tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60131089386324317012024-03-14T01:39:34.861-07:00Carrot Sticks and Kerosene.Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-46439283986609949012011-09-14T21:49:00.000-07:002011-09-14T21:49:11.340-07:00So long, summer.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>423</o:Words> <o:Characters>2415</o:Characters> <o:Company>PQRFY-VCW3V-8MBF4-2H8Y8-KDBBB </o:Company> <o:Lines>20</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>2965</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Well, Sarah went back to school last week, which means that summer has officially ended. Before she leaves for Boston every year, we tend to go through our favorite parts of summer and make a sort of unwritten list of things we think were cool and/or ridiculous. This summer may not have been as stellar as last summer, but I thought I’d turn that unwritten list to a written one…in no particular order.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">1. The Palm Springs Trip – We had just gotten out of school, and it was the first all girls trip my group of friends had been on. On the way there, Kimmi, Margeaux, Sarah, Katie and I made a list of everything we wanted to do over summer (including Margeaux’s “M”-themed birthday bash that I think eventually got turned into a “Margeaux” themed birthday bash). I don’t know that anything from the list was checked off, but we did have a pretty bitchin’ time lounging and bringing the ruckus all at once. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">2. The night Sarah was unintentionally racist- It was late, we were hungry, Sarah drunkenly ordered pizza and cinnasticks (“Are you SURE you got the cinnasticks?”). The pizza came.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Sarah: Oh, hi! How long have you been here?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Pizza Lady: Since 2008.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Lauren and Me: *silent laughter behind door*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Sarah: Oh, okay. Thank you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Door closes.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Seriously, lady? It’s 2 a.m. and you really thought Sarah was asking how long you’ve been in the country, as opposed to how long you’ve been waiting at the door? Shucks, we really must have made a bad impression.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">3. The week Lauren was home- I happened to be house sitting that week, and Lauren basically moved in with me. It was the most time we’d spent together probably since graduating high school, and it was quite nice. I blogged about a particularly sweet night we had with Rachel that could be my favorite night of summer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">4. Margeaux’s non-themed birthday bash- What started out as a terrible day turned into a really fun night with the crew. Oh, and Margeaux lives on a cliff in Laguna, so that wasn’t bad, either.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">5. The Britney Spears’ concert- Sarah’s roommate from Boston was in town, and Sarah ended up getting us awesome seats. It may have been more of a Sarah atmosphere than a Jess atmosphere, but hot damn we boogied that night. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">6. Sarah ordering at the Krispy Kreme drive-thru- Sarah turned 21 at midnight, and after we went to TGI Friday’s to celebrate she had to have Krispy Kremes. She also decided she had to order and was slurring her words the entire time, which eventually led to, “I’m sorry, it’s my 21<sup>st</sup> birthday and I’m really drunk.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">7. Aunt Celine’s wedding, but mostly the week after- It was a lovely affair, but I also got to take care of Julia for a few days while my aunt was on her honeymoon. She’s just the coolest kid ever, and I was glad I had some time to spend with her before they moved. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">8. Getting my first tattoo- Now I want 100 more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">9. Avett Brothers’ show- So, so, so, so good. Tears were shed, and I wasn’t the only one. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>110</o:Words> <o:Characters>630</o:Characters> <o:Company>PQRFY-VCW3V-8MBF4-2H8Y8-KDBBB </o:Company> <o:Lines>5</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>773</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">10. The Jack Grisham reading at work- This was actually the first official “book signing” I’d ever been to, and it happened to be at my work. I read the book a couple weeks before, and it’s pretty gnarly. I wasn’t so sure how the night was going to go, or what Jack would be like. A lot of the book involves him torturing/tormenting people and doing a lot of crazy shit, but he was a totally normal dude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was also a Q&A portion after he read. A lot of people asked him what advice he’d give to people who have a lot of the same issues that he had, and he basically answered with a variation of “I don’t know, I’m not a doctor” every time. I liked that.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> <div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(You can find the book at <a href="http://www.moonlightgraham.net/">www.moonlightgraham.net</a>) :) </div><!--EndFragment--></span><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-33840416483991252922011-07-28T23:13:00.000-07:002011-07-28T23:13:27.771-07:00Cups of Coffee<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">The first one I enjoyed: on my way to a 7:30 a.m. writing class during my senior year of high school. August, 2008.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Since Christmas, 2009: from my single-cup Keurig coffeemaker that brews the perfect cup. I reheat it twice before finishing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">On school or work days: before I leave, a few sips while I close my eyes. The rest on the ten-minute drive down Chapman Avenue.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">At the Starbucks on Chapman Avenue: while studying for finals, visiting old friends, eavesdropping, during a job interview, and when my aunt told me she and my cousin would be moving. Also while beginning to write this while avoiding studying for finals.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">On summer mornings when my mom is home, as we solve the problems of the world together. Just not our own. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">After breaking up with a boyfriend I loved but hadn’t been in love with for a while, and understanding that such a thing was a) possible and b) alright. May, 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Throughout my trip to Hungary last summer, when no amount could keep me from falling asleep between teaching English classes. June 25-July 14, 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">The morning of my twentieth birthday, thinking about how weird birthdays are, and how I’d like to hang on to a few parts of nineteen a little longer. Maybe a few parts of the rest of the teens, too. March 26, 2011.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Last night, to keep me awake long enough to finish a story.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">In Mammoth last summer before hiking. The girls poured coffee while the boys poured beer, and we scoffed at them. July, 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">At dinner with my oldest friend. We talked about how much we loved it. Winter, 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">At a café by the beach with a boy I spent an effortlessly splendid summer with, as he told me adding sweetener would ruin it. He drank a hot chocolate. Summer, 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">April of this year, while sitting on my bathroom floor with the lights off, using the leaking faucet as an anesthetic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">June of this year, while walking on a boardwalk in San Diego with three of my favorite people, as we discussed how much life is going to change. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">My first introduction. After I spit it out my mom said to me, wise as she is, “Someday you’ll understand.” Winter, 2004.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Driving home from Las Vegas on three hours of sleep with the alcohol still seeping through my pores. I fell asleep at the wheel and we’re all alive. December 23, 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">The morning I found out I got the job. January 1, 2011. Actually, it was probably the afternoon, considering the date.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">In Long Beach Airport waiting to board my first solo flight, trying to decide how I felt about being alone in an airport and all the metaphors that go along with it. April 16, 2011.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Eating breakfast with my best friend before leaving Boston, as we discussed the previous night’s success(es). April 21, 2011.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">On the plane ride home, hoping I’d touch down anywhere else. April 21, 2011. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Thursday mornings this summer, slugging on the couch watching really shitty reality television that I record. (Don’t worry, I don’t watch that show about weird addictions. However, as a psych major I feel it might be necessary…for scientific purposes. Just like it’s necessary for me to watch Teen Mom…for sociological purposes.