(things I wrote down on half an hour of sleep this morning; as ever, if it's in brackets they're not my words)
blood half-caffeine, churning and shaking, I stare at 9:00 in the morning with the same eyes that saw 9:00 the previous night - barely rested, sore, and suddenly shaken by the final chord of a four-month-long song. that which had become my nucleus is splitting and I am pinned here, looking up to the sky, heart pounding out delirium, no sleep until I know what happens next, no sleep till I can't stand it anymore.
[thought of you as my mountaintop, thought of you as my peak
thought of you as everything I had but couldn't keep]
what of it now? what to believe? bonds forged in the giddy hours of the morning, taste of diner coffee on my tongue and the good tired feeling of laughter in my throat. something has changed on a deep, irreversible level; a commitment has been made, but what of my promise to myself, what of this tentative declaration of love that hangs clearly visible in the air like our breath in the frozen morning? I'm going on - no time to settle that which matters in the course of a life until the last chord finishes ringing out.
--
saying goodbye for now to one of my friends this morning, she said, "I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow!" to me. just about broke my heart, for some reason. I'm always afraid people aren't going to miss me.
sometimes when monumental things happen in my life I imagine hearing a massive guitar/piano chord in the background, like the end of "A Day in the Life" or "Love Reign O'er Me" something. I can't be the only one.
I think I've said the word "bizarre" a thousand times since yesterday afternoon. it's fitting though. things have been bizarre. wonderful, mostly, but bizarre. like spending the night in the sketchiest office ever, sleeping on a couch, and walking half a mile to a diner for breakfast on the coldest morning you can remember yet this year. at this place on Beacon Street they serve what I think are fried bagels and give you paper placemats with maps of Greece on them; they don't seem to be affiliated with the Greeks in any other way.
I have no idea what's going to happen next.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
thumbin' my way down to north caroline
I wrote a blues song about shit I did this summer. it's called "corners of the midwest" and it's kind of not terrible, maybe. in other news, my voice is terrible, and weak, and too quiet. I always think it's okay until I record it and play it back. eurgh I sound like I'm twelve and have strep. which happened a lot, I had strep every other week as a kid. hey, maybe that's why I can't sing?
I also wrote two songs (and various fragments) about this kid I like a lot. and another song about cutting out and driving to California when you feel like it. these are the things that are on my mind. and shit. at least I'm playing guitar again? and the last couple I wrote have actual chord progressions that aren't just 1-4-5, so.
I averaged four hours of sleep a night this week. I was doing really, really well at not being dependent on caffeine, and then "having to learn how to be a section editor of a daily college newspaper" happened and now Dunkies coffee (and its ACTUALLY NAUSEATING amounts of cream and sugar) is my bff again. but I spent Wednesday night drinking cheap wine and yelling about basketball with other people who are insane enough to work for a newspaper. good shit.
did I ever write about the time I accidentally found Lake Erie over the summer? I was thinking of that when I was writing today and it ended up in one of the songs. that was a cool moment. I miss summer. I think somewhere deep in my brain I believe that as long as I'm still listening to predominantly Springsteen (which I am) it's still summer.
I also wrote two songs (and various fragments) about this kid I like a lot. and another song about cutting out and driving to California when you feel like it. these are the things that are on my mind. and shit. at least I'm playing guitar again? and the last couple I wrote have actual chord progressions that aren't just 1-4-5, so.
I averaged four hours of sleep a night this week. I was doing really, really well at not being dependent on caffeine, and then "having to learn how to be a section editor of a daily college newspaper" happened and now Dunkies coffee (and its ACTUALLY NAUSEATING amounts of cream and sugar) is my bff again. but I spent Wednesday night drinking cheap wine and yelling about basketball with other people who are insane enough to work for a newspaper. good shit.
did I ever write about the time I accidentally found Lake Erie over the summer? I was thinking of that when I was writing today and it ended up in one of the songs. that was a cool moment. I miss summer. I think somewhere deep in my brain I believe that as long as I'm still listening to predominantly Springsteen (which I am) it's still summer.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
to you and me that's jingletown, that's home
When I went to Ireland with my family, just about the first thing my brother and I did was try to convince innocent Irish people that we were Canadian. I have no idea why this happened (although the overnight flight from New York, which left at 10 PM EST and landed at 4 AM EST...which is 9 AM Ireland time...and the absolute lack of sleep on that flight may have had something to do with it), but we walked all around Shannon Airport yelling "EH" and talking about the Edmonton Oilers, in the hopes that someone would mistake us for Canadians. I think we also talked in southern accents (terrible, terrible southern accents) and did Fargo impressions for a little while, and then I passed the fuck out on a bench for an hour and a half. I don't think we convinced anybody of anything, besides that we were complete jackasses even for Americans.
