My weekend.
If she were a poster, she'd be this poster, I think to myself. It's Friday night and I'm with my favorite people, oogling the beautifulangle showcase in one of Tacoma's many trendy cafes. I purchase three. I have to catch up with them. Part of me feels ridiculous - I don't even live in Tacoma. I don't know what a lot of these posters are even about. But I want them because they are magnificent works of art and I want them to remind me of this place. I've got something of a history started here, and I want to chronicle it with bright pieces of paper and big block letters of hopeful words.
I like driving around downtown with her on my right and Jen at my back, music blaring. Polyester meets acetate on sixth avenue. I'm wearing pink today and it feels good. We are hungry and make our way down Proctor to Pomodoro, Alfredo's rival around the corner, and she says it makes her happy knowing she's lining the pockets of her intolerable bosses' competition. This weekend is going to be full of little rebellions and we are treasonous freedom fighters. She stirred the revolution in me months ago. Canons fire with each epiphany and the cause is the most noble to have ever been fought for, I'm sure. And we suffer every day. But you know what they say, freedom isn't free, and as far as I'm concerned we are decorated heroes, rejoicing in one anothers' laughter and survival, tonight. Jen really does have the best laugh. I hope I hear her laugh more often, this next year.
I'm full after my cup of chowder, and ask that my lasagna be boxed up for a glorious breakfast the next morning. We drop Jen off at her Spanish house and then head back to Linden's to pack. And she brings everything. I decide while laying curled up on her bed, watching her run about and straighten up, that if I had to be a fly on someone's wall it would be hers. I wonder what it would be like to live with her, instead of these mini vacations away from life. I wonder if the monotony would smother us out or if we would find shelter in one another from the day-to-day. If it would be more fun to fold clothes together instead of by ourselves. If it would be anything like that at all.
I let her drive me home. Down through old town and onto I-5, and the water is like glass, softly reflecting the industrial compound and port lights. I think back on early November, the wettest month on record, and how we had crossed the bridge and ran through the freezing downpour in the dark to the lighthouse over there. We listen to the mix cd I made for her and I let the lyrics speak for me.
The next morning we are slow, and don't actually get out of the house until about three. I stop by kits and pick up some old film left over from last winter that I had found. There's nothing left to develop from that time, anymore. We manage to find decent parking by the market downtown. I'm wearing green today, and it feels good. I'm almost as tall as she is if I wear heels. She buys me a chocolate covered strawberry and has her weird caramel covered marshmallow thing, and we should be food connoisseurs when we get older, I think. We should retire and over-indulge in the good things and get fat together. Browsing zines at Left Bank. Sitting in the window seat, looking down on the Christmas crowd. Walking through the market as it closes, watching lit-up ferries, my favorite sight. The air is warmer than we expected but cold enough to have an excuse to cling to one another. Crab cake and salmon sandwiches! Amazing. We share, as always, because we like the other one's better. This is the rule.
We walk back to the car and drive over to Key Arena for the Death Cab for Cutie concert. We've had tickets for months. Parking prices make me ill, but nothing a kiss and a clove couldn't cure. We stand on the fountain and smoke in gloves, but she is not wearing hers, and I worry about her fingers. She picks me up and we dance absentmindedly under colored lights and cold, cold sky as we wait. I rarely smoke, and I can't tell if the rush I'm feeling is nicotine induced or not. Once we finally get in to the concert, and she pees for the hundredth time, we settle down in our seats and people watch. We start a game. How many black converse can we count? Metallic ballet flats? Striped shirts? I think the boys to our left are twelve. But we do not care, and when Ted Leo opens we cover our ears with the other pansy-ass indie kids. "Everybody say eoooooooow!"... "Ouch!"
Then I find out Jenny Lewis is up next! This takes the concert to a completely new level. I've seen her once before with Rilo Kiley, but holy crap. She comes out with the twins in long black gowns and plays a few, and then they go backstage for a moment only to jump back out in a shimmering spectacle of sequined dresses. I practically squeal with excitement. I was not expecting this. Auuuugh. She is so cute. I suddenly realize HOW country she sounds. It's magnificent. And I want to dance.
Death Cab comes on stage, and the light show is awe-inspiring. I only know Transatlanticism songs, but they take me back so far. To Germany, to Sasquatch, to the End. She is smiling wide and holding my hand and tapping her feet. She is happy, and I am happy. Never more so. Never again, so, I think. Not like this.
