you got me

And thus the end of the girl named Syl.

She didn't always know what to say.

My name has always been Avery, and I have always been Syl.

I think I'll miss you, whoever you are. I think I'll miss Syl.

Go Ask Avery. It's another one. It's still me.

Cheers,

Avery

  

Us

Us

We called in sick.

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.

There is dust on the piano now.

Cheers,

Syl

  

film noir

Have you seen a girl with hair like this?

 

Scott Pilgrim vs the World

a film analysis by Syl

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.

the end (or whatever)

Cheers,

Syl

  

ordinary world

In Fair Verona

Cast of Characters:
Syl


Plot:

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?

Cheers,

Syl

  

this is a toast

This one's for the backup singers.

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.

Cheers,

Syl

 

gandhi apocalypse

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.

Cheers,

Syl

  

 

sixers (plural because, i'm sorry, but there are two)

Cheers,

Syl