Burnt

"You're being poopy," he tells me, "Go blog about it."
So, here I am. Poopy me. Blogging about it. Of course, I prefer the phrase "being in a funk" or "grumpy" to "being poopy." I guess I don't have the words to excuse or explain it. It isn't big things that upset me. On the contrary. It is the petty, meaningless, wear and tear of the everyday, the little bits of sadness that worm their way into your heart and crack it apart.

I didn't mean to forget. The timer shut itself off, so only the burning smells called for me. I ran to the oven and ripped it open. But I wasn't there in time. Tears welled up in my eyes, pulled forth by the bitter smoke and disappointment.
The oven is off now, and the smoking, blackened, clumps cling to the pan, like grumpy, stubborn trolls. Deep down, I think I can pull myself together, and walk away. I think. But I don't know, because the deep down in lost in the hundreds of other layers, layers that scream at me. As I scrape the pan, the screech of metal against metal seems to taunt me, and as the trashcan fills, I suddenly feel as if I've never loved anything more then I love these burnt cookies, and that I can't possibly be without them.
I choke down sobs, and finish throwing them out. The blackened pan is dropped into the sink, and the fan is flicked on. The kitchen feels empty.

I wish, Dear Reader, that I could show you a deeper meaning, a silver lining. I wish I could give you hope, or a lesson. But I cannot. It is just me and the smell of burnt sugar and failure. Just me. Being poopy.

Starlight

Sometimes, late at night, I find myself unable to sleep. I lay awake and let my mind wander where it wants. I'm drawn to the shadows strewn across the floor, cast by the gentle glow of the world outside. The moon is hidden or new, I don't know which, and I end up thinking about the stars that fill the sky by themselves. It's sad. After a journey of trillions of miles, though vast, empty, nothing, the starlight stops here. It dies here, so far from home, just so we can see some pretty dots. I walk to the window, intrigued by the silence of the witching hour. I feel small and helpless. Suddenly, I run, stumbling in the darkness. Gently, I lift my mirror off my closet door, and carry it to the window. I lean it on the floor, so the starlight reflects off it. The light does not die here.

Mail

The car screeches to a haphazard stop facing me as I walk down the driveway. The door opens, and the driver leaps out without any clear direction or purpose. She screams my name, which is nearly lost on her shallow, fast breathing. The freezing wind pulls her blond hair out of its loose knot, and she runs towards me, "THE MAIL!" she screams, "IS IT HERE?"
Shocked into speechlessness, I hold up the stack of envelopes in my hand. She grabs my other hand, and pulls me to the mailbox. I let go, and the dropped papers scatter behind me. Her nervous energy keeps her warm, while I shiver as another wind whips by. "What are we-" she cuts me off with her hand as she yanks open the tiny metal door. It's empty. She looks confused, and extremely disappointed. I point down the street, at the approaching mail truck. She plants her feet. "We're waiting." We've grown up together, she's easily my sister. So together we wait. Shivering together, with dedication to an unknown cause.
As the white van pulls up, she sticks her hand between the box and the man. He chuckles, and hands her the bundle. She tears a large envelope from the bottom, and throws the useless rest at me. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of the insignia, and it makes sense. Our breath rises in white puffs, but I don't remember even being able to breathe in the endless eternity it took her to tear it open. She lets out a scream, and I join in, both of us melting into laughter, a shared joy, sisters, jumping and squealing in the freezing cold.

Day Two: Growth and Development

I guess I should have expected domestic abuse to be in the sex education unit, which is essentially the rug under which all embarrassing topics are swept. After a gruesome, graphic slide-show of scars, bruises, and bullet wounds, we are given worksheets, to evaluate our own relationships for "teen dating violence." Absentmindedly, I fill out the little check boxes, row upon row of healthy functioning friendships. In a sense of recklessness and boredom, I turn the page to a new checklist, and decide to evaluate the worst relationship I've had.

