Beginnings

Cosmic Love
We don't eat

have got to be the most stressful part of any relationship. I'm sure that some people would argue that endings are the most difficult. But endings are easy. Finite. They may be painful, surely,but they're short lived. There's also a sort of beauty in the chaos of endings. Something primal gets satisfied in the separation. The fight or flight. The lone wolf mentality. The build up of emotions, and the explosion that sets the two apart like the Big Bang.
Beginnings are tough though. I'm not sure why they still are tough for me, but they are. Throughout my long and arduous dating career, the beginnings have always been plagued by the same set of uncertainties that seem to draw out insecurities and anxieties. Never at any other time in a relationship is so much self worth based on a single text or phone call.
"okayy" with two 'y's'. Must mean she likes me.
No response for two hours. Must mean she's not interested.
Random texts saying hey. Must mean she's thinking about me.
Asking to know what I'm up to. Maybe she's too needy.
All of this agonized over for hours. Trying to connect faint dots, and draw on past experiences, to try and  guess what the other is thinking about.
Then there's the obligatory lapse in communication. You don't hear from her for a few days, so you reach out. Finally, at what seems like the 11th hour, they return your call or text.
I lost my phone. I fell asleep. My battery died, and I left my charger at a friend's.
This seems to be a constant. No matter the girl. No matter the relationship. A gulf opens that threatens to swallow your feelings, pride, and future plans inside of it.
So what causes this? These same feelings threaten even the most minor of relationships. Sometimes I'll not even have a desire to continue a relationship, yet still that gulf opens up, and I find myself wondering how I can live without her.
This from someone who goes out of his way to be alone. To have time to myself. To keep people at a distance.
I think it's my need to understand people that drives this self doubt, this need to analyze. I need to know what to expect. Because uncertainty is the bane of my existence. The thing that keeps me up at night. The things that drives my fears. It's not sharks that I'm afraid of. It's the uncertainty of what's lurking below me, next to me. Show me an enemy I can fight, and I'll rise. But put that same danger behind a door, and I start to defeat myself.
The thing about a relationship is that it's not just one person. I of course know how I'll react in any situation. How I am alone. But you lose that when you enter a relationship.
There might be strength in numbers, but it takes time to get there. And while I know my strength alone, it seems to take a hit each time someone tries to join their strength with mine.

Stop Time

Higher Love
Someone Like You

I know scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Although I only went there a handful of times when I was very young, I still get taken back to my Grandparents house in Cambridge when someone just comes in from smoking a cigarette.  The smell of cum trees takes me back to a spring day when I was riding my bike up Kimberwick (a street I would later be arrested on on the same bicycle). And the smell of a certain cologne reminds me of dead fish, because my brother used half a bottle of it to cover up the smell of his when it died.
In a whiff, a breath, these fragrant time capsules take me back to times and moments I haven't thought of in years or decades.
For me, I think a close second in terms of epoch recall is music. Music has played both an active and passive role in my life. Sometimes only as background music as life carries on, and other times as a tool to suppress or embellish certain feelings or emotions.
Sometimes hearing a certain song can have such a strong trigger that I'm immediately taken back to a time in my life. Reading Lord of the Rings, driving in my tinted, black Honda with chrome rims, breaking up with a girlfriend, grade school dances, rolling in the gym, sitting in the back of my Mom's minivan. Uncle Kracker, Tupac, Korn, Crazy Town, Cloudkicker, Seal...
While not as jarring as the trigger of scent, music is captured much more easily.  My newest addiction has been building a truly beautiful playlist on Spotify. With cassettes and tapes, music was often lost too easily, or borrowed too freely. By keeping track of my music digitally I feel like I can capture tiny moments and keep them forever.
Not only do I enjoy finding these gems by scouring music websites, but linking this great music to new and powerful memories is also rewarding. I might not remember a certain Black Keys song, or a certain moment in the back of Ant's Jeep in 20 years, but if I keep collecting and adding, I just might be able to live a moment over again that I otherwise would have forgotten.

The times they are a changing

Moves
Wolf Like Me

David started his first week of classes at Neumann this week.  For the first time in nearly twenty years, I won't be starting school again.
When I was very young school was a terrifying experience. It meant being ripped from my Mother's thigh and thrust into a new situation with strange people. I remember standing at the top of my driveway begging not to be sent to school. I couldn't wrap my head around why my parents were trying to punish me this way.
In grade school going back meant no more countless hours spent riding dirtbikes, building forts, playing street hockey, and swimming.  Each year was a radical change from the next. New teachers, new classrooms, new subjects.  Looking back on it, I think that grade school may have held the greatest shifts from year to year.
High school was scary at first. By the end of grade school I'd grown comfortable with my surroundings and the people I'd come to know.  High school was a total departure from that. I remember thinking how much like men and women the seniors looked. The was also an air of responsibility that hung lightly over the whole high school experience.  We weren't given much rope to hang ourselves with, just enough to trip ourselves up.
I was slightly more confident entering college. Most of my peers were worried about whether or not they'd chosen the right school. I was more concerned whether or not I could handle the work, and what the hell it was I was going to do with my life.
I'm not sure how I feel about this year's depart from the norm. In the past, each year held some anxiety but also a lot of hope. I usually went into the year remorseful for the free time lost, but excited for the opportunities it held. Opportunities to learn, be exposed to new information, and meet new friends. Each Fall was a welcome interruption to a blissful summer.
This year's fall feels like a ticking clock. There are only a few more earning months left until the cold of winter ends my work for the year.
As I talk with Dave about syllabus week, finding his classes, getting to know teachers, and finding the best deals on textbooks, I can't help but feel that I'd like to be a college student for at least a little while longer.

