By: Ricky Martin
A process such as this is for when you have reached your end; of patience, of hope, of faith and trust. Administer after social networking sites have failed you and you must, as reluctant as you may be, return to the real world. Turn off the computer, stop answering texts, and apply direct pressure to where it hurts the most.
1. Change your sheets.
- The instant confessions of "recently" are read and the proof is in, go to your bed and tear that shit up. While images of match striking or dumpster chucking may seem justifiable, please remember that your mother ordered those for you and that you are trying your best to not claw at the innocent.
2. Disassemble
-remove all the crap you've displayed in your room to remind your Monday-Thursday self of weekends with them. Use only enough force to enjoy disassembling the shrine. Place them in a pile face down in some Everything Drawer, since you know yourself all too well and will probably want them face up again someday.
3.Wallow
- assemble feel-good items in your freshly made bed. These should be items personal only to you; a diary, a choreography notebook, the booklet of your favorite cd, the novel you wish you had time to finish. Stumble across the movie that ironically fits your situation perfectly and furrow your eybrows with the protagonist. Let sit for 2-3 hours or until eyebrows have relaxed.
4. Comatose
- Sleep until the cursed daylight has gone away, then get your ass outta bed and eat some dinner. Return immediately to bed and go back to sleep. Later, shake off the terrible dreams you had.
"Tonight I'm finding a way to make the things that you say just a little less obvious."
5. Finish a project
- Completing a project that puts your mind and heart back in the time that now causes soreness will provide small, but beneficial closure. Finish reading that novel.
6. CD
- buy that full-length that you've been meaning to make yours. Let it sink into your veins like you used to do so easily.
7. The Outfit
- You've been debating on still going through with those plans made before your shit hit the disco ball. Go, but go in something that makes you feel new. Even pieces of new. Think sugar cookies, then sugar cookies plus chocolate chips. Which one says, "I mean business" ?
8. A Moment
- Make no plans for the unexpectedly open day. Get in your car and pop in that new cd. It should feel like poppin' champagne. Find a great drum break and bleed to the beat of the breakdown. Scene kids bleed in color.
...Ricky.
"Shameless" by: All Time Low
Saturday, February 28, 2009
S.O.S.
The dancers have commandeered the light.
I don't see any justification in dancing for people who hate us, for teachers who have a disgusted attitude towards us because we have been labelled "Level 2 technique" which they themselves put on us. It's like they chose who they wanted to be worthy. Level 3 is on their way to NYC, Level 1 is potential-striken, and Level 2...purgatory. We're not good enough to be allowed to move on, but too good to go home. I used to be hell bent on convincing them that I was something special, but I stull wanted to do it my way and not be made into something my predecesors just wanted to see pirouette. So I got blacklisted, yet respected, maybe even feared in some cases. Not exactly what I was going for, but I took it over being someone's silent muse.
They don't like Michelle because she has a big butt. They don't like Emily because she has big boobs. They don't like Zig because she has a big heart and they don't like me because I have a big mouth. Who at the beginning of ballet time decided teachers got to say what size was acceptable? I know plenty of things that are big AND wonderful: Texas, elephants, Eddie VanHalan's hair circa 1985, the Civil Rights movement, Melana's cankles, the Rocky Mountains, the Sistine Chapel, and Andre's ears. Big is not always bad. Maybe Eddie's hair was a poor example.
The dance studio was bleak and attic-like when we walked in this morning. Our darling instructor had already started class with but 3 students out of obvious spite that he was assigned to teach the Level 2's today. Two of us have doctor's notes urging us not to dance, but we are here anyways. Michelle whispers about a wish that she could just melt into the floor. I wish I could give that to her.
Katie's drum beat is perfect for the next scene. It puts soundtrack to the evil persona Nancy has all too pleasantly taken on: An undercutting lioness, cruel from jealousy that she is not heir to a throne and hell bent on the redemption of her shortcomings. She yelled at Michelle for blowing her nose in between exercises, making her demonstrate the correction alone. Then she covers it up with false sweetness that makes me sick- asking Michelle if she is okay. if she was truly concerned that a runny nose might jeopardize Meesh's health. Then Nancy goes after me. She draws the class's attention to me, who can't dance today. I am clearly miserable to not be twirling and leaping with my peers, still she upbraids me for attitude I have not even given her yet. When I remind her of my note and injury excuse presented the first day of classes (a time she when she also publically embarrassed me), she at first pretends she knows nothing of my injury and asks sweetly if I am not feeling well or something. She makes me say 'hernia' and point out where it is. My humiliation angers me but my irises only drain their colors. "I was only asking, honey." I hate sugar names dripping with disdain. My mother gave me a name. I sass back, "And I was just telling you." My delivered attitude earns me evil eyes but no more words. I wish I was brave enough to do something more; like make a scene and walk out. Or describe how I've been throwing up from the pain I'm in and the extra meds I've been swallowing. But I don't. I just write. And I take out my bun to release my dance-defiant hairstyle.
The room is dark and dreary, not ominously but mundanely. I will not raise my eyes from this page, whether out of shame or embarrassment I know not. Suddenly a burst of light! It robs me of my seclusion and I look up to see 3 dancers ripping open the corded curtains from the wall-length windows with neither permission nor approval. Our instructor goes on giving the next combination, not wanting to acknowledge the disobedience of his authority. But I see the panic on his face. The dancers are ripping those cords- there are 10 curtains total- and the room becomes alive with light. I smile at the rebellion and immediately begin to scribble these very words. I was meant to notice this small but bold act of resiliency. I was meant to record the movements of spirits that juse refuse to die.
...Ricky.
"Love Story" by: Taylor Swift.
