And Hell could barely contain us and Heaven certainly didn't want us.
And I was Time and you were Luck.
And I was Time and you were late.
Nostalgia keeps on calling me back.
It's the crumbs at the bottom of the box.
It's the sun in our eyes.
It's static keeping us awake late at night.
And it's as bittersweet as hang-nails, as the taste of sugar and dust.
And I was Time and you were Luck;
but oh, it was so hard to run the galaxy on an empty stomach.
And oh, it was so easy to let ourselves corrode.
Let yourself go.
And then our feathers fell out like sun-softened snow and we never flew again.
I think there was one time,
in a room full of people with nothing but skin in common,
And I think you said, "It was the best of times."
But piano keys kept falling from your mouth
and I thought it would be rude to stare.
What is truth and what does it look like?
Because it's hard to answer questions with a city in your mouth
and it's very hard to hear with your fingers in your ears.
You learned to bake a pie from scratch,
And I learned to like the way you breathed.
And I'm sorry that I'm so abrupt, corrupt, and starry-eyed,
but I'd be so much sorrier, if we weren't so much alike.
Because I was Time and you were Luck,
and sometimes the stars used to shine at noon.
But I never said that sunlight was any different than starlight.
You wanted to know what God looked like,
and are you happy now?
Because I know that we fight about the color of the sky,
but I swear on my life, it has always been gold.
Self-righteous, self-indulgent
Self-reliant, self-obsessed.
You watched black and white TV
because the colors made you sick.
Refundable, repentant
Redundant, resigned.
And you never let them bring us down,
Because I was Time and you were Luck.
The trouble with silence is that your heart has to stop,
And never say never (but what if I whisper?)
You and I were hungry, but we were willing to starve,
we were willing to heal
when the universe was young,
when I was Time and you were Luck,
and the space between us was very small.
Ordinary World: Scott Pilgrim is dating a highschooler. And he's 22 and doing basically nothing with his life after a bad break-up a year ago, except playing bass in a band.
Call to Adventure: After falling in love with Ramona Flowers, pink-haired bombshell extraordinaire, she tells him: "I guess if we're going to date, you may have to fight my seven evil ex's."
Refusal to Call: Scott thinks he's isn't tough enough to fight Lucas Lee, "AARGH! Wallace! I'm not cool enough for this!"
Meeting with Mentor: Wallace --- he's gay --- gives Scott a pep-talk: "Fake it!"
Crossing the Threshold: Scott decides he'll just beat the snot out of Lucas Lee, and does so.
Tests, Allies, Enemies: Basically the seven evil ex's cover all of that, I think.
Approach: Ramona goes back with Gideon and Scott almost gives up the fight and almost gets back together with Knives Chau (she's Chinese...).
Ordeal: Throwdown with Gideon, the evilest evil ex, light swords and punk rock music abound, Gideon appears to be a better fighter but he's also ultra cocky and lame: "I AM THE GOD OF COOL". But no.
Reward: Scott defeats Gideon.
The Road Back: Although Scott still thinks that Ramona doesn't want to be with him, he has freed her, so he starts heading off with Knives. "Well, bye and stuff."
Resurrection: Scott thinks that he's killed Gideon easily, but then Gideon pops back up ultra-strong and kicks Scott's butt for a little while. But Scott defeats him anyway, the usual. "Face it, dude. You're blowing up." And then Gideon does so, into lots of coins.
Return with Elixir: Scott and Ramona both want to be together, so they kick Knives to the curb. Huzzah.
Her name is Syl and she rode the school bus until she was sixteen. A self-destructive pair of lips. Ivory fingers cold with poor circulation, the knuckles sticking out. Nervous feet. She doesn't know what to do with her hands when she walks down the halls. You can look at her from the corners of your eyes.
Her name is Syl and you forget her cellphone number. She can sing the ABC's. People always ask for her name a second time. Once she ran away from school, once she ran away from home. She told a lie when she was small and hasn't stopped since.
Her name is Syl, but she doesn't always remember her manners. She's quiet when she plans to be, and she can even fold her hands up like a little church in her lap. She could be the perfect outsider, if not for the words that beat around in her empty mouth, leave little bruises there.
She is the hero of the story and she is indecisive.
And then this one Thursday she gets hit by a bus. And she only dies for a little bit and she goes to heaven for a couple minutes and comes back because the EMTs are using one of those machines that zap your heart and ruin even the most tragic deaths. So now she has this big long life that she can't remember really what she's supposed to do with, because her heart is different now, electric now.
Questions:
*Will she speak up?
*Will she be featured on one of those "I Was Dead but Now I'm Not Dead" specials on Discovery Channel?