Fightin' words

My Body
Ghostwriter

"She doesn't wanna hear it." This big Stranger yells at Anthony as he walks past him to leave the bar.
Anthony nods his head slowly, weighing the pros and cons of addressing the Stranger. "You're probably right." The Stranger drools down his shirt in an attempt to put an exclamation point on the matter by spitting at Anthony.
I see the Stranger and his group of friends on the periphery as we walk out. Immediately, my senses heighten. I hear the fragmented rumblings that prelude a fight. "leave it alone." "yeah, that kid." "who's he with?"
Ant, Bubba and Steve are unaware. I'm glad for this. I don't want them to initiate. They've got food on their mind, so I push them into Media Pizza. I stand outside in front of the door. Head straight, eyes on swivel.
"Get out of the way." One of the stranger's friends is trying to move past me into the shop. He's taller than me, black. Built like a running back. Turns out he is one. Varsity.
I smile and stare at him. "Hey, come on man. Those guys don't want any trouble from you guys." My hands up at my chest. It looks like a calming gesture, but my stance is split. Lead leg forward, rear leg tense to throw my right hand. "They just wanna eat their pizza and go home. There's a cab right there. Why don't you guys take it?"
With that, the door swings open. Ant, followed by Bubba and Steve. They noticed I hadn't come in. The tinted windows of the shop couple with the darkness of the night mean that they can't see me.
The Stranger and his friends have been crowding up to the left. Watching to see what happens between Varsity and I. Anthony and the guys get funneled right into the center of this group.
Before Steve is out the door, I have my jacket off. It sits on the sidewalk in front of Media Pizza. I circle to Anthony's left, a last attempt to stop this before it goes farther. We're surrounded, Anthony and I. The stranger pushes Anthony back. Creates space. He throws a wild right, shifting his weight forward as he does.
Like a flash. He's going to hurt Anthony. It's all I can think. I step in. His punch has not yet completed it's arc. Over hand right.
And then. Everyone stops. No one moves. The Stranger is down. Asleep in the gutter on State street. flooding the sidewalk with blood from his nose and face. Unconscious, and whimpering like a dog does when it has a bad dream.
"Who did that?" "What happened to him?" "Is he ok?" "Somebody get him up."
I grab Anthony and try to pull him out.
From here on, it's just scuffles. No one really wants to fight anymore. At one point, Anthony gets backed into a corner. He's throwing punches from his back as 2 or 3 throw kicks at his legs. Varsity keeps trying to initiate, but I'm too focused on getting my guys out to fight him.
Finally, it's over. As I pull Anthony out, another crew comes out of nowhere and jumps right into the mess we were just in. Drunk and angry, people just want to fight someone. Say they were part of it.
I realize that Bubba still isn't with us. I run back across the street, frantic. As I cross, I see Bub walk out of the bar. In front of him, the Stranger rises. Finally awake from his slumber. Five, ten minutes. I wave to Bub, and he begins to cross the street. Almost in time with the stranger. Neither aware of the other.
They're both halfway across the street when the cops finally get there. "Which one of y'all broke my nose?!" The Stranger yells, his hands covering his face. I wink.
The cops are all over him. Biggest guy in the crowd, and he's covered in blood. "Put your hands on the hood!"
As I turn the corner to the waiting car, I look back. The stranger is bent at the waist. Hands on the car. Painting the hood red as the lights flash. Red and white.

Thanks for the memories

Swim Until You Can't See Land
Royal Blue

I spent some time looking at my old year books this past week.  It's nice to brush the dust off every couple of years and reflect back on where you've come from.  Apart from laughing at the massive shifts in weight, style, and facial features, the best part is always reading the comments people write on the first and last page. More than any famous autograph, the signatures held worth.
I remember being so concerned about who signed my book and what they wrote. How many signatures could I add to my collection? The signing of the yearbooks was almost ceremonial. As soon as they were passed out, everyone would rush to their picture and usually comment on how awful they looked. After our vanity was satiated, we'd look at our friends, the girl we had a crush on, enemies, teachers. And then the signing started.  Each signature crafted expertly to reflect the appropriate amount of inside jokes, hope for the future, and melancholy at the end of an era.
As I read through the notes that people left, I noticed a theme.  With little exception, people remembered me the same way. Grade school and high school. Although I changed drastically during this time, parts of me didn't. Book after book, note after note, people all said the same thing.  'You're crazy' and 'You're a really great guy'. Although I'd changed schools, friends, and uniforms, people all remembered me the same. It's not that I don't think about the impression that I leave on people, but I guess I've never really reflected on my legacy. How do people remember me?  I didn't get a yearbook at Widener, and I wouldn't want one from Nova, but I wonder if I had, what people would have written. Would friends still extoll my character and smirk at my depart from the normal?
I suppose I could ask my friends to tell me what they think of me, but that just not quite as fun as writing it down next to your picture and signing it with your autograph.  Maybe I'll see if Herff Jones will do a yearbook for my group.