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Last week while working at the Costa Mesa store, sullenly going over the latest idea for the novel that may not ever get written. July 22, 2011.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Tomorrow morning on the way to work, joyfully scribbling down in my Field Notes notebook the next idea for the novel that will get written, eventually.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-20497376539995023682011-06-27T23:10:00.000-07:002011-06-27T23:10:38.520-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">He’d been writing for over an hour, and I would interrupt his latest idea to read out loud without asking permission. I knew he found it romantic and I knew he’d want his wife to read to him someday; on the porch of their country home, surrounded by acres of green; on an island far away from the things he was afraid of, where people were scarce and love was plenty; or maybe right here in his room…both of us watching the seasons change and gripping fiercely the hope that our feelings never will. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-37143812228964128342011-05-11T23:42:00.000-07:002011-05-13T13:49:14.949-07:00Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Script<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">About a week or so ago at work, a “let’s discuss ways we can improve things” meeting eventually evolved into a “let’s encourage Jess on her dream of being a writer and discuss different films that excel in the area of character development” conversation. Yeah, it happened. One of my bosses suggested watching “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” Last night, I finally got around to watching it.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Now, I went into this movie being told by one boss that it was the greatest love story of all time. Another boss told me he hated it. Bold statements, especially the first. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">So I watched it. As the title of this post suggests, the script of this film is flawless. Listen to that first conversation between Joel and Clem on the train. If you don’t have an understanding for each of their characters by the end of that conversation, well, I would probably just tell you to stop watching. You’re probably one of those people who like the Twilight series more than the Harry Potter series. Actually, you’re probably the person that hasn’t read either series but still waits in line to see the next installment at midnight. And your favorite character in HP is Harry. <i>Crucio! </i>(You probably don’t know what that means.) I don’t know if I’m proud of or seriously concerned of my ability to work Harry Potter into everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Alright, back to it. This is when a movie review would put that “spoiler alert” warning thing up. It means to stop reading if you don’t want to know what happens in the movie. **Spoiler Alert**<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">As I watched Joel try to save his memories of Clem, I curled up into the fetal position and let the tears flow. It was to the point where I dramatically let them drip down my face and soak my pillow. No shame. Not only is Joel attempting to salvage Clem’s memory, he’s also forced to relive his memories with her for the last time. Regret is both inevitable and unbearable.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Clementine: I wish you'd stayed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Joel: I wish I'd stayed too. Now I wish I'd stayed. I wish I'd done a lot of things. Oh, God, I wish I had... I wish I'd stayed. I do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">(There’s at least one person that you want to have that exact exchange with. You need to be Joel, and say it, or you need to be Clem, and hear it.) Finding out about the relationship between Kirsten Dunst’s character and the doctor (whose names I can’t remember) didn’t help. <i>Blindsided. </i>She had her memory of their relationship erased and she fell in love with him again. That’s not really what the movie is about, though. Joel and Clem find themselves in a rather odd situation. Neither of them have memories of their first relationship, but they’re listening to tapes of themselves talk about the other person in pretty intimate ways. They’re told from the start what they’ll hate about each other and how fucked up their relationship is going to be. And what do they do? They say, “<b><i>Okay</i></b>.” But it’s <i>so much more </i>than “okay.” It’s “Yeah, we’re going to piss each other off. We’re going to bitch at each other a lot, and this is probably going to end the same way as it did the first time. But we don’t care.” To quote Matt, “’O.K.’ was the most sincere and touching version of ‘I love you’ that I have ever heard.” That’s what it’s all about, really. Joel and Clem being willing to go through hell all over again because they know, even if they fail miserably, it’ll be worth it. That’s when you know you love/loved someone. When you can look back on something that didn’t end the way you wanted it to, something that caused you a lot of heartache, and still want to do it all over again for the sake of <i>what it was</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">The point when calm tears turned into body-wrenching sobs?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Clementine: This is it, Joel. It’s going to be gone soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Joel: I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Clementine: What do we do?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Joel: Enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Quite possibly the most beautiful idea that ever floated.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-1763087807688229412011-04-24T23:01:00.001-07:002011-04-24T23:01:28.967-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Because of the nature of her occupation, Madeline Hayward was an expert at empty promises. Then Boris Hull called, and she never lied again. </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-1333945068493911332011-04-12T18:19:00.000-07:002011-04-12T18:19:09.628-07:00Come hang out with me, learn about 80s punk rock, and listen to some live music.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20px;">On April 30, Moonlight Graham is hosting the official Orange County premiere of “A History Lesson Part One,” a documentary by Dave Travis about punk rock in LA in the 80s. After the screening, Modern Puppetry and Twisted Roots will do a short set. If you’d like to go, let me know and I can grab you some tickets! Check out the film's website: www.ahistorylesson.com </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
Here’s the schedule for the night:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
7pm-8pm…..”A History Lesson” Screening 8pm-8:30pm……Modern Puppetry 8:45pm-9:15pm…..Twisted Roots (<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Pat Smear, Paul Roessler, Gary Jacoby, etc) </span></span>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-23058271243534949722011-04-11T23:24:00.000-07:002011-04-12T12:30:11.281-07:00“Let’s run away,” she said, tangling her legs in his, “and do something self-destructive.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He kissed her forehead. “I think we already are, sweetheart.”</div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-85901543370226690482011-04-06T23:30:00.000-07:002011-06-19T23:08:42.287-07:00REM Cycle.<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">It was late, and the air was thick with nostalgia. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">A single light dangling above the sink highlighted the otherwise dark room. She sat on a stool while he stood on the other side of the island. They talked softly as not to wake the others living in the house.</span><br />
<!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I never stood a chance with you,” she said, smiling. <o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">He took a sip from a cup that his little sister made him, and she watched his mouth turn up at either side.</span><br />
