Sunday, November 23, 2008

Daddy (Listening to: Muddy Hymnal, Iron & Wine)

When my daddy dies I’m gonna be a broken girl.
When I was little I was scared he’d notice when I stopped calling him that. I switched to dad because I felt like a baby, and my best friend didn’t call her dad daddy anymore.
How am I supposed to forgive him? My daddy is a grownup but he’s lost. He’s so confused sometimes I think, like he’s got this forking of the path in front of him and he can’t pick which way to go. And I don’t feel bad for making him choose, even though I probably should. I mean they always said you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Your best friend and your baby girl.
This Thursday is thanksgiving and I’m thinking about living on my own. I joke about running away. I’d go out in the rain, just leave. I would. I’ve tried. I feel bad joking about it, because I know my face is way too serious.
Sometimes we talk about politics. Vietnam. He dodged the draft, faked diabetes and all they cared about was the psych he saw.
His daddy died in the war. His mama, a beautiful war widow just twenty years old and already two babies and not even old enough to drink. His new daddy beat on him. His sisters and his brothers, they grew up so poor. At Christmas, they got turtlenecks. Black ones, that’s all, and they were happy.
I guess that’s how my mama and him got close. Two grownup kids with no daddies, crying about submarines and heart attacks on the front lawn and the way their hearts were broken before they were old enough to drive. When I have no daddy, I’ll be able to cry on cue. That will be a useful skill, I think. I’ll put it on my resume: can cry on cue, no daddy to hold those tears in.
My daddy is too silly, sometimes. He jokes and jokes, when all I want is him to look me in these big brown eyes and tell me it’s okay. My daddy has never been good at that.
Sometimes, late nights, we’ll go driving through the rain in his station wagon with the blankets in the back and the radio on, just him driving and me in the passenger seat, talking. We don’t do that too much. When we do, he puts on his favorite station, because it’s a Friday night and Shake the Shack is on. They play rockabilly which has nothing to do with rock, actually, is just country songs with some dirty jokes in between.
My daddy doesn’t believe in God, just Bob Dylan. And Johnny Cash. We watched Walk the Line together, one late night, probably raining.
Oh god, it is always raining with me and my daddy. On sunny days I run, run away to my friends or my baby sister. But when it rains my daddy and I sit inside and he reads the newspaper and I talk about The World We Live In. We agree about Lyndon Johnson, for instance.
Sometimes we talk about photography. He loaned me his favorite photography book, this subversive book from 1948 that was published in France first because no American would publish something so unpatriotic. My daddy used to be a photographer you know. He wasn’t creative enough to be an artist, but he did ad campaigns. For beer.
My daddy likes to feel rebellious. He educated himself because knowledge is power and you can’t trust The Man. I think my daddy is scared to be middle class, old, and white. He always surrounded himself with black panthers and radicals and people who acted instead of thinking, these dangerous, glamorous people he wanted to be but couldn’t quite imitate. Even when he was a photographer he was still working for corporations, just a white guy from a poor background at a steady job with average income.
When my daddy was this young guy he had a brain tumor in his head, but he was in China with his beautiful young mama, where she taught English. So he gets his head all fixed in China in the jungle with the only machine they have and he cuts the line in front of all these Chinese people because he is American and his mama knows the right people. Because even though they are dirt poor, tired, working Americans, they are still Americans. And my daddy feels bad, but what can he do?
I think my daddy feels this way a lot. Helpless. Like The Man is beating up on him like his new daddy used to do, like his new daddy who is dead now, the only daddy my daddy ever knew, was really just another lost guy who fell down and made mistakes.
My daddy didn’t talk to his new daddy for ten years. Wouldn’t say a word, hated him. It’s a sad story, I guess. But that’s who my daddy is, stubborn, confused, lost, and he tells me to try and be understanding. To see things as a cultural difference between families. Mistakes, and not to hate.
And I want to tell him hey it’s thanksgiving and it’s supposed to be a day for our family to be thankful and eat turkey and cranberry sauce and that stuffing you make that tastes delicious. But here I am, sitting on the couch with a lump in my throat punching at the tears on my face with my fingers like I’m some boxer, wondering why I can’t talk to him, why he doesn’t understand.
Last month I left the restaurant we were eating at because my daddy didn’t understand me and started walking home. It was only twenty blocks away, but he came after me. It was after dark, and even though I was crying, he made me come back inside. I think parents are like that. They don’t understand enough to care when you need them to care, and then when you hate them for that they don’t understand enough to back off when you need to be alone.
When my daddy is just a ghost, I’m going to feel bad about all these things. Like there was something I could have done to fix them, like I should have done that. Like maybe it wasn’t too late. And hey, we’re not as broken as those families with the daddies who beat on their babies. Like how my daddy’s family was.
I think my daddy is proud, proud that he is not that way with me and my baby sister. I think he feels so scared though, that maybe that beast was nurtured in him by his new daddy, and that my mama might become his beautiful mama any moment, and we be his little sisters, his real sister, his half sister, or his little baby adopted sister.
My baby sister has a temper like nothing I’ve ever known, and she gets it from my daddy. When she was just a little girl, my baby sister spit in my daddy’s face. And my daddy exploded, he hits her and yells because he is so mad and when he was just a baby and his new daddy came to his little house, he was never allowed to be disrespectful. My daddy is always saying things like kids these days, because when he was little he still had to be a grownup. Five little siblings, three sisters and two brothers and he had to take care of them with his beautiful mama and all her mistakes.
When we go to Canada and we’re on our way home, my daddy always gets us into trouble at the border. His documents are never current and he gives the border police lip. He likes to joke, and he doesn’t know when to turn it off. We have to remind him, say Daddy, don’t get mad and don’t feel scared when we get to the border. You’re our daddy and we love you and please shut up for long enough to drive us home.
My daddy doesn’t come up from downstairs very often. He works on computers all day all over town, and then he drives home in that station wagon and works on computers downstairs. Sometimes he comes up for dinner, and sometimes not. He works late, a lot of the time.
He is always gone at funerals. His daddies, his friends, friend after friend after friend and they all fall away into the ground, deep into the ground until all that is left is his brand new best friend by default and his best family, also by default. Only because we were the last ones left standing. And I do feel bad, wishing that all my daddy has left will die before he does, so I won’t have to see him at my daddy’s funeral.
It’s a lot like this at my house. My big house that is so empty so much of the time, with my mama in cold Alaska and my daddy out working or with his machines in the basement, and my baby sister gone or holed up in her room. And me, wandering the kitchen barefoot, fingers to the fridge and the wooden tables, and the way the floors are old and cold and the carpets are worn out because they are fifty years old now and have never been replaced. The air, so heavy all the time with the clink of cold, cold forks and spoons and the things we leave unsaid. My sister and I, fighting, fighting because we’re mad at our family, at our mama and our daddy but we yell at each other instead. The rooms, so cluttered because my mama and daddy never made us clean them. The smell, so dusty and so cold, and the sound of the rain, coming down in sheets and buckets and farm animals across the skylight. That rain, that to me is more constant than any daddy.
I’ve got this ache in me like my daddy and I will never know each other, like this old cold house full of secrets and empty of everything else is somewhere where my mama will live alone someday, somewhere I’ll never come back. Like someday, my mama and daddy will be people I don’t talk about anymore, and like someday I really will be all alone.
I talked to my daddy for real today. About ourselves, not about Vietnamese civilians or the people he used to know. I walk downstairs and tell him I have a place to go if I need to leave. I don’t think about what I’m going to say because then I will be too scared to say it. He says no, no he is not kicking me out because I am a part of this family. And that if he had been a better daddy or faster on his feet we wouldn’t even have to worry about it in the first place. He gives me a hug and I start to cry, cry like the rain on our roof and the puddles on the sidewalk. My daddy loves me.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Portia (Listening to: Knee Deep at the National Pop League, Camera Obscura)


