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