Homo Septans

New Slang
I spent part of my last weekend on a beer tour in the city. We visited Yards Brewery, drank free samples, toured the brewery, and crushed $3 grilled cheese. After that, we went to south street and drank 190 Octanes at Fat Tuesdays.
Although I had an awesome time enjoying the city I call home with some of the best friends I could ask for, perhaps the most interesting part was the trip to and from. Like when you're a kid and the best part of any present is the box it comes in. Public transportation always send my mind into a kind of analytic overload. There are few other places where you can just sit and watch people go through the daily routine of their life. Sidewalks and boardwalks are great for people watching, but they can be more like runways. Trolleys, trains, and airplane seats are the places where people lose pretense.
The Septa line we took down exposed us to some of the very best in people watching- the quiet girl who let smile after smile play out lightly over her lips as she read her book, the 16 year old boy with more tattoos squeezed onto his face than I have on my entire body, the horribly un-self aware woman who shoved all 280 lbs into 'Pink' short shorts, the young boy, desperate for attention, and living on a diet of chips and soda. As I sit and watch these people, I can't help but begin to dissect their lives in my mind.  How does a girl have a child that young? How hard is this man working that he has to nap on the ride between job 2 and 3? Who's more dangerous- the older man with the look in his eye, or the tall black kid with cut off dickies and converse sneakers?
This environment seems to provide a sliding door of anonymity. Every few blocks, you're a stranger all over again. No one wants to look, no one wants to know, no one wants to get too close. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.  Get on, get off, get on with your life.
The ride home wasn't without entertainment either. None of us had exact change, and the attendant got so fed up watching us try to figure it out, he just let us on for whatever amount we had. Ant, Bub, and Brian started singing Lion King songs in doo wop, and I got to pull the chain with the bell on it to let the trolley operator know we were ready to get off. Three times.

Avada Kedavra

I can't think of any music to put with this.

I spent this morning watching the 7th film of the Harry Potter franchise: the Deathly Hallows part 1, and my afternoon in the theater watching the 8th and final film.

I didn't care for the first couple films in this series, but I've heard such positive reviews of the most recent couple that I decided to give it a shot.

I read the series at least twice, and because I connected so deeply with the books, I became frustrated with the visualization of these stories. How dare they do that to my characters, my landscape, my imagery? I supposed I should have expected this, because I've only seen a few films that lived up to the book - LOTR, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Of Mice and Men.

As I sat in the cold, dark theater with a whole row to myself, I couldn't help but marvel at the scope and intricacy of such a wonderful story line. I thought back to grade school English classes in which we would plot out story lines, characters, antiheroes and denouements. In school, we would use notebooks and chalkboards. I can't imagine how J.K. plotted and kept track of such an intricate storyline.

As the flashes of wand fights flared across the screen, I imagined these as story arcs and events. One green flash aims high, and continues off screen. A red flash combines with a green one, and veers off into a column, taking out statues and lives. Orbs fly and circle, forwards and back, up and down.

Like neurons firing in the brilliant mind of Ms. Rowling, these lights dance across the screen to form beauty and destruction. Eros and Thanatos.

So how do you graph out a story as spanning and twisting as the Harry Potter series? I don't think you do. I think that the only way this story was ever fully realized was not on a chalkboard, but in the mind of J.K. (before the story was written, she told Alan Rickman about his past with Lilly and his pact with Dumbledore). Each character like a neuron, and each story arc like a synapse. Because some things are much too beautiful and complicated to be confined to something as worldly as a chalkboard or notepad.

As I left the theater, and walked into the offensive sunlight, I was overcome with the same feeling I was upon completing the books. Loss.

Rowling had the ability to not only tell a remarkable story, but to couple it with remarkable characters. Part of being human, I think, is to project our thoughts and feelings onto things that may not be capable of thoughts or feelings- think feeling sorry for the last stuffed bear at a carnival. The one that no one is taking home. This bear has no feelings, but we feel for it.

I think this overabundance of empathy is one of the greatest things about being human. We have so much empathy, that we can spare some for something as silly as a stuffed animal.

Similarly, the characters in HP are not really people. They're a figment of J.K.'s imagination. They're a literary device, and nothing more- a vehicle for a story.

But still, we; the audience, connect with these characters as if they're part of us. We associate with their feelings, and troubles, and excitement. Perhaps we're just desperate for connection of any kind.

I remember, as a child, thinking that I would meet these characters in Heaven. That we would finally meet as old friends, and pick up right where we left off- at the end of their story. Our story. Because we took that journey together.