Right now I'm wearing an Oakland Athletics hat. I have four baseball caps in regular rotation, for teams based in Pittsburgh, Boston, San Francisco, and now Oakland, plus a Minnesota Twins one that has been sporadically important in my life (plus my Pens hat, but that's separate). When I wore my Sox hat the other day, this kid on my floor told me I was being a disgrace to San Francisco, and I had to stop and explain to him that I'm not actually from California, even though I ran down the hall whooping it up with my friend who is when the Giants won the World Series. Before that, I wore my Giants hat to the newspaper office, with a Pirates shirt, and got the Spanish Inquisition into why the hell I would ever wear a Giants hat (also got the question "is it Barry Bonds Day?" No, sir, it is never, ever, ever Barry Bonds Day in my life, and you're lucky I didn't slap you for saying so).
I guess there's a definite thread of me wanting people to think I'm from places I'm not from, even though I love where I actually am from (more so now that I don't have to be there year-round). It's just more interesting that way. I mean, I have a reasonable claim to Boston now (I can navigate the city much, much better than I can Pittsburgh, which is a source of guilt) but I just like walking down the street, seeing people notice my hats and think of me as a Californian, or a Minnesotan, or a Chicagoan the times I wear my Blackhawks shirt, and so forth. I want to know what it's like to be from everywhere, how you think of yourself if you're from Wisconsin or Florida or New York or New Mexico, what people want to convey when they identify themselves with one place or another. I personally feel connected to a whole lot of places; hence, the hats.
That's why I got back into sports in the first place, you know - wanting something to connect me back to Pittsburgh. Going into junior year, I was starting to think, and be concerned by the thought, that I could go to school - let's say - in New York and have nothing to distinguish me from people from Cincinnati, or Kansas City, or what have you. And people always expected me to pay attention to hockey, since I play, and I thought sure, I'll just become loyal to the Penguins, and that will be that. The rest is history, obviously, but sometimes I realize that's about the weirdest damn reason to get into something in the world. It worked, though. When I think of home I think of Mellon Arena (rest in peace, old buddy) and PNC Park (you'll see better days, I promise) and walking across the Clemente Bridge in the summer with my family, standing in a crowd of 375,000 Penguins fans on the Boulevard of the Allies celebrating this thing we believe in on June 15, 2009. They don't have that shit in Philly or Dallas. That's just home.
Right now I'm wearing an Oakland Athletics hat. I have four baseball caps in regular rotation, for teams based in Pittsburgh, Boston, San Francisco, and now Oakland, plus a Minnesota Twins one that has been sporadically important in my life (plus my Pens hat, but that's separate). When I wore my Sox hat the other day, this kid on my floor told me I was being a disgrace to San Francisco, and I had to stop and explain to him that I'm not actually from California, even though I ran down the hall whooping it up with my friend who is when the Giants won the World Series. Before that, I wore my Giants hat to the newspaper office, with a Pirates shirt, and got the Spanish Inquisition into why the hell I would ever wear a Giants hat (also got the question "is it Barry Bonds Day?" No, sir, it is never, ever, ever Barry Bonds Day in my life, and you're lucky I didn't slap you for saying so).
I guess there's a definite thread of me wanting people to think I'm from places I'm not from, even though I love where I actually am from (more so now that I don't have to be there year-round). It's just more interesting that way. I mean, I have a reasonable claim to Boston now (I can navigate the city much, much better than I can Pittsburgh, which is a source of guilt) but I just like walking down the street, seeing people notice my hats and think of me as a Californian, or a Minnesotan, or a Chicagoan the times I wear my Blackhawks shirt, and so forth. I want to know what it's like to be from everywhere, how you think of yourself if you're from Wisconsin or Florida or New York or New Mexico, what people want to convey when they identify themselves with one place or another. I personally feel connected to a whole lot of places; hence, the hats.