When it's over, we don't want to go home. We head over to the university district and stop in at Trabant right before they close for some chai, and then we ask the barista if he knows where a hookah lounge is, and he points us a few blocks over to the Rabbit Hole where we spend another hour. I've never hookah'ed before, but Linden used to back in Chicago with her friends and it is brilliantly relaxing. It's dimly lit and we are slumped on a couch, just talking and watching smoke billow up into the psychadelic lamps above us. For once, I do not care to call my parents. The smoke is smooth and minty and we have enough privacy to lean over and share with one another. Overdoing it slightly, my world begins to spin, and I prop myself up in the passenger seat and watch you as you drive me home, again, because you like to drive, and the street lights blur past your head as you hurtle through space. I raise up my hand to touch your hair and you ask me how old I feel, and I say that I feel so very nineteen. I ask how old you feel, and you are exactly twenty. I bellow how happy I am, because it's your doing and I want you to know, and then I sing along at the top of my scorched lungs, unabashedly. You are the first to hear me sing like that.
We don't remember falling asleep, and we hit the snooze button Sunday morning. Again, and again, and again. We wake up at 11:20 and realize that we only have five hours of daylight left to make it to our mountains. We gather our stuff and my brotherkid, pile them up in the SUV, and make a pit stop at burger king. Oh, we eat so well. On the mountains to sound greenway she asks when the rain will start turning to snow - what is that? - do you know? So many questions, my inquisitive one. You make me realize I know very little about my own home. Dazzling in snow, with your frozen cheeks and doodlehair. Flying leaps down the hill. I love that you play with my little brother - "Ohoooooh, you're going to get it!". I'm laying on my stomach, on my tube, getting tugged up slowly, dragging my hands over the slick, solidly packed snow reflecting the lights that just turned on, because it's starting to get dark. My hat is wet and falling over my eyes, and I can't see anything as I feel myself tip over the threshold and pick up speed, the wind whistling to a crescendo in my ears. I slide to a stop at the bottom and look up, and you are standing there smiling.
We are cold and wet when we get to the car. My joints ache, but I'm so exhilirated. We slip and slide our way back to the on-ramp, and the snow is coming down harder than ever. Big, fat, sticky flakes, and we are in awe of the frozen waterfalls. You say that I live in the most amazing place. Agreed. I lean over a moment later and your sweet face is asleep. I feel myself succumbing too, and when we get home we strip off our outergear and run downstairs to bury ourselves under blankets before dinner. Food has never tasted so good. We are such messes, but don't feel inclined to shower. I finish my project and then we start to doze. I feel closer to you than ever before.
We wake up this morning and the rain continues, and the clouds are moving quickly, and before I know it you are gone. I've spent all day recouperating and reminiscing about this weekend, and perhaps now I'm ready to get back to the ordinary, now that I've documented it all. Moment by moment.
Think of it this way
You could either be successful or be us
With our winning smiles, and us
With our catchy tunes and words
Now we're photogenic
You know, we dont stand a chance
Edit: I'm really, really happy with my grades. Two A's and a B in anatomy and physiology. Could have been better, but hey. It could have been a lot worse.
I like driving around downtown with her on my right and Jen at my back, music blaring. Polyester meets acetate on sixth avenue. I'm wearing pink today and it feels good. We are hungry and make our way down Proctor to Pomodoro, Alfredo's rival around the corner, and she says it makes her happy knowing she's lining the pockets of her intolerable bosses' competition. This weekend is going to be full of little rebellions and we are treasonous freedom fighters. She stirred the revolution in me months ago. Canons fire with each epiphany and the cause is the most noble to have ever been fought for, I'm sure. And we suffer every day. But you know what they say, freedom isn't free, and as far as I'm concerned we are decorated heroes, rejoicing in one anothers' laughter and survival, tonight. Jen really does have the best laugh. I hope I hear her laugh more often, this next year.
I'm full after my cup of chowder, and ask that my lasagna be boxed up for a glorious breakfast the next morning. We drop Jen off at her Spanish house and then head back to Linden's to pack. And she brings everything. I decide while laying curled up on her bed, watching her run about and straighten up, that if I had to be a fly on someone's wall it would be hers. I wonder what it would be like to live with her, instead of these mini vacations away from life. I wonder if the monotony would smother us out or if we would find shelter in one another from the day-to-day. If it would be more fun to fold clothes together instead of by ourselves. If it would be anything like that at all.
I let her drive me home. Down through old town and onto I-5, and the water is like glass, softly reflecting the industrial compound and port lights. I think back on early November, the wettest month on record, and how we had crossed the bridge and ran through the freezing downpour in the dark to the lighthouse over there. We listen to the mix cd I made for her and I let the lyrics speak for me.
The next morning we are slow, and don't actually get out of the house until about three. I stop by kits and pick up some old film left over from last winter that I had found. There's nothing left to develop from that time, anymore. We manage to find decent parking by the market downtown. I'm wearing green today, and it feels good. I'm almost as tall as she is if I wear heels. She buys me a chocolate covered strawberry and has her weird caramel covered marshmallow thing, and we should be food connoisseurs when we get older, I think. We should retire and over-indulge in the good things and get fat together. Browsing zines at Left Bank. Sitting in the window seat, looking down on the Christmas crowd. Walking through the market as it closes, watching lit-up ferries, my favorite sight. The air is warmer than we expected but cold enough to have an excuse to cling to one another. Crab cake and salmon sandwiches! Amazing. We share, as always, because we like the other one's better. This is the rule.