<!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Sure you did.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Ha! You knew you had me from the beginning,” she accused.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Why are you so sure?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Don’t you remember our first dinner together?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier;">He laughed at the memory. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">“You hardly ate. It could have been worse, though.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“How so?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“You could have ordered a salad.” They were both laughing now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I couldn’t help it. I still thought everything you did or said was charming,” she said. He was grinning again. “Even now, sometimes when you talk the words come out in cursive. I didn’t even know you and you were already something to me. That sort of thing made my stomach turn.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">He looked in her eyes for a moment. “I didn’t know I had you,” he confessed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I didn’t make that clear?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“No. I don’t know. Maybe you did and I didn’t understand at the time. Maybe I still don’t. You just always seemed so…white. It didn’t make sense for you to come around.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“White?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Yeah.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Making you…?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">He shrugged his shoulders. “Shaded.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">She wondered why it always came down to this, and why he continued to question it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Let’s go up,” he said. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">He poured the watered-down whiskey into the sink. She waited for him, hoping he’d write about her someday. The kind of writing that would lead to people asking him how he made love last for so long, or if he really knew a girl like the one he talked about in his stories. Allowing the previous conversation to saturate, he followed her up the stairs in silence. They crept into his bed, where they spent most of their nights, and she wrapped herself in his old, cool sheets. She reached to pull the curtain closed in hopes that morning would delay. <o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead.</span><br />
<!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment--> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“We should talk like this more often,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I know, dear.” She traced his face, her favorite picture, and put it in her pocket. Though she had spent most of her summer with him, she still couldn’t quite describe the color of his eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I was thinking about rules today,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Rules?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Yeah.” She was looking away from him now. “The biggest ones are always broken at night.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Like?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Like midnight snacks.” He laughed under his breath, this being the perfect illustration of the way she saw the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I think it’s the moon,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Of course it’s the moon,” he agreed. She was staring again as she pulled the covers over her shoulders, noting his ability to always have the unexpected yet perfectly appropriate response. She kept going. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“So, I’m going to asking for your permission now,” she said, picking at her cuticles. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“My permission?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Yes. To love you,” she said, her voice quieting. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“That’s the rule?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“It’s the one I’m breaking. I thought I’d give it a try. Rebellion, I mean.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Is this about summer ending?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">She looked down and replayed the last three months in her mind. The countless cloudless days and a scene much like this one and the one before that she could never quite hold on to. She swam through his head like a child who was never taught to swim.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“You love me now,” he said. She wasn’t sure if it was an insult or not, so her rebuttal came quickly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“That’s the sad part.” Her voice was shaking. “I keep trying to. You won’t let me. You fight it every time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">He stared up at the ceiling with one hand folded behind his head. She was looking at his bedroom door, gathering the location of her belongings in her mind in case she had to leave. It was an empty threat. She knew she wouldn’t go, so did he, but she had to give herself the chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“You still have a lot to learn. Maybe you’d be better off without me,” he said. He turned toward the wall so his back was facing her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I wouldn’t leave unless you made me. I’ll stay until you tell me to go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“There’s a lot you don’t know, darling,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Because you haven’t told me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I wasn’t just talking about myself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Alright, then. What do I need to know about the world?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">He sighed. “That it’s been pissed on.” The way he said it</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">made her feel like he had been wanting to tell her for a long time, but that he didn’t want to be the one to contaminate her. He didn’t require a response, but it came after a minute of silence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;"> “Just because I see colors doesn’t mean I don’t know that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I know the world’s been pissed on. I also know that that <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">isn’t what you were speaking of entirely.” He didn’t move. “You were talking about your world. Your world’s been pissed on, and from the little you have told me, I’d guess you had to stand by and watch while it happened. That’s a tragedy. And I wish I could have been there to love you then, but you seem to be under the impression that I want to clean it up for you now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;"> “Isn’t that what this is about?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;"> She gave a quick laugh, expecting him to believe that she couldn’t love him simply. “I may not be old enough to buy you a drink, dear, but I’m smart enough to know that to try to clean up a mess of yours would be a losing battle. It’s a romantic notion that’s been lost in translation. Love has become associated with the art of fixing, and it’s bullshit. People seem to think that allowing someone to plug up their empty places for a while will keep them from spewing again, and that’s bullshit, too. Real love is the exact opposite. It holds the bucket and catches everything that comes spilling out.” She wasn’t sure that she was making sense now, so she made her point. “I don’t want to fix anything of yours. I wouldn’t be able to if I tried. That’s your responsibility. I just want you to let me in the room in case you can’t reach the wrench.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;"> He lifted his head as to make sure she heard him. “You wouldn’t know where to look.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“What are you so afraid of?” she finally asked, raising her voice and knowing he wouldn’t tell her. He stopped to think, and he turned back toward her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“If I left, would you call?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“No,” she answered, lowering her head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Why not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I’ll think it’s because you don’t want me anymore,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense for you to come around, either.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“And if I called?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“I’d answer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">“Why?”<br />
“I’d want to hear your reasoning. And because I’d still <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">want to be the person you’d write about for the right reasons.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">She kissed him, not waiting to hear his response. That night, she fell asleep to the sound of his breath in her ear, still the prettiest melody. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-42948591888015659252011-04-06T17:43:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:43:14.757-07:00Luke.<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Over the last couple months, I’ve been going to my elementary school to observe a kid for a child development class I’m taking. I get to watch him through a one-way mirror and write down everything he does. He’s four years old, and the cutest thing. I’ve actually managed to become attached to him even though we’ve only had one interaction. When he got to his classroom on Monday morning, his dad was carrying him. He had his face buried in his dad’s neck and what looked like a death grip around his neck, and he let the rest of his body lay limp in his dad’s arms. He finally let Dad put him down and, after a few minutes of father-son playtime around the room, he had forgotten he was homesick. The Lego table called. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I started thinking about this little guy, and I hope the rest of his life looks like that. I hope his dad is around to make him feel better when he needs it, and push him out the door when he doesn’t know he needs it. I hope he gets smarter than his parents one day, but I hope that day doesn’t come too soon. I always get emotional when I think about the people in my life as babies, or in this case, children. Shit, I get emotional when I think about myself as a baby. I feel like that’s self-explanatory. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">A friend from my class comes to observe with me, and today we got talking about, more or less, how freaked out we are that we aren’t going to choose the right guy to spend our lives with, thus leading to us fucking up our own lives and eventually the lives of our kids in one way or another. Totally cynical and depressing, I know. I’m fascinated with family trends, and how people tend to choose a partner based off of what they experienced in their family of origin (their parents and siblings). People tend to be attracted to other people based on what they’re used to. Makes sense, and that’s totally cool if you’ve had nothing but loving relationships (not that you’re guaranteed to choose the right person because of that). But then there’s the boy who started doing laundry and putting himself to bed at age 6 because his mom was too fucked up to do it herself. He’s likely to choose someone he has to take care of, and he probably won’t let anyone close enough to take care of him, let alone think he deserves it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I’m going to bounce yet once more in this ramble, this time to Jersey Shore. This season, one episode made me understand EVERYTHING about Ronnie and Sam’s relationship. Ron’s mom calls the house plastered, and during their conversation, it seems pretty clear that this isn’t the first time it’s happened. RINGALINGDING went the bell in my head. Ronnie has a mom who has created some chaos in his life, and now he’s in a relationship with a chick who he fights with every day. Family fucking trend, people, trickling on down.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I realize I’m coming off as saying that people will inevitably choose what they’re used to, good or bad. I’m not that gloomy, I’m just saying that it makes sense. I also realized I took “observing a cute kid” to “topics in psychology” to “Jersey Shore still explains everything.” Eh, it’s been a long week. <o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-21898152907019839792011-04-05T14:31:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:43:52.863-07:00Text me!<div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Taylor Clark</b>: I put pepper on my ketchup.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This chick has either been in my refrigerator, or she’s been stalking me eating French fries. Or she’s perfection. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Josh </b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><3</b>: No way! My mom is a huge pepper fan. She used to take the lid off of the ketchup bottle at home and add in at least three tablespoons. I didn’t realize ketchup didn’t have a grey tint for years. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No freaking way. Soulmates? His mom and I are bffs? <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Taylor Clark: </b>Seriously?! That’s awesome <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> It sounds like your mom and I would get along.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I already told her about the ketchup.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Josh </b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><3: </b>I think you would…</div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conversation ender…never a good sign.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Taylor Clark: </b>What did you do today?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Woke up at 12, went to the store to get stuff for nachos…<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Josh </b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><3: </b>Not much…I slept in then ran some errands. You?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I went to the beach and annoyingly talked to my friends about you.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Taylor Clark: </b>Nothing too exciting! Just went to the beach with some of my friends…soaked up some VD!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did she just tell me she ‘soaked up’ a venereal disease?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Josh </b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><3: </b>VD, huh?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe he doesn’t know about vitamin D?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Taylor Clark: </b>Haha yeah…it’s one of my favorite things!.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, she’s insane.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Josh </b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><3: </b>Haha cool. Hey, I know we we’re supposed to hang out tomorrow night, but my mom just told me she needs help at the animal shelter. She volunteers there and someone just backed out of helping her, so I told her I’d cover. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> ***<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He loves animals, too? Ahhhhh </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">JJJJJ</span><o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Taylor Crazy Ass: </b>Of course! I’m glad you offered! Let me know when you can hang out again <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-2706408530619885352011-04-01T00:03:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:44:22.929-07:00I still crane my neck when I pass your street.<div class="MsoNormal">The sun came back today and</div><div class="MsoNormal">the whole time I looked for you in the heat but</div><div class="MsoNormal">you weren’t there.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t know what that was about.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I kept looking through sand and the</div><div class="MsoNormal">taste of salt on your skin and especially through</div><div class="MsoNormal">that stagnant fog that sits on blacktop streets but</div><div class="MsoNormal">you weren’t there, either.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t know what that was about.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I consulted the space between spring and </div><div class="MsoNormal">summer and I asked if she had seen you.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And she told me to wait because I was </div><div class="MsoNormal">too soon, you weren’t there.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t know what that was about.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I went to my library and I looked through all the books I know</div><div class="MsoNormal">and I peered through the spaces between the letters </div><div class="MsoNormal">to find you but</div><div class="MsoNormal">you weren’t there and</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t know what that was about.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had another idea because I wasn’t ready to stop</div><div class="MsoNormal">so I turned on my car and let the air conditioning run.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I let it breeze against my face and I stayed </div><div class="MsoNormal">until my contacts were dry but</div><div class="MsoNormal">you weren’t there.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I start to drive and as I pass</div><div class="MsoNormal">your street and when I see a car like yours</div><div class="MsoNormal">my neck is an owl’s.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This feels suddenly familiar</div><div class="MsoNormal">and I know what that’s about because I’ve been</div><div class="MsoNormal">doing it all along.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-67221164271460078522011-03-29T21:40:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:45:05.102-07:00Here's how to make love stay.I finished <i>Still Life With Woodpecker</i> a couple weeks ago (Grant, if you're reading this, thank you). I enjoyed it so much that I thought I'd share some of my favorite parts. It's extensive. Yuk!<br />
<br />
"Life is like a stew, you have to stir it frequently, or all the scum rises to the top."<br />
<br />
"'I no longer know what love is. A week ago I had a lot of ideas. What love is and how to make it stay. Now that I'm in love, I haven't a clue. Now that I'm in love, I'm completely stupid on the subject.'"<br />
<br />
"No, and it's not an easy time to be an outlaw, either. There's no longer any moral consensus. In the days when it was generally agreed what was right and what was wrong, an outlaw simply did those wrong things that needed to be done, whether for freedom, for beauty, or for fun. The distinctions are blurred now, a deliberately wrong act - which for the outlaw is right - can be interpreted by many others to be right - and therefore must mean that the outlaw is wrong. You can't tilt windmills when they won't stand still...But it doesn't really bother me. I've always been a square peg in every round hole but one...I guess love is the <i>real</i> outlaw." <br />
<br />
"Who knows how to make love stay?<br />
1. Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if love stays, it can have half. It will stay.<br />
2. Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a mustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.<br />
3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning."<br />
<br />