I don't see any justification in dancing for people who hate us, for teachers who have a disgusted attitude towards us because we have been labelled "Level 2 technique" which they themselves put on us. It's like they chose who they wanted to be worthy. Level 3 is on their way to NYC, Level 1 is potential-striken, and Level 2...purgatory. We're not good enough to be allowed to move on, but too good to go home. I used to be hell bent on convincing them that I was something special, but I stull wanted to do it my way and not be made into something my predecesors just wanted to see pirouette. So I got blacklisted, yet respected, maybe even feared in some cases. Not exactly what I was going for, but I took it over being someone's silent muse.
They don't like Michelle because she has a big butt. They don't like Emily because she has big boobs. They don't like Zig because she has a big heart and they don't like me because I have a big mouth. Who at the beginning of ballet time decided teachers got to say what size was acceptable? I know plenty of things that are big AND wonderful: Texas, elephants, Eddie VanHalan's hair circa 1985, the Civil Rights movement, Melana's cankles, the Rocky Mountains, the Sistine Chapel, and Andre's ears. Big is not always bad. Maybe Eddie's hair was a poor example.
The dance studio was bleak and attic-like when we walked in this morning. Our darling instructor had already started class with but 3 students out of obvious spite that he was assigned to teach the Level 2's today. Two of us have doctor's notes urging us not to dance, but we are here anyways. Michelle whispers about a wish that she could just melt into the floor. I wish I could give that to her.
Katie's drum beat is perfect for the next scene. It puts soundtrack to the evil persona Nancy has all too pleasantly taken on: An undercutting lioness, cruel from jealousy that she is not heir to a throne and hell bent on the redemption of her shortcomings. She yelled at Michelle for blowing her nose in between exercises, making her demonstrate the correction alone. Then she covers it up with false sweetness that makes me sick- asking Michelle if she is okay. if she was truly concerned that a runny nose might jeopardize Meesh's health. Then Nancy goes after me. She draws the class's attention to me, who can't dance today. I am clearly miserable to not be twirling and leaping with my peers, still she upbraids me for attitude I have not even given her yet. When I remind her of my note and injury excuse presented the first day of classes (a time she when she also publically embarrassed me), she at first pretends she knows nothing of my injury and asks sweetly if I am not feeling well or something. She makes me say 'hernia' and point out where it is. My humiliation angers me but my irises only drain their colors. "I was only asking, honey." I hate sugar names dripping with disdain. My mother gave me a name. I sass back, "And I was just telling you." My delivered attitude earns me evil eyes but no more words. I wish I was brave enough to do something more; like make a scene and walk out. Or describe how I've been throwing up from the pain I'm in and the extra meds I've been swallowing. But I don't. I just write. And I take out my bun to release my dance-defiant hairstyle.
The room is dark and dreary, not ominously but mundanely. I will not raise my eyes from this page, whether out of shame or embarrassment I know not. Suddenly a burst of light! It robs me of my seclusion and I look up to see 3 dancers ripping open the corded curtains from the wall-length windows with neither permission nor approval. Our instructor goes on giving the next combination, not wanting to acknowledge the disobedience of his authority. But I see the panic on his face. The dancers are ripping those cords- there are 10 curtains total- and the room becomes alive with light. I smile at the rebellion and immediately begin to scribble these very words. I was meant to notice this small but bold act of resiliency. I was meant to record the movements of spirits that juse refuse to die.
...Ricky.
"Love Story" by: Taylor Swift.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sandlot Scenes
Today I found out an old friend is very sick. He was probably one of my first actual friends since the first 6 years of my life I met other children, but only played closely with my own cousins. There was Erika; the basis of our friendship really being that she lived across the street, that my little brother used to try to pick her up in his Hot Wheels Corvette, and of course, that her name was Erica too. Fourth letter of choice. She was my first friend, and then there was Matt. First grade, Mrs. Adams' class. I was in a new school with not so new clothes and Matthew was the one I connected with. The laminated name tag on his desk has to say 'Matthew,' but even our teacher called him, 'Matt.' We had a kickball league. Everyday our class hoarded the gravel field at the far end of the playground. Matt and I were captains- I think half because we could kick the ball the farthest and half because we demanded the most attention. We mostly just scrimmaged against ourselves, but on the occasion that the lunch aids made us allow the other children to play, we charged the game as "Adams' vs. all!" and took it as a battle to be victoried, a title to uphold. We always won those games, or at least that's how I choose to remember it.
Matt is sick now. My mother called me on a 5 from rehearsal tonight and aside from asking about show tickets and my health, she told me my hometown was on a hushed buzz. Testicular cancer they say, with mentions of chemo and frozen sperm, and buzz words of 'treatment' and 'ruined.' They say he's sick. Sick; like he could take some Dimetapp or Advil and run right back out on that gravel diamond. I haven't spoken to Matt in probably a year. The last time we spoke we were both just trying to get through the complicated surprises growing up had rolled our way. We were hopeful. And what of now? Now that my second friend/first crush/fellow coming-of-age hopeful might die? I refuse to speak any words of inevitability. But what of now when we have left the playground yet kept running to towards the bases we always wanted to touch? How do you keep going when you are sick? When your cells are dying and your body is struggling? What words have I for that?? I fear there are none. Some say you learn everything you need to know when you are small. Others say God blesses you with the skills you need to survive. If these are so, then I know only one thing to do: square off to that outfield and kick the ball as far as we possibly can.
...Erica.
anything by Blind Melon.