*Will she perform miracles?
*Will she fall in love?
*And what will they write on her leg cast with a black Sharpie?
This is for the Hitler Youth, who didn't have a choice. This is for the cake-eaters and the wine-drinkers. It's for the sleepwalkers with bruised feet. Inhale. Exhale.
This is for everyone who cut their fingernails to play the guitar. This is for the family that stayed in the motel room before you. This is for old men with tattoos that blurred into their skin and made identical pictures of the blue-green sea. This is for every street fighter that spit out blood. Inhale. Exhale.
This is for falling when you meant to climb. For everyone who can't sit still. For the starving art majors. For saints and sinners; for lovers and fighters; for nieces and nephews. For the girl who took Prozac too young and turned suicidal instead. For your dad's motorcycle gang with similar regrets. Inhale. Exhale.
This is for laryngitis-singers and fire-walkers. For everyone who is too tired to fall asleep. For the skinny churchgirl whose pantyhose sag. For the sister wives. For good liars. For falling in love and we meant not to. This is for the men whose ears haven't stopped ringing, for the girls whose chlorine-green hair will never be the same. Inhale. Exhale.
This is a toast. This is a call to arms. This is a letter to someone's mother before she can change her mind. This is for you.
Because I think I know you, and all you need is a little caffeine, and perspective. You want so much but you think it's too much. You like to make yourself miserable. Your favorite book has a bent cover and you are like a car wreck because you're hard to look away from. This is for you, in general, because you are a whole nation, you are an unwritten society, you are negative space around the silhouette of someone else, you are a silent rebellion, you are not what I expected, you are sealife, you are a family and you are their extended family, too.
You are reading this and whoever you are, this is for you.
This is for your empty plaid jacket and your older sister. Inhale. Exhale.
This is for every innocent case ruled guilty, and every guilty one ruled innocent. This is for the ones who pray and never lie about it. This is for everyone who grew gills just so they could swim. This is for the mean girls. This is for that tree falling with no one to hear it, and does it make a sound?
Inhale. Exhale.
This is for the hollow thing you feel when you're alone and you wonder if somehow, maybe, you're the only one left on Earth. And you don't want to be alone forever so you call out for anyone. "Anyone?"
So this is for anyone else.
Because I am almost sure that I'm not alone in the world, but maybe I am and if you're out there, say something, because it's going to be a long, lonely year if I am the only thing left that has the use of a voice and an English dictionary and a beating heart.
So speak up. Breathe. Inhale, exhale, and please, tell me if you're there.
Sometimes I wish I didn't have fingernails, because that way they would never get broken. But if that's my philosophy, then way not take away my bones and my heart, too? I'd rather not break them, either.
When will we own ourselves completely? Because I never would've taken Physics if I was actually in control of my life. And I'd never have obeyed those earthquake drills which were a waste of time, or forced pop music down my own throat, or smiled my sharpest-toothed smile at all those girls who never understood the words I used. I haven't owned myself once in my entire life and I think that some boy in the front row of this class probably owns me better than I own myself.
His eyes are blue.
I have a lot of spare time on my hands but I never get anything done. I keep forgetting to keep my own promises. I keep forgetting that I was going to be better tomorrow, yesterday.
I worry that I'm going to self-destruct because I wish I had a hurricane named after me. And sometimes sunsets freak me out because I wonder if I'll never see another one. I wake up in the morning feeling very prone to tragedy, and I crave that dying of the light, the yellow-orange-red drip of the day's sweat over some faraway horizon, because a sunset is a such a gamble.
I take pride in my personal tragedies. I wear my black eye like mascara. I treat sunsets like poker chips and how many can I get away with because it all has to come to a violent end someday.
I shut the windows on the most terrible, glorious sunsets.
And tonight is not the last time I'll see the light.
In classic Romeo and Juliet style, a boy and a girl from two enemy gangs in New York fall in love, but their families object. Juliet-Girl's brother fires a gun at Romeo-Boy but hits Juliet-Girl instead.
I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance (The Black Kids)
A boy loves a girl, but she's got this boyfriend who is a mega-poser and a total tool, who can't dance. Girl wants the boy to teach her boyfriend some of his slick moves on the dance floor but the boy knows then she'll be gone.
Hannah (Freelance Whales)
Hannah and Pete like each other, but never really solidify their relationship. They flirt, they meet on the balcony and Hannah gives Pete candy. Pete wishes it could be more.
Yourbiggestfan (Never Shout Never)
Ily tells Christofer that she loves him when they're in his room, but later she laughs it off, like it's a big joke. Christofer feels betrayed, he thought he was the strong one, and now he feels like he wasted his time on Ily and has run out of things to say to her.
