I'm Here Sometimes

I’ve been home for a week. Well, come tomorrow it will be a week. 

I feel like it has gone so fast and I’m becoming very anxious about how I’m going to schedule my remaining two weeks before I need to go back to school for three weeks of fencing. Yes. Three weeks consisting only of fencing. No classes. No clubs. No assignments. Just fencing; five days a week, six hours a day. 

Anyway, this week has been filled with work. As soon as my mother could put an apron on me, I was in the bakery filling cannolis and carrying trays and doing anything and everything my mom barked at me. The holidays are always very busy for the bakery, as I’d imagine every store is busy. The preparation for the bombardment of customers that will arrive on Christmas Eve and stragglers of Christmas Day is tedious and long. We stand for a majority of the day, only bending our knees to sit for lunch, squat down for something, use the stairs, or take a bathroom break. Constantly being on your feet can take a toll on your feet and legs. My feet are pretty sore and my shins have inconsistently been giving me problems for the last few months. I’ve resorted to wearing these clunky clogs in an effort to sustain the well-being of my lower limbs. 

The days are long, and I marvel at the dedication of my mother, uncles, brother, and some of the other girls and guys that are there before opening to midnight, roughly hours 7 AM to 12 AM and sometimes later. Even though I came to work late today (11 AM), I still managed to fit in 12 hours. You are constantly moving, constantly stacking or filling or carrying or painting or rolling or cupping or sugering something. It’s constant. 

There is something about repetitive, manual work that I like. I would prefer to stack cookies than to talk on the phone with costumers. I like to think of myself as the packing mule; the one doing all the handy work and filling in the gaps where a worker is needed. It’s an Renaissance-Man sort of job. I work the men’s table (old traditions remain, but can be broken), I buttercream cakes, I bring things to the post office, I wing butterflies and soak babas. I learn to do a little bit of everything. Well. Not everything. I’m not very good with working the counter. I stay away from the counter on the holidays. People get a little scary when it’s Christmas Eve and they want their lobster tails. Really want them. 

Meh. My computer is dying. I’m sleepy. I just want to talk to my girlfriend and make time to see her and see my other friends and get some fencing in and maybe go to the gym a few times and visit my high school properly and other things. But for now, I’ll just sleep. Because before you know it, it’s going to be 6:30 AM and I’ll be in my apron and chunky clogs by 7 AM, filling cakes. 

On the bright side, there are really only three more days of bakery madness. 

I just imaged that I smelled my friend Lois. I haven’t seen her in quite some time, but I really thought I caught a hint of her scent at least in my mind. She always smelt a bit like kimchi and flowery body spray and yet a smell of neutral substance when you left the first two parts out. 

Lois is a funny girl, really. And it’s funny how we managed to be friends in the first place and how I still manage to call her my friend though we probably haven’t talked in months. I suppose any sort of preconceived notion of what makes a person the friend-type for me can’t really be said with much solidity. Lois is a Korean Christian party girl with an obsession with media-dictated pretty things. She dyes her hair frequently, worries excessively about her weight, wears these strange plastic things on her eyelids to create a crease, and she listens to the sort of music I have very little patience for. But she is very sweet, a little naive and clueless to things, trustworthy and honest, generous and spiritually dedicated. I remember sleeping at her house one night and she told about how the devil and home to her while she was sleeping and she hid from him under the covers. At the time, I really believed this and had some trouble getting sleep that night. Lois was always easy trick and always easy to scare. Lois is still easy to trick and easy to scare. 

I can’t understand why some people believe they need to be surrounded by tons of friends. In my opinion, the butter spreads thin. And I like butter. I like having my few close friends, and when they are busy I don’t mind the alone time all that much either. So when I think of people like Lois, girls that I spend months without talking to or hanging out with, I remember a little thing about myself. I’m not defined by my friendships. They have not dictated too much of my decisions and my desires and drives. My friends have been companions and partners on the ride, support, and not constantly needed either. Which is nice. 

Sometimes, the best friends are the ones that you can neglect to call for weeks, the ones that you buy Christmas presents for in February, the ones that are always too busy, and the ones that can’t eat dinner with you every night. And despite all these things, nothing changes. And we are just friends again. 

Leaf blower welcomed me through the sunshine window this morning. Persistent for some time and droning, lulling me to remain in the sheets. I sat at the desk, watched as the leaves floated up instead of spiraling down. Currents rising, wind shaking the green and blue post-it notes on the varnished wood above my brow. Slick brick floor, misty rain. Caution tape wrapped around the fence, flagging. My head filled, my thoughts consuming, my heart soggy and groggy to match these slate clouds. My love for her has yet to fail astonishing me and there is magic in it. We breed happiness, which suppose makes me half of that happiness. She the other. Though she sends me words of sadness and anxiety at 2:56 this morning, all I could do was sleep. All I can do now is listen to songs and read her words again and want to do something, want to change things, want to fix the sorrow and misery. I make comparisons again, build off the reference point, think “Again?” in some aspects. But not at all. I’m afraid to be the spark in the dark. I’ve been there. I’ve been the well of happiness and good and love during times of insecurity and fear and sadness. Which is why I think “again”. I don’t mind it, though. And with her, I’m not so much afraid because I believe that she will not place the misery on me. 

But why do I want to take it? 

Give me it all and I can disperse the weight. 

I know that is wrong, because this isn’t about me. She must find her own solution, and not simply in me. And I can’t fix the problems. God, I want to fix them but there is not much I can do in that way. 

