Re-miniscence

Because all poetry was written for a reason, and because this one was written so we couldn't forget even after it was over. Worth enough for me to re-post:


Arnold Palmer and a Pack of 27's

There is a story
that we have written ourselves
that is made of late night and chancing heartbeats,
that cannot be condensed into mere stanzas and yet,
I'm gonna try to do it anyways
Because that's what we do; we put a belt around imagination and reality and call it style.
We take lemons and make malted liquor.
We defy probability.

Some days I wonder what we are made of,
her and I,
because I don't know of any others who are so beautifully shallow and gracefully obnoxious.
We can infect your lyrics like we stole your scene;
Heart attack by second verse and death by broken ice.

We run around their town like it's ours,
like we built it of our wrong turns and inside jokes.
Chestnut!
We drop by this scene like we are above it,
like we're past its bleached out lies and glamorous heartaches
when really, the two of us breathe it in too;
it's toxins like laughing gas to our practicality.

It started in the dark;
in a contest of chord progressions and cutest drummer hair.
and there he was,
looking for her with quiet eyes and an irrefutable grin.
Stealing the silence from her tears and the air from her lungs.
he was the click that held curious glances to Prospective play dates.
We found them unlike we usually find favorite things,
not chosen from a line-up of obsessions, but in a fire;
a fire we Fronted with gasoline to keep them glancing back.

Since then her and I have managed our schedule to encompass the following:
text messaging.
outfits.
songs.
boys.
gossip about boys.
text messages about boys.
I'll just go around the block.
repeat song.

Our crimes are not frivolous,
our murders in and of their senses.
Shotgun hips.
What the hell does that mean anyways?

There is a smile
that we have created ourselves
that is made of ten or eleven chords and that voice of his
that is what it is because the pre-chorus is so annoyingly catchy and still,
it's the Maybe Baby smile!
Because we also love the key change at the end, but actually-
make that eight chords.
Kev just texted back.

I start to wonder what this is made of,
us and them,
because I don't know of any others who are so twistedly perfect and excusably talked about.
I once wrote clearly of his sand sketches and cocaine verses,
but now the lines are fading…

I don't remember how it was before he called us baby.
Before that ridiculous hair and his cocky way of wearing those skinny jeans.
He's a cyclone of passion with a smirk that could kill.
No, I can't remember how I was…

Before we sat in their van,
in his driveway all night long whispering secrets we already knew the endings to.
We were parked on the starting line with a boy and his acoustic smile,
with that easy laugh and necessary white t-shirt.
The game got confusing when he typed a heart back
because he wasn't supposed to stick around and now I can't recall…

How we were before he made us laugh.
What wa funny before babies wore clown suits and ducks called out in jest?
He's got those big ears and an even bigger heart.
We mock his speech in sheer respect for the ridiculous genius that emanates from him.
I find it hard to believe that there's anyone else like us and them, because you have to wonder…

How many people have a diner named after their band?
How many people consider hanging plants hysterical?
The more I've tried to let this go the more you let me press repeat
and now he has me racing down to the chorus of another new track.
Will you at least name the damn thing?!

This band as an experience is like eating a handful of grapes:
sometimes we find ourselves in quite the sour situation,
but the contorted effort that we make,
in order to deal with pompous textures and tart behaviors
is often so hilariously entertaining
that we find ourselves going in for another handful.

And I think this is what we are made of;
of playgrounds and practice spaces,
of show venues and sexual innuendos.
We are made of mattress pumps that plug uselessly into cars we aren't sitting in,
and of pretending we don't care when they look at other girls.
We are made of folded youth larges and candids in his bedroom,
of memories you can't untag and nights she can never comment on.
We are made of Arnold Palmers and packs of 27's
and we are made of this goodbye.

I have no doubt these phrases will be sung in away messages and posted in verses of reminiscence.
They put adjective to things the summer will never outlive.
And her and I,
with our gasoline cans and half-hearted vanity,
will soon be looking up at you
while you play that same old annoyingly catchy pre-chorus and look for our Maybe Baby smiles.