"There <i>is</i> only one serious question. And that is: <i>Who knows how to make love stay? </i>Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself. Answer me that and I will ease your mind about the beginning and the end of time. Answer me that and I will reveal to you the purpose of the moon."<br />
<br />
"Don't let yourself be victimized by the age you live in. It's not the times that will bring us down, any more than it's society. When you put the blame on society, then you end up turning to society for the solution. Just like those poor neurotics at the Care Fest. There's a tendency today to absolve individuals of moral responsibility and treat them as victims of social circumstance. You buy that, you pay with your soul. It's not men who limit women, it's not straights who limit gays, it's not whites who limit blacks. What limits people is lack of character. What limits people is that they don't have the fucking nerve or imagination to star in their own movie, let alone direct it. Yuk."<br />
<br />
"The bottom line is that (a) people are never perfect, but love can be, (b) that is the one and only way that the mediocre and the vile can be transformed, and (c) doing that makes it that. Loving makes love. Loving makes itself. We waste time looking for the perfect lover instead of creating the perfect love. Wouldn't that be the way to make love stay?"<br />
<br />
<b>"Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words 'make' and 'stay' become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free."</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
"When we're incomplete, we're always searching for somebody to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we're still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with somebody more promising. This can go on and on - series polygamy - until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimensions to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment. Nobody else can provide it for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure every relationship we enter. Hey, that's pretty good. If I had pencil and paper, I'd write that down...When two people meet and fall in love, there's a sudden rush of magic. Magic is just naturally present then. We tend to feed on that gratuitous magic without striving to make any more. One day we wake up and find that the magic is gone. We hustle to get it back, but by then it's usually too late, we've used it up. What we have to do is work like hell at making additional magic right from the start. It's hard work, especially when it seems superfluous or redundant, but if we can remember to do it, we greatly improve our chances of making love stay."<br />
<br />
"They glared at her the way any intelligent persons ought to glare when what they need is a smoke, a bite, a cup of coffee, a piece of ass, or a good fast-paced story, and all they're getting is philosophy."<br />
<br />
"How can one person be more real than any other? Well, some people do hide and others seek. Maybe those who are in hiding - escaping encounters, avoiding surprises, protecting their property, ignoring their fantasies, restricting their feelings, sitting out the Pan pipe hootchy-kootch of experience - maybe those people, people who won't talk to rednecks, or if they're rednecks won't talk to intellectuals, people who're afraid to get their shoes muddy or their noses wet, afraid to eat what they crave, afraid to drink Mexican water, afraid to bet a long shot to win, afraid to hitchike, jaywalk, honky-tonk, cogitate, osculate, levitate, rock it, bop it, sock it, or bark at the moon, maybe suck people are simply inauthentic, and maybe the jackleg humanist who says differently is due to have his tongue fried on the hot slabs of Liar's Hell. Some folks hide, and some folks seek, and seeking, when it's mindless, neurotic, desperate, or pusillanimous can be a form of hiding. But there are folks who want to know and aren't afraid to look and won't turn tail should they find it - and if they never do, they'll have a good time anyway because nothing, neither the terrible truth nor the absence of it, is going to cheat them out of one honest breath of earth's sweet gas. '<b>Maybe he was an insane bastard, but he was a </b><i><b>genuine </b></i><b>insane bastard,' said Leigh-Cheri, 'and I loved him more than I've ever loved anybody - or ever will.'"</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
"'The pyramid is the bottom, and the top is us. The top is all of us. All of us who're crazy enough and brave enough and in love enough. The pyramids were built as pedestals that the souls of the truly alive and the truly in love could stand upon and bark at the moon. And I believe that our souls, yours and mine, will stand together atop the pyramids forever'...'You're better equipped for this world than I am,; she said. 'I'm always trying to change the world. You know how to live in it.'"<br />
<br />
"When the mystery of the connection goes, love goes. It's that simple. This suggests that it isn't love that is so important to us but the mystery itself. The love connection may be merely a device to put is in contact with the mystery, and we long for love to last so that the ecstasy of being near the mystery will last. It is contrary to the nature of mystery to stand still. Yet it's always there, somewhere, a world on the other side of the mirror (or the Camel pack), a promise in the next pair of eyes that smile at us. We glimpse it when <u>we</u> stand still. The romance of new love, the romance of solitude, the romance of objecthood, the romance of ancient pyramids and distant stars are means of making contact with the mystery. When it comes to perpetuating it, however, I got no advice. But I can and will remind you of two of the most important facts I know: (1) <u>Everything</u> is part of it. (2) It's never too late to have a happy childhood."<br />
<br />
And finally, find a boy to read this out loud to you. It's my favorite.<br />
<br />
<b>"Yes, and I love the trite mythos of the outlaw. I love the self-conscious romanticism of the outlaw. I love the black wardrobe of the outlaw. I love the fey smile of the outlaw. I love the tequila of the outlaw and the beans of the outlaw. I love the way respectable men sneer and say 'outlaw.' I love the way young women palpitate and say 'outlaw.' The outlaw boat sails against the flow, and I love it. All outlaws are photogenic, and I love that. 'When freedom is outlawed, only outlaws will be free': that's a graffito seen in Anacortes, and I love that. There are outlaw maps that lead to outlaw treasures, and I love those maps especially. Unwilling to wait for mankind to improve, the outlaw lives as if that day were here, and I love that most of all."</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
Just read the book already.Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-13085111532502197672011-03-28T12:30:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:45:45.258-07:00Untitled.<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">You’re born.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">A few years go by and you don’t remember much, but you know you have a mother and a father and a big brother. He’s two years older than you and he knows everything about dinosaurs. When you’re older, you see a video of you two together. You’re a baby. He’s gathering rocks and dumping them into your pink overalls. You don’t even notice. You’re mom is filming it and she’s laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 1.0pt 0in 1.0pt 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">You get older, and so does he. You think he’s cool, and you’ll think that for a long time. You do a lot of things because you want to be like him. Like play Pokémon. He has a folder that he keeps his Pokémon cards in, and you let him keep yours there, too. He challenges you to Pokémon wars, and he makes the rules. Because you’re so young, you don’t realize that his rules aren’t fair. He plays with his best friend, two against one. You lose every time. You cry, they laugh. You never say ‘no’ when he asks you to play. Because you want him to think you’re cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">Your mom takes you to get a pack of Pokémon cards. Blastoise, one of the best Pokémons, is in your pack. Your brother and his friend offer to trade you both of their packs just for your one card. You trade them, because you still think that quantity means more than quality. You cry, they laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">Every winter, your dad and brother put you in an empty Duraflame box and spin you around the living room. Then they pin you down and tickle you until you almost start crying. You’re happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">You and your brother make as many forts as possible, using every blanket and pillow you can get your hands on. You’re convinced each one is of architectural value. After you clean up, you take the two red sleeping bags and you sleep on your Mom’s floor together.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">You start playing sports, just like your big brother. He plays tackle football and you go to all of his practices and games. You think this is cool, because hardly anyone at school plays tackle football. You try his helmet on. He’s the best at sports, and you want to be the best, too. Every day after school you play touch football in your backyard and basketball in your driveway. You and your dad versus your brother and one of his friends. It’s your favorite thing in the world because you’re better than his friend, so your dad laughs and you think he loves you even more because of it. Your brother gets mad, and you’re finally at the age where that’s your favorite thing, too (even though this is the only time it happens). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">Your big brother goes to high school, and now you think he’s even cooler because he always has something to do on the weekends. Everyone likes him. Everyone. This is also the age where he realizes that you are human, and that time spent with you isn’t all that bad. You’re cool because of that. You read a book that he was supposed to read for school about September 11, and you write a seven-page paper on it for him even though you have a fever. You don’t even feel guilty because you finally had something to offer him. He gets 100% on it, which you believe means that you are, in fact, a genius. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">All of a sudden, you notice that his friends are cute. He goes to winter formal with a girl you don’t know, and all of his friends sleep at your house afterward. Volunteering your bed for them to sleep in (OMG, you think), you fall asleep at 9:30 in your mom’s bed, only to wake up when they get home at 12 to act like you’ve been awake all along. You go downstairs to get a glass of water just to see what they’re doing. You’re still in junior high, so they don’t pay much attention to you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">Turns out, you actually are a decent athlete. You win the “Athlete of the Year” award at school, just like your big brother, but you win it two years in a row (seventh AND eighth grade, when it really matters). For the rest of your life, you’ll brag about this. After you won it the first year, your brother patted you on the back and said “good job,” which was better than the trophy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">For your high school application, you have to write about someone in your life who has character. You write about your big brother because you are still under the impression that you want to be just like him. And, at this point, he hasn’t made many mistakes. You tell the application-reader that he has always had to work hard for everything he’s earned, and that’s true. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">Then you get into high school. Lots of people refer to you as your brother’s little sister. You think you’re hot shit because you know all of your brother’s friends and they actually say hi to you sometimes. A couple of them have little sisters that are your age, and you unite and talk about your brothers’ hot friends and who you think is the hottest. Eventually, the thrill will fade and you’ll walk around the house in sweats and no makeup in front of them (can you believe it?). They become your big brothers, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">You play sports until your sophomore year. You sprain your ankle one night and your brother has to carry you to his car. You think he’s going to carry you like the princess that you are, but he throws you over his shoulder sack of potatoes style. Then you quit sports because they aren’t fun anymore. Your brother doesn’t understand because football is the equivalent of oxygen to him and because he hasn’t developed empathy when it comes to you. He tells you you’re wasting your talent, and that he wishes he had the natural ability that you have. He learned these backward compliments from your dad. You’re fifteen, so you don’t see that yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">You come to realize that there are certain moments that you and your big brother have together that you’ll never forget. One night, he’s driving you home and you notice that he’s crying. You ask him what’s wrong and he mentions something about your dad. You understand that you’re seeing a broken man. You’ll see more of them as you get older (you fall in love with a couple, too), and each of them is the saddest thing you’ll ever see. He leaves, and you learn what it means to want to go to war for someone. That night, you write your dad a letter and read it to him out loud about how he’s fucking up his own life, which in turn is fucking you and your brother up. Nothing changes, but it will be the bravest thing you’ll ever do, and you’ll be proud.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">A couple years go by and football is still your brother’s life. He becomes the team captain and his team wins the first state championship. Your whole family goes to his games. Like, everyone. You tell him you’re proud of him, holding back tears because you mean it. You’ll never see him happier. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">At some point, you start to tell your brother that you love him. He starts to say it back. You always say it first, but you don’t care. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">Your brother graduates high school and goes to college. Even though it’s close to your house, he moves out. You bring him lunch a couple times and stay for five minutes because, well, all he really wanted was lunch. A new school means new friends, and you’re happy about that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">In your junior year of high school, you throw a party at your house and you get drunk for the third time. Your brother finds out about it and invites his friends, too. You propose to one of them. You get too drunk, and your brother carries you upstairs. Sack of potatoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">It’s time to start applying to colleges, and you swear that you’ll go away because you just have to get out (everyone is so over Orange County). You get a scholarship, and you go to the very same school that your brother goes to. Secretly, you’re happy about it. You get him and his friends to come over by making them food.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: .75pt solid windowtext; border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-bottom-alt: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-bottom: 1.0pt; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">You and your brother don’t have much of anything in common, and you don’t like a lot of the things he does. In fact, you spend a decent amount of time bitching to your mom about him. You wonder how he can think that the world is made of rainbows and that everything will always work out, la de da. Sometimes this makes you jealous. But, you come to the conclusion that he’s the prodigal son, making you the older brother. Shit. Well, this helps and you bitch a little less but only a little. No matter how hard you try, you’re always happy to see him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-between: .75pt solid windowtext; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-padding-between: 1.0pt; mso-padding-top-alt: 0in; padding-top: 1.0pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">_______________________________________________________</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">As you add up the years in your head, you can’t help but laugh. You start to think about what you’ve learned from your big brother, and they’re all good things. When people ask you about him, you always say the same thing. You tell them that he’s the most likeable person you’ve ever met, and they’d be hard-pressed to find someone with a purer heart. Or with a deeper knowledge of dinosaurs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-34591858234867970992011-03-27T21:26:00.001-07:002011-04-06T17:46:00.022-07:00June and January.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">The buzzing of the fluorescent lights above provided sufficient background music, one long note.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">“Did you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">“Yes. Very much. I hated him, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">I avoided this as often as possible. It made me homesick. But the kind of burning homesick that leaves you wanting to go home to a bed that isn’t yours. Hell, maybe it never was.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">“But, damn, he was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">This led to a series of images I stayed away from most days. I remember the first time I heard him talk. I wanted to write down every word he said, and I imagine I’d still feel that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">“It’s like in the movies sometimes. When you walk out and you don’t feel anything at all. Like maybe they forgot the ending.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">“He wanted to be a cowboy, honey. A girl like me never stood a chance.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">1/20/11<o:p></o:p></span></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-63462672841481339502011-03-23T23:16:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:46:18.786-07:00November 14, 2010.<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>A letter written, never sent. </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This weekend hasn’t treated you well. You haven’t told me everything that’s happened, but it seems like it’s just been one thing after another. It also seems like your whole life has been that way. I don’t know everything about that, either. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I went through some of our emails from the summertime tonight. The world seemed a lot lighter to carry then for some reason.