That's why I got back into sports in the first place, you know - wanting something to connect me back to Pittsburgh. Going into junior year, I was starting to think, and be concerned by the thought, that I could go to school - let's say - in New York and have nothing to distinguish me from people from Cincinnati, or Kansas City, or what have you. And people always expected me to pay attention to hockey, since I play, and I thought sure, I'll just become loyal to the Penguins, and that will be that. The rest is history, obviously, but sometimes I realize that's about the weirdest damn reason to get into something in the world. It worked, though. When I think of home I think of Mellon Arena (rest in peace, old buddy) and PNC Park (you'll see better days, I promise) and walking across the Clemente Bridge in the summer with my family, standing in a crowd of 375,000 Penguins fans on the Boulevard of the Allies celebrating this thing we believe in on June 15, 2009. They don't have that shit in Philly or Dallas. That's just home.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
"I have to go see about a girl," part 2
you know what's scary as fuck? when you realize you actually considered, for more than a split second, turning down tickets to a hockey game for which you've said you'd sell everything you own for tickets. because that same weekend, you could drive through the most heinous driving state in the union (sorry, Ohio), to Chicago to cover a college hockey tournament, with two guys you hardly even knew before this fall, one of whom you still don't know all that well. because the other one, you realize, is worth skipping just about any sporting event for, if you have to.
don't get me wrong. I'm going to the motherfucking Winter Classic, I'm not insane. it may well be the biggest hockey event I ever get to be a part of, and when I'm standing there at Heinz Field freezing my ass off for my team in the midst of 60,000 people, I'll probably cry or faint or see God or something. it's going to be amazing.
but this scene keeps running through my head (cheers to IMDB):
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date?
Sean: Oh yeah. 'Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance.
Will: Yeah, yeah.
Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman.
Will: Yeah, I've seen...
Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know?
Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way!
Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people...
Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field; I wasn't there.
Will: What?
Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's home run?
Sean: Oh, yeah.
Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.
Will: I don't care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that's Game 6!
Sean: Oh, Helen of Troy...
Will: Oh my God; and who are these fuckin' friends of yours, they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh... they had to.
Will: W-w-w-what'd you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table, and I said, "Sorry, guys; I gotta see about a girl."
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That's what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh, yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.
Will: You're kiddin' me.
Sean: No, I'm not kiddin' you, Will. That's why I'm not talkin' right now about some girl I saw at a bar twenty years ago and how I always regretted not going over and talking to her. I don't regret the 18 years I was married to Nancy. I don't regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don't regret the last years when she got really sick. And I sure as hell don't regret missin' the damn game. That's regret.
[pause]
Will: Wow... Woulda been nice to catch that game, though.
Sean: [sheepishly] I didn't know Pudge was gonna hit a homer.
don't get me wrong. I'm going to the motherfucking Winter Classic, I'm not insane. it may well be the biggest hockey event I ever get to be a part of, and when I'm standing there at Heinz Field freezing my ass off for my team in the midst of 60,000 people, I'll probably cry or faint or see God or something. it's going to be amazing.
but this scene keeps running through my head (cheers to IMDB):
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date?
Sean: Oh yeah. 'Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance.
Will: Yeah, yeah.
Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman.
Will: Yeah, I've seen...
Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know?
Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way!
Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people...
Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field; I wasn't there.
Will: What?
Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's home run?
Sean: Oh, yeah.
Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.
Will: I don't care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that's Game 6!
Sean: Oh, Helen of Troy...
Will: Oh my God; and who are these fuckin' friends of yours, they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh... they had to.
Will: W-w-w-what'd you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table, and I said, "Sorry, guys; I gotta see about a girl."
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That's what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh, yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.
Will: You're kiddin' me.
Sean: No, I'm not kiddin' you, Will. That's why I'm not talkin' right now about some girl I saw at a bar twenty years ago and how I always regretted not going over and talking to her. I don't regret the 18 years I was married to Nancy. I don't regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don't regret the last years when she got really sick. And I sure as hell don't regret missin' the damn game. That's regret.