There is a story
that I wrote down for her,
because I know we could fall from this ledge we're all dancing on,
because I know that even then I'll get a text message in the morning and since
this is just the way we do things,
I'm willing to chance the drop in D and any changes they record in the melody.
So if we fall, let's decide we can float
and you catch me.

the Working Title

There's a lot going on to write about, but I haven't felt the ability to document anything short of cliche-dom this week. So instead...

Today I...

Listened to Search the City.
Probably wished you a Happy Tuesday.
Took ballet and notated the first combre that I cannot do under these conditions.
Actually sweated in an Adelphi technique dance class.
Took modern with a living prophecy, Leda Meredith.
Bombed the phrase and let it go.
Chatted with the dancers.
Found out we're 5 months away from another little GFY.
Took care of business unsuccessfully.
Music mapped!
Finally was taught the difference between a bridge and a pre-chorus (thank you, nnn)
Called in Nicky for backup. Genius. I hear it now.
Gymed with Radio.
Danced on the treadmill.
Realized I wasn't broken as a dancer.
Had a soda.
Cooked dinner.
Nate was held capitve in a frozen elevator, suspended 15 feet off solid ground!! Buy his ep.
At soup with a fork.
Was a super IMer! nnn,mk,cr,te
The soda kicked in.
Mini-outing with Radio and Helena.
Visited Starbucks and 99 centsed CVS.
Laughed with Nicky C at work...he's funny, we're telling you!
"All creativity begins with humping."
Sung the Gwen Stefani.
Ricky Brothers.
Did the dishes in the shower.
Got back on the computer for Tuck Everlasting.



...Ricky.
"King of Wishful Thinking" by: Go West, or re-by: New Found Glory

I'm gonna make this work.

The last first day of school. So far, we're all up and friendly. Discussing casually how our "beloved university" is quickly becoming a ballet conservatory. Riight. UC breakfast. "Killa." Positive thoughts now, update later.


...Richard.
"Some Nights Just Feel Right" by: This Condition

oblivion roads

On the grounds of lateness and typos, I swore I'd never blog before a.m. work again. I lied under oath. The thing is I'm sick of being cold and tired of waking up when they are going to bed and vice versa. I'm so over being nervous for tomorrow. Dance. If I could describe to you the mixed awkward feeling of dread and fear that looms over this house, I would. But I think you'd have to know what's gone on and what we've been through, and I don't think you'd believe us. My car is warming up to go to Starbucks, that delightful little shop where not all the regulars are kind and not all the first timers are snots. Last night Meesh, E.Woods, Phil, Chan, and I went ghost hunting. With an excellently educated tour guide and enough spooks left over from the house we live in...we pretty much scared the shit out of ourselves. Solid times. This blog is going no where and I think Helena's ready for me. Wish me patience today and wish TC some quiet rest.