I am Portia.

Glinda isn't Portia. That's what really gets me. I definitely did not expect this. I am so happy, so excited, and so terrified. Batman Boy got Antonio, which he wanted, and Bassanio is this other senior guy who I don't know very well. We're getting lunch together tomorrow, to get to know each other better. So that rehearsing our kiss isn't as awkward. Oh, wow. I'm the female lead in the Advanced Acting play.

My American Studies final was this morning, and I still kind of want to puke. Well, there's nothing I can do about it now. During my study block, Expelled Boy came up to the library from biology and snuck up behind me to give me what turned out to be the most killer back massage of all time. We discussed the final, and I told him I'm Portia. We were in intermediate acting together last year so he was really excited for me. Damn, it's hard to get over him when he comes around rubbing my back and telling me I'm talented.

Almost as hard as it was when he told me I smelled good and put his arm around me. Almost as hard.


Well, damn. Today was weird. I felt like throwing up while being the happiest and proudest I have been in a long time.


Can you see me? I'm starting to glow.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Liar (Listening to: Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan)

Well look at that, I did make time to write.




I’m a virgin. I’m not stupid. I don’t want you to break my heart.

You said you’re a romantic. I guess I’ll believe it when I see it. I don’t think you even know what that means, actually.

You cheated on the girl you said you loved. A lot of times. Look me in the eye, okay?

You like me too much to fuck me? Do you get how fucked up that is? You’re supposed to like the people you sleep with. More than like. If you are really a romantic I think you would know that.