[pause]
Will: Wow... Woulda been nice to catch that game, though.
Sean: [sheepishly] I didn't know Pudge was gonna hit a homer.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
been waiting a long time for this moment to come.
I've done some scary-ass things and some ridiculously demanding things in my life. I've driven in Chicago rush hour traffic, in a blistering downpour so I couldn't see five feet in front of me. I've climbed up the sides of cliffs in Colorado. I've thrown punches at people who could beat the shit out of me, and I've thrown myself down on the ice in front of hockey pucks traveling fast enough to hurt me pretty badly. I love that shit. I'm not scared of getting hurt playing sports, or hanging off the sides of mountains or standing up to the mosh pit at a Dropkick Murphys show (okay, a little scared of that, but it's always totally worth it).
This week, all I have to do is ask a friend of mine a question. A short, simple-sentence kind of question. And I'm so fucking terrified about that, I can't even think about anything else.
This week, all I have to do is ask a friend of mine a question. A short, simple-sentence kind of question. And I'm so fucking terrified about that, I can't even think about anything else.
Monday, October 25, 2010
FACT: I have the right to check out athletes I think are hot. Even if I'm emotionally twelve sometimes and blush when I have to say it in front of boys who judge me. Hey, fair is fair: y'all get to go on about Russian tennis player chicks and gymnasts, I get to dig on Josh Beckett. This is the 21st century.(this message brought to you by a fantastic and far-too-late Sunday night of sportswriters being awkward and blushy and making fun of each other, and nobody - least of all me - understanding the role of Rich Harden in my life)
Friday, October 1, 2010
"I have to go see about a girl."
You know what I don't own? (besides season Pens tickets, the Jon Lester shirt I want, the entire Bad Religion discography that I suddenly need?) I don't own high heels. And I don't want to. I've walked in heels twice: once to the Rocky Horror Picture Show in Cambridge, and once on Halloween. Just about a year ago now, both last October. The first time, it rained like hell and I stepped in a massive puddle as soon as we got off the train, and I spent the next four hours with soaking wet feet, slipping and sliding on rice trying to balance on these tiny fucking points I'm supposed to jump up on and do the Time Warp at the same time. The second time, well, it was Halloween (and I was supposed to be a mod chick, I had this rad British flag dress, but everyone instantly assumed I was a Spice Girl, so I just rolled with it). And four of my friends and I walked a good mile or so down Massachusetts Avenue looking for a party to attend, only to fail miserably and have to walk the entire way back. I still count it as one of my all-time greatest athletic achievements that I didn't collapse.
Today, again, it was Cambridge. Except I wore blue low-top Converses, because I still have scars on my feet from the last time I wore my newest black flats, and because we were going to a journalism career fair, at which I would almost certainly not be judged on my footwear. I went with two guys and two girls, and both of the other girls changed from rain boots into heels halfway there, complaining and groaning and clearly in pain, tottering off the train and stumbling on the Harvard cobblestones. I walked ahead with one of the guys, because we were walking at the same pace. And I'm glad for that. My feet didn't hurt. If a bear from the wilds of eastern Massachusetts (okay, no such thing - a crazed Patriots fan, maybe) came barreling down the street to attack, I could have run or climbed up a fire escape or ninja-kicked him. I kept up with the boy I wanted to talk to. And I got to talk to the recruiters from big publications just the same as everyone else did.
One of my friends - one of the girls in heels - was complaining about them, and I said, "why do you wear them?" She said, "they make me taller." I have got to be missing something. I'm 5'2", maybe a hair more, and back when I thought I was going to be a professional basketball player, sure, I wished I were taller. But ever since I quit basketball, height hasn't really been on my mind. And I don't think it's ever been on my mind to the point that I would put myself in pure, unrelenting agony for hours on end, just to be two or three inches taller. I was born short. And I was born with an instinct for avoiding unnecessary pain for the sake of so-called "beauty" or "style."