Anyone Else But You (The Moldy Peaches)
Kimya and Adam love each other, but they can't stand anyone else in the world and don't see what anyone sees in anyone else but the other. They're sort of ugly and they both want fame, so they'll but just deal with everyone else and be together.
Plot: Forrest meets Chelsea and her long, brown hair and it's the nineties and she wears shoulder pads and this vest that she still has in her closet, somewhere. She cuts her hair in 2003 because Meg Ryan did it first, and now it's 2011 and almost to her elbows again and she uses a flat iron to make it shine. Forrest keeps their haircuts on calendars, circles the days with a red Sharpie, keeps the old calendars in a drawer in his room. And now when he looks at them, all those days, all he wants is this. Chelsea and her brown hair (short and long) and the haircuts circled on the calendars, years and years of haircuts.
Characters: Forrest, a twenty-er-thirty-something musician, clad in plaid and one of those skinny ties for their Christmas photo. Chelsea Lynn, who was quiet in high school.
Conflict: Chelsea's ever-changing hairstyles give Forrest anxiety.
Theme: Love is very similar to hair. (Enduring love, whatever.)
Plot: Boy likes this girl called something like Allie or Ellie, but he's not so great at social interaction yet, not after the last one. She looks over and he pretends to check out the soap opera section of the local paper. Checks out All My Children, a little General Hospital. It's England, so there's also Brookside and maybe Coronation Street, he nods to himself like "yeah, that Victoria is a rowdy one, I saw it coming". Allie/Ellie walks on by, so Boy decides he'll make up a little band with too much distortion on the guitar, write some songs about her, get a bit famous. His life is suspiciously close to a romantic comedy, and he hopes he isn't doomed to a tragic, if not laughable, end. This is no Bridget Jones, that's quite clear.
Characters: Boy, and he's angsty, basically. And not so tactful. Allie/Ellie, mile long legs, probably.
Conflict: Allie/Ellie really doesn't, and isn't about to, notice Boy. She's got a kind-of-boyfriend going to school in Kent right now. Has no time for boys in garage bands with too long bangs and a secondhand guitar.
Theme: Love angst, the irony of it.
Setting: Some city that you've never heard of in England, everyone talking in cockney accents and pink-cheeked as only the British are. There's this trashy news stand nearby, with a little striped awning.
I'm not jealous because it's beautiful, I'm jealous because it's true.
It's not so hard to write poetry, it's just hard to write true poetry: it's hard to take a dream and let all the color and smoke drip out of it, leave it as just a bald and honest thing.
The Heart is the extreme side of honesty, because the "creature" in The Heart, the beast, isn't really a creature. It's a man. Usually we lie about that sort of thing.
Postscript: I'm tired of ringing ears and walking in straight lines. I'm tired of dark circles and pale skin. I'm tired of reminding myself: Inhale, Exhale. I'm tired of being shut up and shut down. I'm tired of insomnia and anemia and claustrophobia and alexythymia and hypochondria. I'm tired of the Middle East, no, I'm tired of America. I'm tired of the same old stars. I'm tired of the same old dreams. I'm tired of being so young and so old and so in between everything that my mother wants me to stay in at night. I'm tired of all my friends and everyone at school and what's on TV. I'm tired of nodding my head like yes yes yes and not saying a single word. I'm tired of flying and lying to myself about it. I'm tired of always going in circles. I'm tired of winter and Mondays and fourth period that never ends. I'm tired of everyone else, but mostly I'm just tired of myself.
A sidewalk with no end in sight, squint up into a casual downpour of acid rain.
Hunger; starvation even.
A smattering of empty promises, heart beating like a bruise. The creeping feeling in your chest that you are slowly going blind.
I walk alone.
I walk alone.
Claustrophobia, but that's ironic because it's so empty here.
Greed pouring wild and wet down the boulevard, drowning the weak and consuming the strong. Gluttony: hungry for more. Here is unrequited love; here is predestined heartache; here is a knife in your back and tell me when it hurts.
I walk alone.
I walk alone.
Riots in the streets: people without faces, forgotten names. Lungs tight, aching for oxygen.
Desperation, like the dying ping of a heart rate monitor in a static-filled hospital room. Unanswered questions drip out of sinking drainpipes, anxiety cloys in the cracks in the pavement, choked-back tears dry on shivery gray brick.
The simpering white sky was once startling and lovely, but a sad sort of madness crept into the clouds and into the sun and into the stars and it's haunting now, even violent.
I'm thinking about the way you blink in the fluorescent lights. I'm thinking about the creases in your fingers. I'm thinking about the shape of your shoulders and the sound of your pulse.