Suddenly, I freeze. Check one, "one puts the other down by calling names." I shake it off. One unhealthy check means nothing. But then, check two, "one treats the other like a child." Check three, "one frequently criticizes other's friends/interests." "one tells the other how to dress." "one has grabbed, pulled, pushed, or hurt the other." By the end of the list, I've checked every warning sign of an abusive relationship. Staring down at it, I immediately try to deny it, to excuse him, a small voice that's quickly crushed by an echo of the video, "many victims blame themselves, and deny any abuse."

Could the relationship have been bad to the point of abuse? The mindlessly "healthy" checks suddenly don't seem so petty, the strong friendships I realize I'm endlessly grateful for. Of course, I was never actually hurt. But nonetheless, I'm suddenly grateful for leaving him. A dear friend of mine is caught in a emotionally abusive relationship, one she refuses to leave. "Give me a week," she begs, "I'll leave him then. He'll be different." How is it that we are drawn to such pain? She blames herself.

I realize now, that as much courage and determination is takes to hold on to something, not just relationships, it takes just as much, maybe even more, to let go. One just needs to know what's worth holding onto.

In Costco

It's funny, the ability to see a complete stranger, to peer into their lives, to know nothing about them, and to learn something. I balance on the lowest rung of the cart and drift slowly through the endless rows of Costco, propelled periodically by the one foot I let trail on the ground.

I've memorized the rows, the layouts, the regular faces.* Yet today, there's a different sound. Beautiful, familiar, haunting. I weave in and out of the crowded isles to follow it. Moonlight Sonata. I nearly cry out at the joy of recognition. A grand piano is on display, in the dead center of the store. The grandiose, sleek, black, shapes juxtapose the small man with wispy white hair coaxing the sounds out of it. He sits hunched on the bench, shriveled with age, yet his hands are graceful, energetic, and carefree. I abandon my cart to wander closer. There's talent and passion in his music, and a curiosity of what string of events has brought him here, to play Beethoven on a piano on a Costco display, gnaws at me.

Drifting farther, I'm captured by an argument near the cookies at the bakery. Two arguments, to be precise. A young man is standing on his cart like I am, and his pout is matched exactly by a young boy across from him, the two oblivious to each other. Both are begging for cookies, the big kind, with chocolate chips. A mother and a girlfriend play the bad guy to the young boy and man respectively, and neither gets cookies.

A small boy, ruddy faced, smeared with free samples and freckles dashes in front of my cart, quickly followed by a disheveled mother calling after him. Michael. His name is Michael, this grimy, delighted boy, having the time of his life avoiding his mother and hiding under tables. I smile to myself.

The rows of personalized cakes awaiting pickup catches my fancy, and I wander towards them, standing on my tiptoes to peek into the frosty cellophane box lids. I can make out an American flag. Suddenly, I realize that I'm staring at a going away cake, for someone in the army. I feel ashamed, like I saw something I couldn't have, and back away. I wonder who it's for. Will they be missed? Will they be safe? Who ordered it? Will they be lonely?


It's late now, and I leave, again struck by the lives of the other shoppers. An allegory of us all of us. Small truths, in light. In the endless rows of Costco.



*Clean- http://organizedchaos-reagan.blogspot.com/2010/11/clean.html

Who?

Even from far away, I can tell his heart is broken. It doesn't take much for him to tell. "She's dating someone else," he says. It was a show-mance. "That's the problem with actors," he spits, almost disgustedly, "they get confused with what's their role, and what's real life." His mouth twitches up into a sad, half-smile. "No offense."

Terrifyingly, I suddenly see the same in myself. When I'm sad, I'm not me. I'm Eponine, self-pityingly lonesome. When I'm whiny, I'm Bloody Mary, grabby and demanding. More often then not, I'm Winifred, loud, insane, and obnoxious. I do not know if I give them bits of myself, bringing them to life, or if I learn from them. I have no idea who I am. I have no idea who anyone is. In theater, lines are blurred. We respond to our character names, and our real names fade, left behind in the corners of the dressing rooms. We steal quotes, lines from the stage for real life, as though we were always performing .