Matt is sick now. My mother called me on a 5 from rehearsal tonight and aside from asking about show tickets and my health, she told me my hometown was on a hushed buzz. Testicular cancer they say, with mentions of chemo and frozen sperm, and buzz words of 'treatment' and 'ruined.' They say he's sick. Sick; like he could take some Dimetapp or Advil and run right back out on that gravel diamond. I haven't spoken to Matt in probably a year. The last time we spoke we were both just trying to get through the complicated surprises growing up had rolled our way. We were hopeful. And what of now? Now that my second friend/first crush/fellow coming-of-age hopeful might die? I refuse to speak any words of inevitability. But what of now when we have left the playground yet kept running to towards the bases we always wanted to touch? How do you keep going when you are sick? When your cells are dying and your body is struggling? What words have I for that?? I fear there are none. Some say you learn everything you need to know when you are small. Others say God blesses you with the skills you need to survive. If these are so, then I know only one thing to do: square off to that outfield and kick the ball as far as we possibly can.
...Erica.
anything by Blind Melon.
can a person change the tides?
The middle of the day is the longest part for me. It's when I have "8 for nothing" if I have one at all, and it's when I get sleepy; usually scanning social networking sites until I pass out. Today I should be making sure I'm going to graduate, solidifying casting and choreography, or even folding my laundry. But instead I'm blogging and listening to All Time Low. Typical.
Take a breathe, don't sound so easy? Never had a doubt now I'm going crazy.
There are some phrases that burn right through the thickest clots in my bloodstream. There are certain notes that I think I've lived out before they were even applied to these words. "In a matter of minutes." I like songs about good times, about these epically ordinary roadtrips or nights outside that just lived on forever. "A night like this," or "this night is all we've got." I like that somebody wrote them down so that we could all go back to them whenever we wanted.
This morning I woke up in a very foggy rememberance of what had gone on in the previous hours. My only clues were the soreness in my ribs, the smeared eyeliner, and worry in my eyebrows. I had fallen asleep with The Book and a pen in my left hand, my cell phone under my pillow, and an open water bottle next to me. I was missing a sock and Andre's hoodie was on the floor. Resorting to routine I snapped headphones on my head and pressed play before sitting up at all. I struggled to identify the voice in my ears; I knew this song, this intonation was specific to me. The song was old to my memory and quite uncommonly I could neither grasp a band boy's face nor an outfit I'd worn in this tune's presence. I pushed my legs over the side of the bed, for they needed help this morning, and slid down to put both feet on the ground. And it hit me. Find it in you. I once dropped a box of firework snaps on a sidewalk as a child, and that spitfire sound came back to me now as a thousand images and outfits and songs and glances and moments..and nights...sparked to the front of my brain all at once. "She said let's change our luck."
Sometimes when one is lost it is best to go back to the very beginning. Look around, see how you saw it in the first place, remember why you didn't doubt it back then. And then I find, that the combination of the right song and a little imagination is enough to put 2 and 2 together and get by for at least another 3 and half minutes. "I believe it. Do you?"
...Ricky.
"Six Feet Under the Stars" by: All Time Low
Take a breathe, don't sound so easy? Never had a doubt now I'm going crazy.
There are some phrases that burn right through the thickest clots in my bloodstream. There are certain notes that I think I've lived out before they were even applied to these words. "In a matter of minutes." I like songs about good times, about these epically ordinary roadtrips or nights outside that just lived on forever. "A night like this," or "this night is all we've got." I like that somebody wrote them down so that we could all go back to them whenever we wanted.
This morning I woke up in a very foggy rememberance of what had gone on in the previous hours. My only clues were the soreness in my ribs, the smeared eyeliner, and worry in my eyebrows. I had fallen asleep with The Book and a pen in my left hand, my cell phone under my pillow, and an open water bottle next to me. I was missing a sock and Andre's hoodie was on the floor. Resorting to routine I snapped headphones on my head and pressed play before sitting up at all. I struggled to identify the voice in my ears; I knew this song, this intonation was specific to me. The song was old to my memory and quite uncommonly I could neither grasp a band boy's face nor an outfit I'd worn in this tune's presence. I pushed my legs over the side of the bed, for they needed help this morning, and slid down to put both feet on the ground. And it hit me. Find it in you. I once dropped a box of firework snaps on a sidewalk as a child, and that spitfire sound came back to me now as a thousand images and outfits and songs and glances and moments..and nights...sparked to the front of my brain all at once. "She said let's change our luck."
Sometimes when one is lost it is best to go back to the very beginning. Look around, see how you saw it in the first place, remember why you didn't doubt it back then. And then I find, that the combination of the right song and a little imagination is enough to put 2 and 2 together and get by for at least another 3 and half minutes. "I believe it. Do you?"
...Ricky.
"Six Feet Under the Stars" by: All Time Low
Monday, February 23, 2009
We wine and dine in stormy weather, take our time and we're together
Today I drove to I-495 in the direction of out. Then I realized running backwards is ridiculous and that if I was going to run at all, it might as well be with it.
...Rica.
"Maybe Baby" by: Gabriel the Marine
...Rica.
"Maybe Baby" by: Gabriel the Marine
Sunday, February 22, 2009
In The Break Of Saturday
cut.
this morning when i woke
it was from a scream
where our bodies were linked and your sweat,
your sweat was my accessory;
beading around my neck until I could not breathe.
this morning when i woke
i could still feel the thrash
of silver-studded nightmares and mustard-colored fears,
in sweetly lied promises and bent autumn dreams.