I don’t know. My words are running in circles. 

I need to go to my fencing lesson, and class, and study Italian and Cognitive Neuropsychology and I’m on page nothing of 8-10. So I should stop writing and worrying myself too much. 

It’s strange to see a physical manifestation of Parmigianino’s Madonna with the Long Neck in a passerby, taking mannerism to real life and understanding how varied and strange and sensuous and grotesque and true and false and believable and unbelievable a body is. 

I think of the shivers germinating from the nape of my neck as your fingers graced the rendezvous of scalp and skin. I think of the sole of your foot against my cheek, and we laugh. And we laugh a lot, and you laugh because you feel me laugh and I laugh because I always laugh. 

My whole body goes wild sometimes, simply from letting my mind wander. The body is capable, palpable, and amazingly fashioned to do all it does in feeling and responding and knowing exactly what is meant by finger tips on skin. 

Madonna’s neck holds her head high, and she knows. The girl walking with Madonna’s neck, she walks, and she knows. 

It’s fascinating, because even I know that we all know. And it is still so intimately special. 

My mom really doesn’t like me as of recently. 

Every time we’re together, I can tell that she is disappointed or frustrated or angry. It’s in her voice, and the way she stands in the door way, and the way she looks at me. She usually proceeds to list off all my lesser qualities:

• I’m lazy. 
• I sit around and do nothing all day. 
• I haven’t been fencing often enough. 
• I’m forgetful. 
• I don’t exercise every day. 
• I forget to eat. 
• I sleep in late. 
• My room is a mess. 
• I’ve done nothing with myself. 
• I can’t take care of myself. 

I can’t deny many of these things. Hell, I can hardly deny any of them. It’s just hard hearing it all at once and knowing that it’s pretty much all true. But, even when sitting home on my computer, I accomplish some things. I ordered the fridge and microwave that I’ll be renting for the year, new shoes, and some clothing with my credit card. I’ve been talking to my roommate through email. I figured out how to take compressed zip file mp3s and extract them so I can put them on my Zen X-Fi. My legs aren’t even sore from fencing. I’ve recorded the details of my vacations, both Colorado and North Carolina. 

And Jesus. I’m fucking scared. College is something so foreign to me and the prospect of being there in two weeks is frightening. I know my mom is probably freaking out about this transition as well. It’s stressful on the both of us. I suppose her way of dealing is to be super productive and nitpicky about everything. My way of dealing with this is just going about things normally and sort of ignoring it. I know it’s coming. I know that. I just can’t be freaking out. College is a learning experience, and I’m going to fuck up. I’m going to fuck up over and over and over again. But I’ll learn. I’ll learn to get my ass in gear. I’ll learn that breakfast is actually a good thing. I’ll learn to like running every day. I’ll learn to do my laundry properly. I’ll learn to not ignore the alarm clock. I’ll learn to make note of things so as not to forget. I’ll learn to take care of myself. 

I’m capable. I just wish that she believed me. 

My mom keeps reiterating this damn quote. 

times I’ve
many tried and
failed. What cheeky
can be
expected of
me and I’ll put these words
together like stone in a wall
and you’ll see.
you’ll see.  

I went into the city today to go The Met once again and the pins today were yellow and then I ate a yummy cheeseburger and bought myself some black platform heels in an H&M. For the past few hours I’ve been answering questions for college and it’s tiring but also provokes a mixture of fear, excitement, anxiety, and exhilaration inside my belly. I want to be there, but I want to be here. I want to let them know about me, but I want to be lazy and not answer these questions. I wanted to see the Gustav Klimt exhibit at the Nueu Galerie but I ran out of time and it only remains there until the 27th but I will probably miss it and I leave for Colorado Friday morning at 7 AM and then I’m back and before I know it I’m gone once again and there is this list to be completed and a new season of Trublood and the beach and that achy feeling to either fix or ignore and I’m running out of time. Because the snow is melting in Colorado and we can’t raft where we were supposed to raft. We move on. I guess I can move along like the rapids and hit these currents and just get by and find something stable. That doesn’t mean I’m not moving fast but let me enjoy this while I can because things will get more exciting and frightening and uncertain. Or maybe I’m just sitting still. I’m sitting still and still sitting. I’m still.

I want to sing. Projection through voice is so infinitely strong. Powerful. I want to be powerful. I want my words to be powerful. I want them to mean powerful things. I want it to sound just as I feel it in the pit of my belly or in the forehead or in the warmth of my cheek or the beating of my heart against my chest. I want to vocalize.

I can’t. I can’t do that. I wasn’t necessarily gifted with the best sounds to emit from my body. I don’t grasp musical concepts like notes, pitches, rhythms, construction. I can’t play any instruments at all really. If I really pushed myself I could make it happen, but it would never make it past my own ears. This is where I’d fail.

There really is an exhilarating feeling that comes with singing and voice and saying things. I talk to myself so much and I sing so much already and I sometimes make up songs and sing them as well. But alone. Usually. I wouldn’t start singing spontaneous made-up songs in front of people, mostly because when I do I sing about my inner life.

Someone can make those inner workings art. They can move people because they tell them something they can understand in a form that caters to that emotion. I’d like to know what it would be like to be that someone. I want to make the world cry and I want to make the world smile and I want to make the world fall apart. No. Not the world. Just one person. That would be enough, if I could accomplish at-least that.