Maybe the way you are works for you. It looks to me like it is working pretty damn well, actually. You get girls. You do. If that’s enough for you, then alright. Okay. There is nothing wrong with that.

But it is not romantic. You are not romantic. You’re afraid of romance.

Maybe you do love her. Maybe it’s the closest thing to love you’ve ever known. So what? Love does not equal romance. Especially not the way you love.

You’re a liar. You lie to her when you sleep with other girls. You lie to them when you don’t tell them about her. And you lie to yourself when you tell yourself that the things you do don’t stop you from being a romantic.

Look, you’re smart. You understand a lot of things I don’t. But I understand this and it looks like you can’t. You’re handsome and you’re talented. You’re kind, charismatic, and magnetic.

But I can’t trust you when you lie to everyone.




I got drunk last night off champagne with Salamander. She's been getting to know Expelled Boy better for a while now because they go out and smoke during break together. Apparently I came up for the first time when they talked a couple days ago, about who at our school they'd fuck.

And he said:

Yeah, the difference between Wendy and other girls is that I actually like Wendy. So I'd feel really bad, because I'd probably like...

Salamander:

Break her heart?

Him:

Yeah, you know.


Well I'm hungover and Expelled Boy likes me too much to fuck me. Where does that leave me? A weird place, that's for sure. To quote The Notwist, I feel like strange, boneless.

Salamander's friend came over. I think he was nice. We snuggled when I was full of warm champagne and empty of inhibitions. I remember talking in French, but I forget the words and meaning.


Also, according to Mike, Paul said I had the best female audition for the play. Also known as, I was the only one acting and not just reading. Also known as very good news. However, he still hasn't cast the show, but he's supposed to send out an email with the list this weekend. Also known as I'm busy refreshing my email every other minute.



All I want is to surprise everyone. Expelled Boy, Advanced Acting, Salamander.
I have a giant sun inside me and I just want to let it out.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Audition Days (Listening to: We Used to Vacation, Cold War Kids)

Today we auditioned for roles in The Merchant of Venice in Advanced Acting. I was up until two last night memorizing Portia's part of the audition scene.
Anyway, my audition went pretty well. I got paired with Batman Boy for my first reading, so he took Bassanio and I took Portia in the scene where he chooses the correct box and the two get married.

Maybe a little background on Batman Boy would be helpful here. He's pretty much the default for romantic leads in drama at our school, because he's talented and gorgeous. I've decided to call him Batman Boy because he has a minor obsession with the Dark Knight. Actually, my friend Alice dressed up as Batman for Halloween. I commented a picture of her in costume on facebook saying: wow, you make the best Batman since.....well, me. (Batman is my favorite superhero and I was Batman in 7th Grade). Anyway, Batman Boy writes on my wall: A little birdie told me you were Batman once. That's rad. See what I mean? Cute, but awkward. Anyway he's dating this girl I went to elementary school with.

Well back to the audition. Paul and Mike, the teachers in Advanced Acting, are big fans of saying: "I need more HEAT!" So, as far as my audition went, Batman Boy and I had something happening. Maybe not the strongest chemistry ever (Expelled Boy still wins in that department), but definitely something.
The other girl I'm competing with for Portia is this senior girl who is new to the class, and she's actually really sweet. We do speech and debate together too. Anyways, she's gorgeous, blonde to my red hair, and she and Batman Boy have been friends since preschool. They can turn the chemistry on and off because they are so comfortable together. My acting is much stronger than hers, but she looks like Portia more than I do (blonde), and she and Batman Boy are close. We'll call her Glinda the Good Witch I guess.

In Advanced Acting, we cast the shows ourselves. Mike and Paul give us a list of the characters and we write who we want to play each role on the sheet. I talked to Glinda afterwards, and we talked about the casting we had seen. Most people had seemed to cast me as Nerissa, the female supporting role (pretty damn good for me considering it's my first year in Advanced Acting and I'm just a Junior) and Glinda as Portia. Well, we'll see, I mean Paul has the final decision, but if most people cast me as Nerissa I will probably get that role. Which I will definitely be happy with. :) Yay for things going my way.

Anyway this is about to be a really busy run for me, so I probably won't get anything up for a while.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Polite Ghosts Fading Quickly (Listening to: Half Asleep, School of Seven Bells)

The last three days have been an odd slew of lovely, contented sighs and tense pain.

On Saturday, I spent a large part of the day with The Expelled Boy. It's been over a year since I started liking him, and it's done: Almost forcibly spreading thinner 'til it dissolves completely.

Sunday, I blew off all my homework and just felt amazing all day. I slept in. Somehow I seemed to be lighter than air, giddy but in an entirely new way. Not in the love I felt for someone else, (The Expelled Boy, Art School Boy), but for the lack of that love. Being alone, and loving that feeling of independence, of self-reliance so much. I know that what begins as an unguarded train of thought, slowly can become an addiction to the slumber of disconnection and the resonance of memory that no longer has a shape but keeps you numb through the hours 'til gone is another day.