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I’m not sure why I felt the need to write this. You’ll probably never see it, and I really don’t have much to say. Maybe that’s why, because when you called me tonight I kept wishing I had those magic words that would suddenly make things perfect for you. Manageable, even. You weren’t looking for that, but still. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I guess I just wonder who gets to take care of you, you know. I know you tend to get through things on your own, and you don’t want anyone feeling sorry for you. I get that. I love that. But everyone needs someone that can pick them up off the floor once in a while. Even you. Maybe you’ll let me be that person one day, or maybe that spot is already taken. I don’t know. I’m rambling, and this probably doesn’t make any sense. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">It sounded better in my head.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-13766775884636440872011-03-22T22:24:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:46:49.602-07:00Unfinished, Still.<div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><em style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This never took place, but it should have.</span></em></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“We should talk like this more often,” he said.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“I know, dear.” She traced his face, her favorite picture, and put it in her pocket.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“I was thinking about rules today,” she said.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Rules?”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Yeah.” She was looking away from him now. “They’re always broken at night. The biggest ones, anyway. I think it’s the moon.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Of course it’s the moon.” She was staring again as she pulled the covers over her shoulders.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“So, I’m asking for your permission.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“My permission?”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Yes. To love you.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“That’s the rule?”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“It’s the one I’m breaking.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Is this about summer ending?”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">She looked down and replayed the last three months in her mind. Emails were the new love letters, and she kept them all as proof.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“You love me now,” he said. She wasn’t sure if it was an insult or not.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“That’s the sad part.” Her voice was shaking. “I keep trying to. You won’t let me. You keep fighting back and I don’t know if you even know you’re doing it. I thought if I asked it might make a difference.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">He stared up at the ceiling. She was looking at his bedroom door, gathering the location of her belongings in her mind in case she had to leave. She knew she wouldn’t, so did he, but she had to give herself the chance.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“You still have a lot to learn. Maybe you’d be better off without me.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">She had heard this before, but this time she didn’t believe it.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“I wouldn’t leave unless you made me.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“There’s a lot you don’t know, darling.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“What are you so afraid of?” she finally asked, knowing he wouldn’t tell her. He stopped to think, and she thought she may have surprised him.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“If I left, would you call?” he asked responsively.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“No,” she answered.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Why not?”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“I’ll think it’s because you don’t want me anymore,” she said, already believing that it would be true.</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“And if I called?”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“I’d answer.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Why?”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">“Because I’d still want to be the person you’d write about for the right reasons.”</span></div><div style="color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">She kissed him, wondering if he’d be there in the morning.</span></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-49826355579704682912011-03-22T10:48:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:47:02.671-07:00Food Diary<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> “I would like a human stomach for lunch,” I request.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;">My subordinates look at me as though I were a lunatic, which always bemuses me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;">“Yes.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;">As you all know, I’ve traveled the world and am somewhat of a food connoisseur, as they say. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;">I think a human stomach would put my diary in a ‘fully saturated’ sort of place.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;">I have eaten frog legs, pig intestines, cow tongue, veal, sheep eye, polar bear liver, whatever it is Spam is made of, and all other sorts of animals.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;">But a human stomach I find would complete the anatomy of my personal diary, don’t you agree, Watson?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 12px; line-height: 24px;">I also find that eating it for lunch would make it a more meaningful affair as I would ingest it solitarily.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">I call my assistant, whose name is Frank, Watson, both because I find Frank to be a generic name lacking any sort of charisma and because he helps me solve my own personal mysteries. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“I suppose that’s true, sir, but the stomach of a human?” Watson asks. “It can’t be done, sir, and…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“Can’t! What have I told you about using that word with me, Watson? It is never a matter of whether something that I wish can or cannot be done. The matter at hand is that I want it, and I ask that you exhaust all possible means of attaining of my want before you tell me that it cannot be done.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist you in this matter, sir, as my conscience won’t allow it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">I scan the faces in the room and see that they are all looking down in compliance with Watson. From the desk in the center of the room, I look out at my view and notice that my office is right in the middle of town, and that it is the tallest building in sight. Remarkable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“Alright, then! This will be my own venture. Don’t worry, lads, I won’t hold this against you in the least. In fact, I imagine that if I succeed in this feat and, at the end of three hours, I find myself putting someone else’s stomach into my own…well, it will be something like that of poetry! Now, continue with your tasks for the rest of the day. Watson will direct you in my absence. Wish me luck!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">I exit my skyscraper and look left, right, left again, knowing both ways are paved for my success. Left it is! I walk swiftly and smile at those who pass me. I’m also enthralled to feel the sun beating down on the top of my head as I rarely get to enjoy the outdoors. I make a mental note to relieve Watson of taking my mail to the post office every day because it is just the perfect distance to enjoy a brisk walk. As a businessman, I am no stranger to suits. Today I chose my best grey one, complete with my favorite purple shirt and a tie that pulls it all together. Nothing lies in my pockets but six hundred dollar bills and a matchbox, which I take out to light the cigar I snatched from my office. I decide it’s best to go door-to-door with my request. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">I walk toward the nearest neighborhood and notice something else: a billboard displaying my face next to a caption that reads, “Meet the heir of the Duerny fortune.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thank you, billboard!” I exclaim aloud. Now, people will recognize me and my hope is they will take my personal visit as an honor and aid in my quest. I knock on the first door, a meager house. A woman of short stature, around my own age, answers and gives me an honest smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“Hello, miss, how are you doing today? I myself am swell and I first would like to thank you for opening your door on such a beautiful morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“Of course, Mr. Duerny! So unexpected to see you standing in my doorway as I’ve seen your face on that poster downtown,” she replies.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes, I do seem to be more recognizable! Now I won’t waste your time so I’ll cut straight to it. You see, I wish to have a human stomach for lunch this afternoon and I have come into town and to your door to see if you could help me. Do you know anyone who is scheduled to die this morning?