(you're so last summer)
tattoos on the wrists of broken hearts
hold the secrets which I can only write.
the gift of the giver
and the bearer of these conditions.
i touch my firework scars and wince in remembrance
of your now jaded freshness and oh this hushed appeal.
this morning when i woke i could still sense the distortion
of pedaled images and hustled hips
as I stared struggling to hold onto
a squinted perception to remember you by.
and you. you spoiled faith one splinter at a time.
you proved the lyrics were forged.
taking back sunday.
this morning when i woke
it was from a song
and the night was still warm and the leads,
the leads were piercing in my truths,
and i realized it had been here all along
in scene-haired promises and sweetly lied chords
that they’ve left in my ear
to keep for this morning
when i woke to put both feet on the ground
and finally shatter; a beautiful D sus to a dying relief.
post.
sometimes I wish it were yesterday
in our spring jackets, wet noses stuck in other people’s businesses.
back then all we worried about was time;
that we wouldn’t have enough of it, that it would go by too fast.
we’ve all got something that won’t go away
i’m just not it.
this morning when i woke
it was from a scream
where our bodies were linked and your sweat,
your sweat was my accessory;
beading around my neck until I could not breathe.
this morning when i woke
i could still feel the thrash
of silver-studded nightmares and mustard-colored fears,
in sweetly lied promises and bent autumn dreams.
(you're so last summer)
tattoos on the wrists of broken hearts
hold the secrets which I can only write.
the gift of the giver
and the bearer of these conditions.
i touch my firework scars and wince in remembrance
of your now jaded freshness and oh this hushed appeal.
this morning when i woke i could still sense the distortion
of pedaled images and hustled hips
as I stared struggling to hold onto
a squinted perception to remember you by.
and you. you spoiled faith one splinter at a time.
you proved the lyrics were forged.
taking back sunday.
this morning when i woke
it was from a song
and the night was still warm and the leads,
the leads were piercing in my truths,
and i realized it had been here all along
in scene-haired promises and sweetly lied chords
that they’ve left in my ear
to keep for this morning
when i woke to put both feet on the ground
and finally shatter; a beautiful D sus to a dying relief.
post.
sometimes I wish it were yesterday
in our spring jackets, wet noses stuck in other people’s businesses.
back then all we worried about was time;
that we wouldn’t have enough of it, that it would go by too fast.
we’ve all got something that won’t go away
i’m just not it.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
"If I'd only thought of something charming to say."
I am having orange juice for dinner. It is pretty good. Today I mopped a lot, and got angry a lot, i looked down a lot, and i did a lot of tendus. I do not like mini corns. Fuck mini corns. I think anything with Vitamin C in it makes you feel pretty terrific all over, except if you have the tiniest cut in your mouth. Then it's a bitch. Tonight I learned that the only way to trick a drug dog when smuggling weed across the border is to hide the magic grass under chopped meat, so that when the dog sniffs the area, the officer assumes it just wants the meat. Learning is so important. I talked to cousins today; chatted with BA from Breuggers in Arlington VA, Danny from DuPont HQ in Delaware, and Pat from Washington DC. We re-discovered the music video for Go West's "King of Wishful Thinking" which...you all gotta youtube. It's fuckin brilliant. So is orange juice, mostly when combined with champagne on the beaches of South Jersey. Take me back to Sea Isle City I'm done in these Long Island trenches. It occurs to me you don't know my cousins. And I want to tell you.
I have 17+ cousins, which in our language, has always meant brothers and sisters. We refer to each other by nickname and usually in age order: Matt, Pat, Chard, Ref, BA, Danny, Ica, Bomber, Boobis, Cloudy, BJ, Sarah, AlliCat, Buddy, and Roo. Plus, Jenny Lee, Fatty, and Jackay, and Lauren. Also, Bri, Kay, RyRy, and Stevie. My cousins...are the shit. They take care of me from epic distances. They sense when to call, when to text, and nothing ever drifts away. A few years ago when Danny was in the VA Tech Shootings, no grown ups were called before all the cousins connected first. Brian talked to Danny that day. And when GUB died I laid on Ricky's shoulder in the church, and he just let my fuzzy sweater shed all over his great black suit. Riley knows when to go sit in Michael's lap and when to snuggle with David. So yesterday me and Dave texted cuz we were sad and frustrated and today Bri made me reiterate my life plan to make sure I was set while Dan drooled over Lin Manuel Miranda. They're gonna be best friends.
Learning is good, important. Today Brian said to me, "best way to make things happen is to make things happen." Genius. BA drinks his Vitamin C.
...Ricky.
"Sound of Settling" by: Deathcab for Cutie
I have 17+ cousins, which in our language, has always meant brothers and sisters. We refer to each other by nickname and usually in age order: Matt, Pat, Chard, Ref, BA, Danny, Ica, Bomber, Boobis, Cloudy, BJ, Sarah, AlliCat, Buddy, and Roo. Plus, Jenny Lee, Fatty, and Jackay, and Lauren. Also, Bri, Kay, RyRy, and Stevie. My cousins...are the shit. They take care of me from epic distances. They sense when to call, when to text, and nothing ever drifts away. A few years ago when Danny was in the VA Tech Shootings, no grown ups were called before all the cousins connected first. Brian talked to Danny that day. And when GUB died I laid on Ricky's shoulder in the church, and he just let my fuzzy sweater shed all over his great black suit. Riley knows when to go sit in Michael's lap and when to snuggle with David. So yesterday me and Dave texted cuz we were sad and frustrated and today Bri made me reiterate my life plan to make sure I was set while Dan drooled over Lin Manuel Miranda. They're gonna be best friends.
Learning is good, important. Today Brian said to me, "best way to make things happen is to make things happen." Genius. BA drinks his Vitamin C.
...Ricky.
"Sound of Settling" by: Deathcab for Cutie
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
.
Please define:
equivocator.
forget.
afterwards.
innocence.
forfeit.
mentality.
contusion.
prayer.
tell me a story.
equivocator.
forget.
afterwards.
innocence.
forfeit.
mentality.
contusion.
prayer.
tell me a story.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
when girls fall asleep in band practice.
