beaten us through the other line. They’re halfway out the door while I’m still gathering up my bag, and my sister gestures at me to hurry up.
Don’t project/ don’t connect/ protect/ don’t expect/ suggest…
I feel like I’m missing something here. As a writer, I’ve been logging away this little snapshot of my day for later use. There’s some sort of symbolism here, but I can’t quite catch on. It’s not every day that you don’t recognize yourself in a mirror, or what you’ve become. It’s not everyday that the weirdest song you know has become your lifeline. It’s not everyday that you find yourself in a grocery store in New York on your sixteenth birthday, feeling a little melancholy, but mostly not feeling anything at all.
I suppose in a matter of days or weeks or years this will all make perfect sense to me. But right now I don’t understand, and so I’ll hang on to this snippet of whatever it is like a developing Polaroid, hoping that the image will clear and I’ll be able to see what it is I’ve captured in the end.
I follow the others through the automatic door and back out into the dim concrete canyons.
Oh, I’m feeling numb.