I pull him back for a hug, and selfishly, it's more for my comfort then his, and we mutually curse humanity as a whole. "People suck," He says.

Health: Growth and Development

She's delighted. There's only one student excused from the unit. The rest of the class seems mildly impressed as well by this statistic. I'm horrified. As sophomores, this is our last year of health, and parents are excusing their children? I cannot imagine what they possibly hope to accomplish by pretending sex still doesn't exist.

And of course, it begins so predictably, I can nearly mouth the words along with her, "Remember, knowledge is power. Learning about protection doesn't give you permission. Abstinence is the best choice. Abstinence will not give you an STD. Abstinence will not result in unwanted pregnancy. " Briefly, she introduces the unit, using terms like, "intimate contact" and "the inside plumbing of your private parts." The word "sex" is utterly avoided. And of course, we'll learn from videos.

The lights dim, the screen is pulled down, and the video begins to load. Briefly, she mutters about her amazement of the number of contraceptives it covers. Confused, a girl in the back pipes up, "Wait. You mean there's more then the pill?"
At this point, I lay my head on my desk, desperately trying to escape the horrific and dangerous ignorance. My friend leans over, snickering, as the awkward and hollow answer is given. "This is why I'm not going to have sex."

Why? Why not?
How terribly horribly awful would it be to stand up and scream that sex is fantastic, a wonderful, impassioned, marvelous sharing?

The video begins, monotonously under the awkward, stifled giggles. A shy boy raises his hand. The hand is ignored. He asks a question anyway. The question is not answered, instead sludged over vaguely, and no one is offended. The video continues. We are taught the "8 types of intimacy", and told that "many of us had already discovered what we want in a relationship". The video is paused, and the teacher corrects it, "Hopefully, you have not." The video resumes. We are taught not to insert our penises into foreign objects.

End of Day 1.

Repression

The door opens, and I swirl into the kitchen, pushed by the cold air at my heels, yellow skirt flying. Laughing, I fall against the door, pressing it closed behind me. My cheeks are pink, nipped at by the cold. Still giddy, I ask my mom why I ever avoided riding the bus.

Her eyebrows knit together, an immediate reaction, concerned, worried. There's a pause, I pause I should have been able to fill. My face remains blank. She struggles, "Don't you remember?"
Slowly, I shake my head. "They used to..." she drifts off.
I feel nervous. "They used to what?" I press. "They used to hurt you."
I wait for some sort of recognition, some understanding, but none comes. "Who were they?"
"They were on your bus. They used to hurt you."
A flash. I suddenly remember myself, much younger. Bruises. I remember. I remember crying.
"That's why you'd always sit in the front."
More comes. I remember hands, tearing, grabbing at me. I remember ducking my head, biting my lip. I remember fighting, pulling my hair, my jacket, my lunchbox, my backpack. I remember harsh laughter. I remember crying. I remember shouting for the driver's attention. I remember being ignored. The flashes are more vivid now, and my face grows pale.
"How'd it end?" Somehow, I know there must be an ending, a finale, a finish. Now, she cocks her head, a faint smile comes to her lips. "You remember that."
And I do.
A girl. She was older than me, she lived down the street. Only rarely was she on the bus. But the day she was, I needed her. I never asked her to help me. But she sat down next to me, right in the front of the bus. With her arms around me, they couldn't reach me, and the grabbing hands were subdued. With my head tucked in her shoulder, I was safe. And when she shouted for attention, she got it. And I don't remember any more crying.

The memories, the flashes, flit across my face, and are gone as quickly as they came. I am scared now, of what I couldn't remember, what I can't remember. What other secrets I've hidden inside. As though something has been freed, I feel suddenly empty. I let myself sink to the floor, and with my head between my knees, I cry.