I have a few minutes before spending the rest of the night at work and I remembered that I once told Jacob I was posting something about him here. Never did. Here's my second, or third rather, band practice scribbles:
JV Band Practice:
The sheer luck it took to get me here is unexplainable, so I won't try. I remember what Nathen said about how awkwardness isn't real but created by ourselves- so I've made the trio I've part of for the last fifteen minutes hopefully tolerable. Plu I am smiley today. Nicky asks what's wrong with me that I'm so smiley lol. Jacob comes in and just radiates; he's smiley too, and warm, ready and able-bodied. He hugs me first becoming the ring master of this cellar circus, and I get the feeling of tight-chested awe that I get sometimes with Nate, and Lights, even Stereo, but never yet with JV. He turns and smiles at little jokes he makes towards me and I appreciate it like a cool washcloth after the heat This Condition has been giving my face. I change focus and see Nicky as a celebrity in this moment which is semi, if not wholly, amusing to me. He behaves so differently here than his own band's practice. Here he is...assertive, even relaxed. This Nicky- JV Nicky- intimidates me. He knows what he's doing, knows what he wants to do, is damn good...and knows it. Zach's impressively handling the bass, high hat, and snare rhythms as well as throwing in a trumpet up top. I don't so much adore the parts he has created for Jacob's songs, but they're making this happen right here and now. And I have to give props to that.
Nicky moves to lean very James Dean-esque against a pole- a punk rock Jimmy D. aw lol. And he looks -. He still blushes when he realizes I'm watching, which is ironic since he picks on me for being over-attentive all the time. The cycle is the only thing that keeps me grounded with him, oddly enough.
It's cool how it only takes musicians and dancers 4 counts to delve back into the dramatic intensities of a piece. "One! Two! Three! Four!" or "A-5, 6, 7, 8 And!"
Jacob laughs at everything and I consider recent chats I've had with both frontmen, making observations about Jacob and Nate that I will choose to leave out here.
Nicky likes when Jacob yell-sings, and I do recall seeing that excited smile on him when Nate breaks the sound barrier too. Jacob's playing "Africa" again.
*note: the scribe of these writings fell asleep in band practice before the accounts could be completed. She apologizes to all present.
...Ricky.
the "HOT" song, to be by: Jacob Vanags
JV Band Practice:
The sheer luck it took to get me here is unexplainable, so I won't try. I remember what Nathen said about how awkwardness isn't real but created by ourselves- so I've made the trio I've part of for the last fifteen minutes hopefully tolerable. Plu I am smiley today. Nicky asks what's wrong with me that I'm so smiley lol. Jacob comes in and just radiates; he's smiley too, and warm, ready and able-bodied. He hugs me first becoming the ring master of this cellar circus, and I get the feeling of tight-chested awe that I get sometimes with Nate, and Lights, even Stereo, but never yet with JV. He turns and smiles at little jokes he makes towards me and I appreciate it like a cool washcloth after the heat This Condition has been giving my face. I change focus and see Nicky as a celebrity in this moment which is semi, if not wholly, amusing to me. He behaves so differently here than his own band's practice. Here he is...assertive, even relaxed. This Nicky- JV Nicky- intimidates me. He knows what he's doing, knows what he wants to do, is damn good...and knows it. Zach's impressively handling the bass, high hat, and snare rhythms as well as throwing in a trumpet up top. I don't so much adore the parts he has created for Jacob's songs, but they're making this happen right here and now. And I have to give props to that.
Nicky moves to lean very James Dean-esque against a pole- a punk rock Jimmy D. aw lol. And he looks -. He still blushes when he realizes I'm watching, which is ironic since he picks on me for being over-attentive all the time. The cycle is the only thing that keeps me grounded with him, oddly enough.
It's cool how it only takes musicians and dancers 4 counts to delve back into the dramatic intensities of a piece. "One! Two! Three! Four!" or "A-5, 6, 7, 8 And!"
Jacob laughs at everything and I consider recent chats I've had with both frontmen, making observations about Jacob and Nate that I will choose to leave out here.
Nicky likes when Jacob yell-sings, and I do recall seeing that excited smile on him when Nate breaks the sound barrier too. Jacob's playing "Africa" again.
*note: the scribe of these writings fell asleep in band practice before the accounts could be completed. She apologizes to all present.
...Ricky.
the "HOT" song, to be by: Jacob Vanags
Friday, February 13, 2009
I believe in the sand beneath my toes
Today was long in a very short amount of time. Ballet teachers were verbally abusive yet, it's not hurtful..it's just old. The past five days most of us have pulled 12-hour shifts in the dance world so the level of sore is very high and the level of brain cells is very low. Meesh and I punked out early, choosing to discuss the patterns of life rather than the direction of our pelvic floors. I think we made the right choice. Yesterday, admist feverish rehearsals, I found out I'll be going to Maine for ACDF (the American College Dance Festival) to perform in March. I also got cast double for Dance Adelphi in easily the 2 most depressing and fun pieces coming out of our Department this year. Aaand I held open auditions referred to more commonly as 'playdates' for the smashing new peice coming out of the Dance Department's sarcastically-mouthed punk; me. Yes. That's a real reference. The freshman blew me away and we inserted a completely obvious Nate Cyphert allusion at the end of the first chorus phrase. Now despite protest from Brian Patrick I'm reading The Giver, simply because Jacob told me too, and discussing with AndreBaby whether I am human or zombie. I'll get back to you.