I'm thinking about you, and trying not to.
But I am.
I'm thinking about you like insomniacs think about sleep; like I think about sleep. I'm thinking about you like the sea thinks of the stars. Like static electricity thinks about your strawberry-blond hair.
I'm thinking about you like Lucifer thinks about God. Like an atheist on his deathbed thinks about God. Like a bruised hooker on the side of the road thinks about God, and tries to think of something else.
I'm thinking about you like your bed thinks of the shape of you.
Like a blind man thinks of the girl he loves but he can't think of her right because he doesn't know what to think, what to see.
I'm thinking about you like you think about she thinks about he thinks about.. me. I'm thinking about circles and love triangles and shapes without any real beginning or any real ending.
I'm thinking about you like plaid thinks about crawling across your shoulders in the form of a long-sleeved shirt. Like the white pawn thinks about his queen. Like a lonely young man thinks of a lonely young woman. Like your fingers itch toward another power-chord.
I'm thinking about you like everyone thinks of their mom when they fall down and break their wrist. I'm thinking about you like Rasputin thought about Anastasia (but not anymore, because he's dead.)
I'm thinking about you like flightless birds think about flying. Like human beings think about flying. Like a bird in the sky thinks about setting his feet on the ground, resting his wings.
I'm thinking about you like the sun thinks of my soft skin, of making it burn and making it peel. Like a cricket thinks about the very moment that you fall silent. Like a tattletale thinks about the very moment that you screw up.
I'm thinking about you like a narcissist thinks about himself. Like the furniture in your dark house at night thinks about leaping out at you, bruising your shins.
Like my heart thinks of your heart.
Are you thinking about me?
Are you thinking about me like I think about you? Are you thinking about me when you should be thinking about her? Are you thinking about me like you think about breathing (you don't) or are you thinking about me like a song stuck in your head (unstoppable, unwanted)?
Are you thinking about me when you glance back and I'm there and I turn away, pretending that I wasn't thinking about you first?
Because I was thinking about you. I'm still thinking about you. And I will be thinking about you. Past present future.
Rock out like the moon moves for you. Rock out like you were born with butterflies in your stomach. Rock out like you died a martyr.
Rock out like Hell doesn't want you.
Rock out like you're seeing the sun for the first time.
Rock out because this is all we've got and oh yes it's short and oh yes it's sad but rock out because it's ours and we don't deserve it. Rock out like a flightless bird with your head in the clouds. Rock out like you swallowed a sheet of staff paper and now you sing so prettily.
Rock out like you're freezing to death, so rock out to keep yourself alive.
Rock out like you're hitting all the same notes as Dinah Washington and you're reaching higher and she's falling behind because no one can sing jazz like you can.
Rock out like you've got no spine.
Rock out like you're burning alive.
Rock out like no one ever told you that you can't. Rock out like you're invincible (you are, you are). Rock out like your mouth has been unstitched after 17 long years. Rock out like it's the dead of July and snow begins to fall.
Rock out like the Empire State Building wasn't high enough for you, so you just decided to fly up to the clouds.
Rock out like you've held your breath for too long. Rock out like it's 1986 and you're pretty in pink.
Rock out like you're not shy and sullen and semi-agnostic and socially awkward and so so so starry-eyed, because look at you: you've turned alliteration into an art form.
Rock out like you look pretty in the dusty dressing room mirror at the mall (never going to happen). Rock out like you're finally old enough.
Rock out like you're burning on the sun.
Rock out like you finally, finally woke up with freckles. Rock out like his lips were softer, and a little less sarcastic, than you had imagined.
Rock out like Pluto is a planet again.
Rock out like you're under cardiac arrest but your heartbeat is still so loud in your ears.
Rock out like you got your learner's permit (because it's not like we know what getting our license feels like). Rock out like this young world is getting younger. Rock out like you take out your contacts and you can see everything.
Rock out like I'm not wasting your time.
Rock out like you're stopping traffic; like you've got 'em falling at your feet.
But it's not the words. We've known how to speak politely for years. It's getting those words -- the letters, the sounds of the syllables (soft and violent) -- to sing. That's the hard part. Anyone can talk. Few can write.
The English language feeds on fear. Because a blank page is like the bottomless sky, all full of sharp little stars, and you can see each one but how do you reach into that big universe and pull out the perfect string of stars?
Maybe if you use enough text-speak, maybe if you laugh enough, blink enough, nod enough avoid the question enough listen to your mother enough thinkforyourselfenoughsighenoughshareyourfeelingsenough . . .
Saying the right thing is almost as hard as lining up the stars to look like the Mona Lisa.