There's another thing. It doesn't make me any less of a girl, or a woman, not to want to wear shoes that hurt. What an absolutely arbitrary concept. I don't want to weaken myself, or put myself in pain, or put myself in a position where I can't move at my own pace and not be distracted by my shoes. I feel like this makes me a logical human being, if anything. I have a right to wear the shoes I want, free of judgment, and not feel - is there a feminine equivalent of "emasculated"? E-feminated? Doesn't sound quite right. But either way, I am who I am, and I'll wear the shoes that best allow me to enjoy my life. And that's all I have to say about that.
As usual, I want to post about two things at the same time, but the segue is difficult and I don't feel like forcing one. I basically just want to say this: I just watched Good Will Hunting for the second time, and that is a movie that hits me in all the right places. Really blows your hair back, as they say. The funny parts are hysterical (Ben and Casey Affleck, please get drunk and tell me stories all the time), the sad parts are heartbreaking, and every detail is worth remembering. Not to mention that it's a visual love letter to Boston, and everyone has accents (which I love! 98% of America thinks they're annoying, I don't fucking care, I adore Boston accents).
The exchange Sean and Will have about soulmates blows me away. The speeches Sean makes to him about actually experiencing life, about not backing off just to keep things perfect and idealized and let yourself imagine how they're going to turn out - it gets me. Robin Williams, in his infinite wisdom, knows what's going on. Even if he did fucking skip Game 6 of the 1975 World Series. He convinces me that it was worth it to miss Carlton Fisk's walk-off homer, and that's a damned impressive thing to do.
Today, again, it was Cambridge. Except I wore blue low-top Converses, because I still have scars on my feet from the last time I wore my newest black flats, and because we were going to a journalism career fair, at which I would almost certainly not be judged on my footwear. I went with two guys and two girls, and both of the other girls changed from rain boots into heels halfway there, complaining and groaning and clearly in pain, tottering off the train and stumbling on the Harvard cobblestones. I walked ahead with one of the guys, because we were walking at the same pace. And I'm glad for that. My feet didn't hurt. If a bear from the wilds of eastern Massachusetts (okay, no such thing - a crazed Patriots fan, maybe) came barreling down the street to attack, I could have run or climbed up a fire escape or ninja-kicked him. I kept up with the boy I wanted to talk to. And I got to talk to the recruiters from big publications just the same as everyone else did.
One of my friends - one of the girls in heels - was complaining about them, and I said, "why do you wear them?" She said, "they make me taller." I have got to be missing something. I'm 5'2", maybe a hair more, and back when I thought I was going to be a professional basketball player, sure, I wished I were taller. But ever since I quit basketball, height hasn't really been on my mind. And I don't think it's ever been on my mind to the point that I would put myself in pure, unrelenting agony for hours on end, just to be two or three inches taller. I was born short. And I was born with an instinct for avoiding unnecessary pain for the sake of so-called "beauty" or "style."
There's another thing. It doesn't make me any less of a girl, or a woman, not to want to wear shoes that hurt. What an absolutely arbitrary concept. I don't want to weaken myself, or put myself in pain, or put myself in a position where I can't move at my own pace and not be distracted by my shoes. I feel like this makes me a logical human being, if anything. I have a right to wear the shoes I want, free of judgment, and not feel - is there a feminine equivalent of "emasculated"? E-feminated? Doesn't sound quite right. But either way, I am who I am, and I'll wear the shoes that best allow me to enjoy my life. And that's all I have to say about that.
As usual, I want to post about two things at the same time, but the segue is difficult and I don't feel like forcing one. I basically just want to say this: I just watched Good Will Hunting for the second time, and that is a movie that hits me in all the right places. Really blows your hair back, as they say. The funny parts are hysterical (Ben and Casey Affleck, please get drunk and tell me stories all the time), the sad parts are heartbreaking, and every detail is worth remembering. Not to mention that it's a visual love letter to Boston, and everyone has accents (which I love! 98% of America thinks they're annoying, I don't fucking care, I adore Boston accents).
The exchange Sean and Will have about soulmates blows me away. The speeches Sean makes to him about actually experiencing life, about not backing off just to keep things perfect and idealized and let yourself imagine how they're going to turn out - it gets me. Robin Williams, in his infinite wisdom, knows what's going on. Even if he did fucking skip Game 6 of the 1975 World Series. He convinces me that it was worth it to miss Carlton Fisk's walk-off homer, and that's a damned impressive thing to do.
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