Monday started beautifully. I had this vibrating energy inside me and I was so much happier than I had been. Advanced Acting started after lunch. We sat in our own spots on the stage. Mike says to picture someone we love, the person we love the most of all.
I remember this exercise from last year. And I do not imagine the same person.
Last year I picked the girl I now know as Old Best Friend. Our friendship the way we knew it then has also almost forcibly spread thinner 'til it dissolved completely.
This year I imagine Laura, my little sister. When we were younger, when I was six and she was four, I would dream that she had died, that the overgrown rock garden in the corner of our yard where no one goes anymore had become a pond, a deep, dark lake of green scum and shadowy fish and that she had fallen from the balcony into its depths. I used to dream that I climbed down the chain hanging from the roof gutter that directed rain water, to try and carry her out of the lake. She would drown. The sky was always stormy. I would scream and cry in these dreams, and then our friends would peer out of the shadows of our dark house and giggle, laugh and say that they were happy she was dead. They would sing and dance and I would scream and bawl and wake up drenched in sweat.
Mike says picture this person I love most, and I imagine her. Now, he says, this person is dying. What do their eyes look like? What does their hair look like? You can comfort them. Where are you?
Just like that, I am crying.
Now, Mike says, they have one minute. When I call your name, you have one minute to say everything you want to say to them.
He calls my name first.

I need you to know that I love you more than anyone. I love you so much, so much, and I need you to stay with me. I know that life for you has been so much harder than it has been for me and I wanted to take that from you and protect you from that. I never could. I wish it was me. I wish I could die and not you, I do.
Fifteen seconds, Mike says.
I love you. You're going to be okay. It's going to be okay.
Ten seconds.
I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Five.
I love you, I love you I love you I love youIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouLAURA.
And she's gone, Mike says.

Another name is called, but I keep crying, silently shaking and shivering and holding my empty hand tight around what I have convinced myself is her limp one. Those dark waters have swallowed her up again and there is nothing I can do.
As I walk from the theater to the bathroom, a senior from the class, Batman Boy, pats me on the back and says: Alice Cooper is a good look for you. And it's true, my cheeks are streaked with black mascara. I wipe it away.
The rest of the day my shoulders feel tense against my neck and I feel dragged through Hell. I take notes in Calculus for once. I can't laugh or make faces behind the teacher's back today.
That headache you get from crying hasn't faded yet.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Question v. Answer (Listening to: Third Planet, Modest Mouse)

We’re so very grounded on this cold Alaskan night. Above us, your sky spins a savory silk for the treetops. We look at the ground and at each other. Our bare limbs are so earthly, so low. My few words tilt softly from behind my lips. The pavement is cracked with weeds. Our feet have led us to the courtyard, the place you say you first kissed me. Maybe I’ve lost track. It would surprise me. You hold me in your arms and I bury myself in you. We both know such Saturdays breed Sunday mornings of goodbye. You nuzzle my head and kiss my lips softly. I pull the strings; I am the puppeteer. I kiss you back. Full, round, dripping fruit. I don’t mind that your hands wander. Your fingers tracing me are compliments and they are comforting. We take a walk at your suggestion (you want more), and amble down the concrete. We sit on the stoop of a dark whitewashed house. You cradle my head as you lay me down to the sidewalk. Your fingertips flow from beneath my left breast to my opposite hip. Your lips pulse at mine. Beyond your head, the frozen starlight blooms. Your warmth is pressing me, enveloping me, sweeping up and down my legs in waves of shivers. I sit up on my elbows. My naked shoulders are pale moonlit horses.

They said I love you.

I know.

He doesn’t love her, does he?

No.

She doesn’t love him either.

Good.

It’s too soon.

Way too soon.

I lay my tousled head on your shoulder. The harbor glimmers slowly. A tangled thicket of masts guards the shore. Neither of us needs to say I don’t love you.


When I first wrote about that night, I wrote about that one amazing kiss in the courtyard. Last night I realized I'd overlooked the important part.


In other news, I told my old best friend (I'm still close with her, but I think "best friend" is too black and white for us) about what happened to me on my birthday. See: Locking the Doors Isn't Enough (August 23rd, 2008) Anyways, I cried for twenty blocks or so, the most violently I have since Alaska when my parents went insane. Today was an awful day, which is what got me started. The aforementioned incident just sort of spilled out.


I had burst into tears in the middle of the restaurant, so I left my family and started walking home. My dad made me come back, because he said it wasn't safe. Funny how when you need your parents to care and notice, they don't, but when you want to be alone they care enough to ruin it. Maybe I'll write something real about this later in the week.