Yesterday I had a 2-hour break from rehearsals in which I used to clean the van with Nicky. Ezra needs a facial. I realized Nick's way of getting things done is severely different than most peoples, so I decided to pay attention and share his methods with you now:
First we stood in the van for a good 10-15 minutes just assessing the space. When we were done with this initial step, it was still a mess. Second we formed a garbage out of a grocery bag and collected all the crumples and wastes. Then we sat for 5 minutes, moved random things around for 5 minutes, and folded sleeping bags for 10. Finally, after much little kid whining from me, it was time for cleaning products. Nicky would only let me clean the insides of the windows, which forced me to go behind his back and ask Nate if I could also do the outsides, which later got me in trouble with Nick. Lol. Nicky does small tasks with a lot of intensity. Like vacuuming under the driver's seat. The vacuum sucked, which is ironic since it didnt suck up hardly anything at all, yet Nicky still contorted his tiny frame into an awkward deep clean position to apprehend as many particles as possible. Or like scrubbing the wheels. His legs fold up like a bird in flight and he just scrubs there, warning me to be ready with the hose since we don't wanna waste any time. Riiight. I was also scolded for standing in the line of spray, re-washing too many areas, and playing in the suds. I was accused for taking unpaid texting breaks (which was true) and for checking him out while he made the soap (which was half true). He was appauled when I had to leave to get a massage, saying getting the van clean was obviously more important and questioning my priorities. Overall I'd conclude that it's difficult to describe Nicky C. mannerisms rightly. The van is probably still grimy but there's candy in the Office. The windows are immaculate.
...E-Mart.
"Semi-Charmed Life" by: Third Eye Blind
Yesterday I had a 2-hour break from rehearsals in which I used to clean the van with Nicky. Ezra needs a facial. I realized Nick's way of getting things done is severely different than most peoples, so I decided to pay attention and share his methods with you now:
First we stood in the van for a good 10-15 minutes just assessing the space. When we were done with this initial step, it was still a mess. Second we formed a garbage out of a grocery bag and collected all the crumples and wastes. Then we sat for 5 minutes, moved random things around for 5 minutes, and folded sleeping bags for 10. Finally, after much little kid whining from me, it was time for cleaning products. Nicky would only let me clean the insides of the windows, which forced me to go behind his back and ask Nate if I could also do the outsides, which later got me in trouble with Nick. Lol. Nicky does small tasks with a lot of intensity. Like vacuuming under the driver's seat. The vacuum sucked, which is ironic since it didnt suck up hardly anything at all, yet Nicky still contorted his tiny frame into an awkward deep clean position to apprehend as many particles as possible. Or like scrubbing the wheels. His legs fold up like a bird in flight and he just scrubs there, warning me to be ready with the hose since we don't wanna waste any time. Riiight. I was also scolded for standing in the line of spray, re-washing too many areas, and playing in the suds. I was accused for taking unpaid texting breaks (which was true) and for checking him out while he made the soap (which was half true). He was appauled when I had to leave to get a massage, saying getting the van clean was obviously more important and questioning my priorities. Overall I'd conclude that it's difficult to describe Nicky C. mannerisms rightly. The van is probably still grimy but there's candy in the Office. The windows are immaculate.
...E-Mart.
"Semi-Charmed Life" by: Third Eye Blind
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
a write way and a wrong way
Poetry is for...getting smarter, so you can say how you really feel with just the write words. For...searching for a way to tell the little red-haired girl that you love her. And for...filling blogs when you aren't ready to fill them with your own words!
Where the poet stops, the poem
begins. The poem asks only
that the poet get out of the way.
The poem empties itself
in order to fill itself up.
The poem is nearest the poet
when the poet laments
that it has vanished forever.
When the poet disappears
the poem becomes visible.
What may the poem choose,
best for the poet?
It will choose that the poet
not choose for himself.
"The Master"
by: Donald Hall
Where the poet stops, the poem
begins. The poem asks only
that the poet get out of the way.
The poem empties itself
in order to fill itself up.
The poem is nearest the poet
when the poet laments
that it has vanished forever.
When the poet disappears
the poem becomes visible.
What may the poem choose,
best for the poet?
It will choose that the poet
not choose for himself.
"The Master"
by: Donald Hall
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
In the Wake of Saturday
best.
this morning when i woke
it was from a dance
where our arms were linked and your smile,
your smile was like summertime
and summertime is my favorite.
this morning when i woke
i could still see the thrill
in blue raspberry tongues and mustard-colored socks,
in sweetly sung riffs and bent silver strings.
(here we go)
tattoos on the chests of crashing hearts
kept the time that did not pass
and we sang like fools
under these conditions,
and i was burned by the fireworks in your eyes;
fresh to death and loving us right back
this morning when i woke i could still feel your arms
around me like we'd been friends for days
a static touch to remember me by
and you whispered for promises that this would never end
and i knew the lyrics were true.
sunday.
this morning when i woke
it was from a song
and the night was still young and the melody,
the melody was loud in my ears,
and i realized we'd been here all along
in yellow-haired promises and sweetly sung riffs
that you'd left in my ear
to keep for the morning
when i woke to put both feet on the ground
and live viacarously through firework scars and static smiles.
...Ricky.
posted by request. guess who these lines are about <3
this morning when i woke
it was from a dance
where our arms were linked and your smile,
your smile was like summertime
and summertime is my favorite.
this morning when i woke
i could still see the thrill
in blue raspberry tongues and mustard-colored socks,
in sweetly sung riffs and bent silver strings.
(here we go)
tattoos on the chests of crashing hearts
kept the time that did not pass
and we sang like fools
under these conditions,
and i was burned by the fireworks in your eyes;
fresh to death and loving us right back
this morning when i woke i could still feel your arms
around me like we'd been friends for days
a static touch to remember me by
and you whispered for promises that this would never end
and i knew the lyrics were true.
sunday.
this morning when i woke
it was from a song
and the night was still young and the melody,
the melody was loud in my ears,
and i realized we'd been here all along
in yellow-haired promises and sweetly sung riffs
that you'd left in my ear
to keep for the morning
when i woke to put both feet on the ground
and live viacarously through firework scars and static smiles.
