11:11

We sit far back in the theater, the darkness interrupted only by the glow of his watch.

"Wait for it..." he says, "There. Make a wish."

He lifts his wrist, showing off the string of ones. I laugh and shut my eyes, wishing. There is silence, as he does the same. 

"What'd you wish for?" I ask.

"I can't tell you, you can't tell wishes."

"That only applies to birthday wishes. 11:11 wishes are fair game."

"Well, what'd you wish for?"

I always wish for the same thing. It's become almost like a prayer. I wish for happiness.  I can't wish for one detail over another, I wish to be happy enough not to want to change any details. 

Doodles

The blank page and my boredom both demand doodles, a distraction of some kind. These words are my doodles. Mindless, pointless, and yet, pretty, in their crystal, simple, shallowness.

I draw the city skyline outside, angular buildings ripping into the sky, scarred by peeling and discolorations. I draw the broken window in the top floor, skeletal and haunting. I draw the people below, quick scribbles, without substance or detail.

Don't Laugh

I wanted to write a story, when I was in 5th or 6th grade. I even carried a little notebook around with me and scribbled down ideas for it (which, admittedly, I still do for this blog). It was going to be about a girl, named Ashley, who was very misunderstood. I'd like to think it was ambitious of my 11 year old self.

I made the mistake of sharing it before I was ready. Late at night, with older cousins I had wanted to pretend were closer to me and paid more attention to me than I knew they really were or did. I told them everything I had thought of, down to the details of how my Ashley would sneak out of her bedroom window late at night. It wasn't deep, it wasn't promising, it wasn't good. And they smiled, a forced, polite smile, that said all that, a smile that I can remember clearly, even now. "That's nice," they said. And it shattered.

I never wrote it. I never looked in my little notebooks again. And I regret it. Yes, it was stupid, but I still wish I'd done it instead of feeling silly and letting it go. Stand by your ideas. They're precious, fragile, infinitely priceless, and dangerous to lose.

Walking to The Manhattan Theater Club

"There's an old story," she starts, "that teaches that humanity is just one person."
"Oh, yeah?" I swing my backpack over to my left shoulder.
"Mhm. There's only one God, and one man, and God created this entire world," she pauses to wave her hand at the buildings towering over us, "just to teach, and the man has to live every life on Earth, through all history. Time is nothing, so he, well, we, are all the same soul. So every bad thing that's happened, he did to himself. He's Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth at the same time."
We wait briefly for the light to let us cross the street, and then continue.
"Does he know he's everybody?"
"Nope. Each time he dies, he comes back to the same misty abyss with God, and he can remember everything if he stays there long enough, but he forgets it each time he's reborn.
"So what happens once he's lived every life?"
"Then he's learned every lesson and is ready to move on. He becomes a God, and creates a new world with new lessons, and the whole thing repeats itself."
I chew on this as we walk. It strikes me as strangely plausible. We shuffle through dozens of people, lost in thought, lost in our own worlds, learning our own lessons as we go.

We are all the same person.

Dyadic Encounter

The prefix "dy-" means two, and encounter means a meeting. Two meeting.

"Let's bond," they told us. We were assigned partners, handed out lists of "conversation starters" and sent out into the field. My partner was sweet, slightly younger than I, and we sat across from each other bordering a patch of clovers. Absentmindedly and awkwardly, we both began plucking them from the ground, putting together sad little bouquets and avoiding eye contact.
Number 1: I am scared of... She chewed on her lip in a brief pause, and suddenly looked up at me. Her eyes locked on mine, caught in a sudden moment of clarity."Not being liked." I felt scared, shocked, suddenly uncomfortable and exposed, like this was too deep, too personal, too honest. What I'm scared of.

Afterwards, everyone gushed about their new best friends, having shared everything from birthdays to deep secrets. They talked about the meaning of life and everything in it. We scattered back into the dorms to change quickly. There, I paused, sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting behind as my roommate opened the door to leave.

"Did you talk about life?" My voice cut out through the thick silence. She paused.
"Yes. Did you?"
"No." I stumbled in uncertainty and took a deep breath. "I'm really bad at talking."
She turned, and put her bag down on a chair. She sat on the bed across from me. I don't know how, or why, but we talked, openly and honestly until time demanded that we leave, and even then, we shared stories, life, fears, beliefs, down the moonlit path.

At the social, there was Beatles music playing, milk, cookies, and board games. I was suddenly awash in homesickness, and comforted in a feeling of being at home in the same moment. I played Uno for the rest of the night, joking with the people that had finally started to feel like friends. That night belongs to us.