...Ricky.
"Back Here" by: BBMak

Blogs of our Lives

I'm on I-90 West cleaning my ears out. You'd be surprised what you find time to do on a 5-hour drive home. I seriously think the music just got louder too. I'm de-waxing at about 74. I probably deserve a ticket, but it'd be really great not to since already this week I've got 2 parking tickets and 2 relationship offenses under my belt...and it's only Thursday. I'm sitting (as I have been for the past 3 hours) with my book in my lap hoping I'll be able to read this scribble scratch later since my eyes are mostly still on the road. I'm listening to the "A Fire So Big The Heavens Can See It" Search the City album for the 3rd time this trip (I love it!) and watching my mental picture of them performing these songs. There's all this to do, plus text Zachary and Matty B., continue changing lanes so I don't have to interrupt the cruise control, AND look out for cops. I don't care what you say, Timmy, I cannot honestly profess to be a safe driver. I'm also monitoring the roadkill output to determine my trip summary. I just saw an obliterated bunny so my mile marking is decently in favor of my upstate home. Silos and gray skies stake out the distance as well. Then there's these guys who keep speeding up and slowing down just to give me a wink. I think Nicky C. would be disappointed in the abuse they're showing their fuel injection, and I give them the same look I give Mike when I want him to know I am completely unamused by his behavior.
I've seen 4 trains in passing today. When I was little, I decided I wanted to be in charge of my own luck and so declared that seeing a train was good luck. Something about their unbreached movement captivated me. I never knew where they were headed, but I wanted to go too. Today I wonder if seeing a stagnant train is something of different luck. I wonder if the 2 have separate meanings. I guess, though, that's up to me to decide.
4th time listening. This time through is for thinking about all the times past that I've had this album playing: on the streetlighted Front St. coming back from Rob's, divulging with Kevin parked in that parking lot, singing that one perfect song that I swear was premeditated for Cantatore confusion. And ripping at tendons in a dark dance studio because it hurt less than the ripping in my chest. It's funny how an album can be your best friend. It's funny how sometimes you can't be your own.
Nicky mentioned last night that he didn't understand why I didn't just sell Helena and get a sick Mustang. I gave him a blank look, not wanting to waste an eye roll on that comment. I realized that Nicky and I have our cars for different reasons. Mine is to take me places, to get me the hell out of where ever I've gotten myself into. Helena is my get-away car; my Batmobile. Nicky's car is to keep him grounded, to hold him to a place he doesn't want to grow away from. The Cobra is a homebase; Nicky's secret lair.
Today on the GW Bridge I got sliced between a terrifying big cement barrier and a speed racing Mack truck. I thought for a second that I should be cautious, afraid. But then I realized that I wasn't scared in the least. I was the one driving my car. I had control of my situation. I feel a lot of people I've been holding company with are scared of an impending ultimatum like this; either jump into the speeding powerhouse lane or smash nose-first into a halting wall. What we're forgetting is the control we have. We're all driving cars over this bridge into unknown territory, but we each say how fast and how straight in which lane. Just buckle up, we can do this.
I saw my first tractor in a month and my heart takes a relieving sigh. I let out all the breaths I've been holding and let my eyes melt into the bleak horizon goodness. I get off my Westmoreland exit and begin to recite the tour I've practiced in case I ever do get one of those band boys up in my neck of the woods. "There's the dirt track I spent every summer Sunday at and here's the field that knows the bottoms of my feet better than I do." Then I catch glimpse of a big white van and feel excited butterflies though my head knows there's no touring bands up here, and I am reassured that somehow I belong in both places. If I clean my ears out, I can hear both voices of reason.


...Ricky.
"In This Scene You're Just An Extra" by: Search the City

"Oh my gosh, you work with her!"

"Where's the Love"
What a perfect question. There's love in the sloppy dance party that two of my co-workers are having right now in the living room for no audience at all. It's definitely behind the locked doors that my other housemate and a friend are in. It's in the electric purple nail polish that these drunks brought Sisco back from the city. I guess right now for me it's in this book. I love this book. It holds all the sentences that are behind the looks i give and all the truths my smile never speaks. Have you ever felt the way it feels to be brushed off? Have you ever been able to sleep through four wasted housemates but not through the headache you gave yourself from getting so worked up over things you can't control? Have you ever known no one was coming but waited up anyways.
We are all so worried about what comes next; trying to get a step ahead before we're two steps behind. And it all happens so fast. Does anyone else feel like they need new running shoes? I feel like we're all living in the shadows of ourselves. Younger, prettier, less broken versions of ourselves. What happened to us? And why are we so unsatisfied with ourselves now?

My thoughts ended. Timmy says that's okay. Sometimes thoughts end, without answers. I'm not sure I even understand the questions anymore. Hope that's okay too.



...Ricky.
"Where is the Love" by: Black Eyed Peas

and all the bad boys are standin in the shadows...

It's easier to think your thoughts in the morning. Something about the quiet, the aloneness that makes the world seem bigger and you seem smaller, the way it should be. It's so easy to let our world become four-walled and one-toned, its easy to make life 3 minutes and 41 seconds long. The morning is a perfect time to stretch that out.

I have to leave for work about 4 minutes ago, but I'm wrapped up in thoughts of this weird banana orange juice I found and if everyone I know slept in a bed last night. Its cold out there. The past two days havent been on days for me. They've been very off days actually. With the exception of a surreal conversation with Timmy, everything has just been cranky. I'm sorry to those I picked fights with. I'm working on it, promise.

The morning gets lighter, much to my dismay cuz I'm just not sure I'm ready for another day. I'm not sure I'm equipt. Have you ever had to stare fear down and say, I just don't care?




...Ricky.
"Free Falling" cover by: John Mayer