...Ricky.
posted by request. guess who these lines are about <3
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
When outtakes are funnier than the final cut
So I was wrong about today. Ok, maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow will be a good day! I haven't much to say for tonight other than my eyes were too tired to watch my friends, so I listened instead. Dinner Party at Nate's. Andre, I would say was my hero for the night; devising the plan so I didn't have to and stop and shopping like a champ. He didn't stop talking the whole ride to Astoria, but after that mainly just yelled, "Get outta my kitchen!" I left the waffle maker at your house 'thane. In retrospect, the waffles were kinda chewy and the Tropicana had no pulp. But Andre eventually got the hang of French Toast and we didn't kill Colin with milk products. If anyone's looking to buy Nate or any of his wonderful housemates a gift...give forks, cuz Andre hadda cut his doughy stack with a spoon. Thank you Nathen and TeeJ for doing the dishes. The project part of the evening will remain hush hush, but I will tell you; we worked with a lot of big names and a no nonsense creative director and I think people are gonna be talking about this. Please don't hold your breath.
Finally I'm warm, and soo not into facing a new day, however I like to think no day is completely lost so here were my favorite highlights about this one:
-Zach's school was cancelled and he got to rest.
-The terrible barre: O'Hara doing her own arms, Garra grilling FatMan, Me texting with my phone down my leotard, Zee just standing still for deggages, SiscoKid's leopard print ballet skirt, and Meesh sick posture in btwn kickboxing moves.
-Andre Palmer
-Colin's housecoat
-trimming Nicky C's fro
-our epic discussion of the new Tropicana design.
-Rachel, your bathroom door is on upside down.
-Nate's pissy attitude to get what he wants ;)
-Nicky telling me I only use the pout lip to get what I want lol.
-My nap in Jay's car on the way home.
Tomorrow.This.is.Calm.
...Ricky.
"Jesus Christ" by: Brand New
Finally I'm warm, and soo not into facing a new day, however I like to think no day is completely lost so here were my favorite highlights about this one:
-Zach's school was cancelled and he got to rest.
-The terrible barre: O'Hara doing her own arms, Garra grilling FatMan, Me texting with my phone down my leotard, Zee just standing still for deggages, SiscoKid's leopard print ballet skirt, and Meesh sick posture in btwn kickboxing moves.
-Andre Palmer
-Colin's housecoat
-trimming Nicky C's fro
-our epic discussion of the new Tropicana design.
-Rachel, your bathroom door is on upside down.
-Nate's pissy attitude to get what he wants ;)
-Nicky telling me I only use the pout lip to get what I want lol.
-My nap in Jay's car on the way home.
Tomorrow.This.is.Calm.
...Ricky.
"Jesus Christ" by: Brand New
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
When I write the book about my life...
I've been trying to write this next post for a long time, and there's at least 3 drafts in my little blog box that just...weren't good enough for me. I think that's what being at school does; brings back super self-judgment and second thoughts. I guess it could be good and bad. But today has been the longest bad day ever: 48 hours, and I just can't keep going without stopping to say a few things.
Friday Morning: This is how it should be; New Hall 220 and their boys. Melana and Murph. Ramanda and Gus Gus. Me and the 5 guys in my ears. Have you ever listened to a song, and felt your whole life could be in one handful not an arm's length away? I wonder when I'll grow sturdy and be able to have a real relationship, instead of one constantly on shuffle. Yet this morning it doesn't so much bother me and I actually think they're the ones missing out; these background vocals are unreal. The other day Nate taught me the difference between a pre-chorus and a bridge. And I kinda think I see my little world in a different light. I generate lots of bridges, lots of tonality changes. Prolly because I get antsy and think I need to entertain myself. This is what becomes of being shoved outside until dinnertime! I should've rotted in front of pre-made recreational video games like every other normal child. Anyway, I take pre-choruses for granted. I miss them. I don't even notice them until I'm writing about the chorus. Maybe I should pay more attention.
I don't remember Saturday. What happened Saturday? I went somewhere. Hm. Glow-in-the dark Party! But more importantly, eventually a tiny little attic hippie bedroom of a fellow young choreographer mind, with posters of the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin. I remembered what Nate told me about Janis Joplin, and briefly went cold at the core. After many drinks, a number of records, and the appearance of a few 27's...I found ourselves in a simple utopia that woke me up from the inside out. Jay was handed Jessie's acoustic guitar and before we knew it we were 11 songs deep in a This Condition sing-along with minor appearances from my beloved Dakota, among others. Jay played till his drunk fingers bled entirely over Jessie's guitar. Most thought it was gross, while I deemed it "bad ass" and "epic" in my re-telling of the night to Melana. I guess it defines what kind of girl I am that this night I remember stained strings over cops and jello shots.
Sunday I remember. Sunday it took Jacob and I like an hour and a half to get to Nate's due to grocery store operators hiding the damn chicken wings in alternate sections and constant chatter with zero focus. We listened to Artist vs. Poet 6 times without hearing a single song. Moral of the story: read The Giver. When we realized neither one of us really knew why we'd been called to Nate's so pre-party and that once again we'd been conned into doing exactly what Nate wanted...Jacob began to play "Africa" by Toto on the keyboard under Nate's hat stash and I laid on the floor to write. This is what I have:
"I am laying on Nathen Cyphert's floor watching him fold underwear. I have arrived.