We walk back to the car and drive over to Key Arena for the Death Cab for Cutie concert. We've had tickets for months. Parking prices make me ill, but nothing a kiss and a clove couldn't cure. We stand on the fountain and smoke in gloves, but she is not wearing hers, and I worry about her fingers. She picks me up and we dance absentmindedly under colored lights and cold, cold sky as we wait. I rarely smoke, and I can't tell if the rush I'm feeling is nicotine induced or not. Once we finally get in to the concert, and she pees for the hundredth time, we settle down in our seats and people watch. We start a game. How many black converse can we count? Metallic ballet flats? Striped shirts? I think the boys to our left are twelve. But we do not care, and when Ted Leo opens we cover our ears with the other pansy-ass indie kids. "Everybody say eoooooooow!"... "Ouch!"
Then I find out Jenny Lewis is up next! This takes the concert to a completely new level. I've seen her once before with Rilo Kiley, but holy crap. She comes out with the twins in long black gowns and plays a few, and then they go backstage for a moment only to jump back out in a shimmering spectacle of sequined dresses. I practically squeal with excitement. I was not expecting this. Auuuugh. She is so cute. I suddenly realize HOW country she sounds. It's magnificent. And I want to dance.
Death Cab comes on stage, and the light show is awe-inspiring. I only know Transatlanticism songs, but they take me back so far. To Germany, to Sasquatch, to the End. She is smiling wide and holding my hand and tapping her feet. She is happy, and I am happy. Never more so. Never again, so, I think. Not like this.
When it's over, we don't want to go home. We head over to the university district and stop in at Trabant right before they close for some chai, and then we ask the barista if he knows where a hookah lounge is, and he points us a few blocks over to the Rabbit Hole where we spend another hour. I've never hookah'ed before, but Linden used to back in Chicago with her friends and it is brilliantly relaxing. It's dimly lit and we are slumped on a couch, just talking and watching smoke billow up into the psychadelic lamps above us. For once, I do not care to call my parents. The smoke is smooth and minty and we have enough privacy to lean over and share with one another. Overdoing it slightly, my world begins to spin, and I prop myself up in the passenger seat and watch you as you drive me home, again, because you like to drive, and the street lights blur past your head as you hurtle through space. I raise up my hand to touch your hair and you ask me how old I feel, and I say that I feel so very nineteen. I ask how old you feel, and you are exactly twenty. I bellow how happy I am, because it's your doing and I want you to know, and then I sing along at the top of my scorched lungs, unabashedly. You are the first to hear me sing like that.
We don't remember falling asleep, and we hit the snooze button Sunday morning. Again, and again, and again. We wake up at 11:20 and realize that we only have five hours of daylight left to make it to our mountains. We gather our stuff and my brotherkid, pile them up in the SUV, and make a pit stop at burger king. Oh, we eat so well. On the mountains to sound greenway she asks when the rain will start turning to snow - what is that? - do you know? So many questions, my inquisitive one. You make me realize I know very little about my own home. Dazzling in snow, with your frozen cheeks and doodlehair. Flying leaps down the hill. I love that you play with my little brother - "Ohoooooh, you're going to get it!". I'm laying on my stomach, on my tube, getting tugged up slowly, dragging my hands over the slick, solidly packed snow reflecting the lights that just turned on, because it's starting to get dark. My hat is wet and falling over my eyes, and I can't see anything as I feel myself tip over the threshold and pick up speed, the wind whistling to a crescendo in my ears. I slide to a stop at the bottom and look up, and you are standing there smiling.
We are cold and wet when we get to the car. My joints ache, but I'm so exhilirated. We slip and slide our way back to the on-ramp, and the snow is coming down harder than ever. Big, fat, sticky flakes, and we are in awe of the frozen waterfalls. You say that I live in the most amazing place. Agreed. I lean over a moment later and your sweet face is asleep. I feel myself succumbing too, and when we get home we strip off our outergear and run downstairs to bury ourselves under blankets before dinner. Food has never tasted so good. We are such messes, but don't feel inclined to shower. I finish my project and then we start to doze. I feel closer to you than ever before.
We wake up this morning and the rain continues, and the clouds are moving quickly, and before I know it you are gone. I've spent all day recouperating and reminiscing about this weekend, and perhaps now I'm ready to get back to the ordinary, now that I've documented it all. Moment by moment.
Think of it this way
You could either be successful or be us
With our winning smiles, and us
With our catchy tunes and words
Now we're photogenic
You know, we dont stand a chance
Edit: I'm really, really happy with my grades. Two A's and a B in anatomy and physiology. Could have been better, but hey. It could have been a lot worse.