Premature

I don't know why this memory stuck with me.
When I was younger, much younger, I found a cicada, stuck to a tree, hatching out of its skin. It was caught in a dance of age and life. The shell it was leaving had been split down the middle, a break where soft new parts pushed through. I watched transfixed for a few moments, barely daring to breathe and disturb it. The new skin was shiny and promising, glittering in deep emeralds and browns, bursting from the cloudy, yellowing molting.
I remember lifting a stubby small hand, rising up on my tiptoes to come closer, and poking it. I withdrew quickly, briefly marveling at the steadfastness with which it stuck to the weathered bark. It felt stiff, so dead and so alive at the same time, and I was scared of it. It didn't move and neither did I, just the breeze rustled the uppermost branches of the tree, sending shadows and light scattering across me and my bug.
I breathed open mouthed, and I touched it again, longer this time. I pressed it between my childish fingers. Slowly, and painfully, I pulled it out, cracking off bits of shell,  ripping it in slow motion. Some of its legs tore, still caught in the half-shed skin.
I dropped it then, moderately disgusted, horrified, with a bit of childish satisfaction. Look at what I've done. I dropped it, and it fell to the ground, and lay as motionless as it had been.

BODIES

The dead babies didn't make me cry. I was crying long before that.

I cried at the brains first. At lost memories, not lost life. Long term memories are stored as chemicals in the brain, and the middle of the exhibit, I made the mistake of wondering. Of wondering if any of the chemicals were still there. If there were any memories still locked away, in sealed up brains on glass displays, never to be remembered again. What did they know that nobody else ever did? Happy memories? Did they remember growing up? Loving family? Awkward crushes? Were they ever in  love? The bodies on display were supposedly unclaimed. They were homeless, and I was suddenly scared of the locked memories, maybe of pain I don't want to know.

The reproductive exhibit was worse. It's personal. A rubbery looking coronal slice of a vagina and ovaries were shut beneath a glass case. Who was she? What was her first period like? Was she scared? When did she lose her virginity? Was she ready?

I felt heavy, dripping with memories, inevitably dying and ultimately forgotten. Stupidly, I thought I could handle the fetus room.

In the dark, they floated slowly, gently, trapped in their glass tubes. Predictably, I cry again, but not for them. They're clean, they hold no memories, no life. Or maybe, they never lived. Or maybe they should've. Or maybe, their lives just didn't matter. But when I cry, it's not for them. It's for the mothers that will never be. What went through their minds when they lost their baby? Their new family? The first fetus is so tiny, so insignificant, that maybe the mother didn't even know she was pregnant. Maybe she cried harder than I'm crying now.

On Without End

"Family Guy's not funny," I groan, falling back on the couch and pulling a pillow over my face in a half mocking disgust. The remote refuses to fast forward through any more commercials.

"And why's that?" asks my dad. I know that "just because" won't work as an answer. Never does, not with him. All opinions must be backed by facts and reasons. Cite your sources. This much, he has taught me well. Sitting up again, I chew on my lip, taking my time digging for solid reasoning and a backed debate.

"It's offensive," I start, "Take that, for instance," I flick my wrist at the screen. The fat man, propped behind a fast food counter, nasally boasts "Ding, fries are done!" again and again in a painfully annoying loop of animation without much substance.

"The Carol of the Bells is a beautiful song, and deserves respect."

"And that's why you don't like it?" he prompts.

"Well, yes. It's disrespectful towards, well, everything."

"Right," he tells me. He beams slightly, as though he's proud that I've figured something out. "It respects nothing. Unless you can put aside your own beliefs, you can't find that show funny."

There's no moral to this, specifically. I've figured out why I don't like Family Guy. But this isn't about simply not liking a show. It's about being able to have a reason behind it. Interaction always involves conflict, a disagreement. The trick to conflict is being able to debate. If you can back your reasoning, you can always come full circle, with a little more understanding on your side, instead of a shallow and empty "Just because."

Life?

It didnt ever occur to me before, how animals are raised just to be killed. What is that? What is life? They live to die.

On my desk, pots sit, erupting with vines that spill over the edges, their curly tendrils grabbing at the nearby sticks. I dribble water into dirt, and I swear, I can see them perk up. There are three pods hanging from the twirling stems, swollen with peas, which will soon be planted in their own pots.
You harvest plants. They do not have to die.

Is that life? Fattened, slaughtered, killed, wasted. Death.

I'm Secretly a Bad Person

Listen to Jackie Greene's "Call Me, Corinna" as you read this. The lyrics don't make sense, but the mood does. It makes it seem like a movie soundtrack.


I'm shallow. I'm jealous. I know.
My newsfeed is flooded with pictures. Happy people, pretty people. Cheesy poses, cheesy smiles. Fist pumps, laughing. Sunglasses and inside jokes. Sequined purses and coach buses. Juniors. Seniors. Sophomores? Freshmen? College students. Lovers. Friends. Pity dates.

It didn't bother me. Not during planning, or when people started asking. I'd never thought I'd go. But then, sophomores went. Freshmen? Intricate plans to take entire social circles formed. My best friend. People out of high school. And still, not me. Never me.

Which, even then, didn't bother me. Until I realized it would never be me in those pictures. I'm leaving. And even then, this last hurrah with all of my friends, I spent at home. I won't be missed, I'm not sure I was ever there in the beginning. There will be no last hurrah. No going-away party. I'll be out of their lives, none of us any wiser for it.