Jacob and I are here pre-pre-game Super Bowl party for really no reason at all other than we're doing what Nate wanted. I spun around in his computer chair until I flung myself into his nightstand. And there I stopped in my wheely tracks, suddenly fixated on one spiral notebook. I know what kind of notebook that is, I thought. I peeked, I confess. I let the pages breeze over scribbled phrases and rough lyrics. I closed the cover before I could read even a word though. I knew what kind of notebook that was. I wheeled away feeling sneaky.
He yelled at me, Nathen. For being nasty towards Mike. And I hung my head, guilty and scolded, for about 15 minutes without writing or moving. Now, he and Jacob are casually practicing a collaboration and I am in the familiar position of the sideline poet; writing the leftover phrases of us that go unsung. They stop, without getting anything done at all, and Nate plays his acoustic at his computer desk. For some reason it hits me; the image of his small frame bent over the hollow body in this lighting is timeless. I get the feeling that he's part of an ancient scene and I'm not even here."
The rest of that day includes experimental chicken wings, an amazing walk with Jay, pizza with Lights Resolve, upstairs/downstairs texting with Nate, matching Nicky C. (really!?), forts with Erin, and one epic Steelers fan nearly falling through the ceiling. Seriously. The bad day started when I left and I'm just getting around to laughing at certain IMs again (Randi).
I feel like the bad days are breaking their streak...because I got a sign, obviously. Limping home from work, after dance comments, disturbing presenses, silent treatments, and scolding...I came across a sidewalk carrying a face I knew. I smiled, Mr. Jack Tangney. He had on a cute little hat and cute little jeans, but his nice little smile and him calling me by name was the turnaround. Tomorrow, will be a good day.
Ricky (not Richard)
..."If I Had A Hammer" by: Peter, Paul, and Mary
Friday Morning: This is how it should be; New Hall 220 and their boys. Melana and Murph. Ramanda and Gus Gus. Me and the 5 guys in my ears. Have you ever listened to a song, and felt your whole life could be in one handful not an arm's length away? I wonder when I'll grow sturdy and be able to have a real relationship, instead of one constantly on shuffle. Yet this morning it doesn't so much bother me and I actually think they're the ones missing out; these background vocals are unreal. The other day Nate taught me the difference between a pre-chorus and a bridge. And I kinda think I see my little world in a different light. I generate lots of bridges, lots of tonality changes. Prolly because I get antsy and think I need to entertain myself. This is what becomes of being shoved outside until dinnertime! I should've rotted in front of pre-made recreational video games like every other normal child. Anyway, I take pre-choruses for granted. I miss them. I don't even notice them until I'm writing about the chorus. Maybe I should pay more attention.
I don't remember Saturday. What happened Saturday? I went somewhere. Hm. Glow-in-the dark Party! But more importantly, eventually a tiny little attic hippie bedroom of a fellow young choreographer mind, with posters of the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin. I remembered what Nate told me about Janis Joplin, and briefly went cold at the core. After many drinks, a number of records, and the appearance of a few 27's...I found ourselves in a simple utopia that woke me up from the inside out. Jay was handed Jessie's acoustic guitar and before we knew it we were 11 songs deep in a This Condition sing-along with minor appearances from my beloved Dakota, among others. Jay played till his drunk fingers bled entirely over Jessie's guitar. Most thought it was gross, while I deemed it "bad ass" and "epic" in my re-telling of the night to Melana. I guess it defines what kind of girl I am that this night I remember stained strings over cops and jello shots.
Sunday I remember. Sunday it took Jacob and I like an hour and a half to get to Nate's due to grocery store operators hiding the damn chicken wings in alternate sections and constant chatter with zero focus. We listened to Artist vs. Poet 6 times without hearing a single song. Moral of the story: read The Giver. When we realized neither one of us really knew why we'd been called to Nate's so pre-party and that once again we'd been conned into doing exactly what Nate wanted...Jacob began to play "Africa" by Toto on the keyboard under Nate's hat stash and I laid on the floor to write. This is what I have:
"I am laying on Nathen Cyphert's floor watching him fold underwear. I have arrived.
Jacob and I are here pre-pre-game Super Bowl party for really no reason at all other than we're doing what Nate wanted. I spun around in his computer chair until I flung myself into his nightstand. And there I stopped in my wheely tracks, suddenly fixated on one spiral notebook. I know what kind of notebook that is, I thought. I peeked, I confess. I let the pages breeze over scribbled phrases and rough lyrics. I closed the cover before I could read even a word though. I knew what kind of notebook that was. I wheeled away feeling sneaky.
He yelled at me, Nathen. For being nasty towards Mike. And I hung my head, guilty and scolded, for about 15 minutes without writing or moving. Now, he and Jacob are casually practicing a collaboration and I am in the familiar position of the sideline poet; writing the leftover phrases of us that go unsung. They stop, without getting anything done at all, and Nate plays his acoustic at his computer desk. For some reason it hits me; the image of his small frame bent over the hollow body in this lighting is timeless. I get the feeling that he's part of an ancient scene and I'm not even here."
The rest of that day includes experimental chicken wings, an amazing walk with Jay, pizza with Lights Resolve, upstairs/downstairs texting with Nate, matching Nicky C. (really!?), forts with Erin, and one epic Steelers fan nearly falling through the ceiling. Seriously. The bad day started when I left and I'm just getting around to laughing at certain IMs again (Randi).
I feel like the bad days are breaking their streak...because I got a sign, obviously. Limping home from work, after dance comments, disturbing presenses, silent treatments, and scolding...I came across a sidewalk carrying a face I knew. I smiled, Mr. Jack Tangney. He had on a cute little hat and cute little jeans, but his nice little smile and him calling me by name was the turnaround. Tomorrow, will be a good day.
Ricky (not Richard)
..."If I Had A Hammer" by: Peter, Paul, and Mary
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