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">Just as soon as I ask her an earnest question she slaps me in the face and slams the door. Truly puzzled, I persevere and decide that the hospital is the best place to find my main lunch course. I walk the mile or so to the hospital and make my way to the morgue, which was conveniently located one floor below. The key is to act like I know where I’m going and what I’m doing. I have proven several times that people are much less likely to question my presence if I carry myself in this way, as I will prove again today. I rehearse my speech on the way to the hospital and it really is admirable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">I throw open the swaying doors of the morgue to find a young doctor removing various body parts from a carcass, taking notice of the pure magic of it all. Just as she begins to say, “Excuse me, sir!” I start my speech, which goes like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">“Mam, I would first like to tell you that I think you are really very pretty and whether you can help me or not I will still believe this to be true. Before you have the chance to remove me from this room I ask that you let me give you my reasoning on my coming down to your morgue and a request that I deem simple and I hope you will agree. I woke up this morning thinking about all the wonderful foods I have had the pleasure of eating throughout my life. I have eaten every animal imaginable, except for one. I have yet to eat any part of a human other than my own fingernails. As I discovered this a few hours ago, I knew that I needed to discover the taste of my own kind. So I request that you remove the stomach of the character that you are elbow-deep in, and donate it to my lunch for today. If you were to ask me why I would like the stomach out of all the organs, I would tell you that the stomach seems to me like the gas tank of a car, the ink in a pen, and other kinds of fuel holders.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">Ten minutes later I am a half-mile away from the hospital carrying a human stomach! As it turns out, organs that cannot be donated are simply thrown away after careful analysis. My speech was unnecessary, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%;">I was correct about the experience equating with poetry. As for the stomach, I found it bland. <o:p></o:p></span></div></span><br />
</span>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-9855720878642332982011-03-19T02:05:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:47:26.234-07:00I'll Post the Rest When It's Not Complete Shit.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">“We should talk like this more often.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 11pt;">“I know, dear.” She traced his face, her favorite picture, and put it in her pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-39441872001704786062011-03-17T12:17:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:47:38.122-07:00An exercise we did in my writing class ended like this.<br />
<br />
The honey was sap<br />
Dripping down her face and slowing down the clock<br />
The ribbit of a toad would last for hours<br />
Bread clogged her throat. She choked.<br />
I scooped my fist into her diaphragm and pumped it outJessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-62990147165270554732011-03-13T22:32:00.000-07:002011-04-06T17:47:50.029-07:00Worldviews.<div class="MsoNormal">“You talk about the world like you’re looking through a kaleidoscope. You see something you hate, truly despise, and with one twist of your wrist or a couple beats of your heart you’ve suddenly turned it into something explainable and beautiful and worthy of being understood.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And how do you see the world?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Stained.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And yourself?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Stained.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ah.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ve seen horrible things.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ve <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">been</i> horrible things.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“As have I.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Says the girl who can’t keep from smiling at a stranger.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Also true.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So, answer me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s quite simple, really. Though I see the world, and I do see it, I don’t belong to it. I don’t own it, nor am I trying to. Ignorance or, in my case, innocence. Far from intelligence. Maybe so, but I like to think every rebel has their reasons.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re infuriating.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yet, you’ll still kiss me goodnight.”</div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6013108938632431701.post-54455589528733989512011-03-11T22:07:00.000-08:002011-04-06T17:48:05.001-07:00Spring Semester.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Five hundred square feet, if that. You can’t be picky about arm space living in Greenwich Village. Toward the left of the studio apartment is a shining stovetop. Next to it a bottle of cleaner and a spotless, crumpled-but-not-thrown-away paper towel, like the stove didn’t need cleaning to begin with. Two eggplant purple plates, two pigeon grey cups (coffee cups, not glasses), one pan, one pot, and an ancient meat cleaver, all hoisted by hooks that would give the Lost Boys night terrors and maybe even unnerve Peter Pan himself. No cabinets. Instead, the naked hinges lie fixed and useless on the cave-colored wood. The storage space has been transformed into a personal library, hand-crafted like an artist molds a piece of clay. Textbooks and novels. Though, just like the tenant, the fiction (science-fiction, specifically…other dimensions with eight-eyed aliens and world peace) is losing the war on room to breathe. The books are all bound and in alphabetical order. Looking closely, the textbooks are worn and tattered, beaten by piercing eyes and violent memorization. They are separate from the novels, who occupy exactly ten and a half inches of one of the four shelves. The rest are some books on business basics but mostly books on stocks, economics, and also a documentary on the New York Stock Exchange, which isn’t too far of a walk from here. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> The calendar on the chest-high refrigerator tells an evolving biography of a person who must work at “The Club” from eleven p.m. to five a.m. every night but Sunday. Yes, “The Club” is a place of work because it ‘s written in black and there’s a color-coordination chart to the right. Every box is decorated with at least three colors, except for Sundays because they’re blank (invisible ink?). At the center of the room lies the body-molded bed just big enough for one, ironed and tucked to perfection. No throw pillows or fuss. Blue sheet, blue comforter, folded down at the top to look like a hotel room bed, just cleaner. On the bed lies what appears to be a costume only it’s nowhere near Halloween. Sequined, jet black thong. Next to it, a black, full-length cape, facedown, closely resembles the cape that Batman wears except across the back it reads “Lapman.” Ha. Leather boots breathe on the unpolished wood floor. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Further to the right stands the doorless bathroom. Not a splash of color but the stained-yellow glass covering the light bulb, and nothing on the sink but a toothbrush and a razor. A yellow Post-It sticks to the mirror, displaying an upright equal sign and a “C” that’s been knocked over: a smiley face. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> As I begin to move to the also doorless closet (where I expect to find hidden treasure), I start to wonder if this man is as put out with his front door as he is the rest of them. Just as I reach for the doorknob, I’m haunted by footsteps and nowhere to run.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“You lost?” he asks. He has an NYU I.D. card around his neck, and another stack of textbooks in his arms.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Still enthralled by my thorough yet unfinished analysis of the studio, and taking note of my most recent observations, I reply, “You’re the ‘Lapman?’”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“From eleven to five, Monday through Saturday,” he says without hesitation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">I know. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“School isn’t cheap. Neither is rent, even when you don’t have arm space. You probably noticed the bathroom and the closet.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“And the cabinets,” I add.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“They came like that, actually.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“You could wait tables or something,” I suggest.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“I could, but I’ve always wanted to live downtown…” </div>Jessie Feyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06784736782042460936noreply@blogger.com0